“He’s a guard at the prison. Takes a liking to beatin’ us,” Roberts said.
The man shook his head. He took a step back and wiped his brow. “No, no. We shouldn’t be here. I knew this was a bad idea. We’ll get caught.”
“We’re already out.” Wolf reached for him. “I ain’t going back there.”
Dodging Wolf’s swipe, the man stumbled into the wall of a warehouse. “She’s in the public square.” Bracing himself off the wall, he ran from the men. His footsteps chased after him.
“What public square?” Roberts called after him. Both men watched their guide flee and their chances to escape dwindle.
“Goddamnit,” Wolf muttered. They looked down at Griff’s unconscious body. “Can’t be here when he wakes up.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t,” Roberts added. Killing a man when he was knocked out wasn’t any different than killing a man when he was awake except easier. “He sure was a mean bastard.”
Wolf eyed his tormentor. This brute of a man was responsible for so much misery amongst the prisoners. His removal, however it was accomplished, could be the difference in whether or not a man could make it through the horrors of prison life. “You ever murder a man?”
Roberts shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, we killed men. You were there.”
“No, I mean murder.”
“Guess I haven’t.”
“What do you think Berles would do?”
A mischievous grin took shape on Roberts’s face. “Not get caught in the first place.”
Wolf felt the bone knife handle in his hand, releasing it inch by inch. I should end this bastard’s life. It’s the right thing to do. Drunken voices grew closer, staying Wolf’s hand. Men passed by the alley. Sailors or workers, soldiers or clerks, it mattered not, all were enemies.
The escapees knelt next to Griff, remaining still until the men passed. “It ain’t right to kill a man while he sleeps, but I’ll be damned if I let him go with just a beating.”
The two men stripped Griff down, removing all his clothes. They tied him up with his socks and left him to be found with his favorite whipping stick in an especially uncomfortable place. They dumped his garments nearby and moved back to the main street.
“How are we going to find this square?”
“I don’t know.”
They walked along following the same route they had trudged as prisoners after getting captured. Lanterns illuminated street corners. The neighborhoods became noticeably nicer. Manicured bushes and lawns. Tall ostentatious homes with elaborate sprawling ornate awnings and porches.
A man in a top hat tapped his cane as he escorted a woman in a fine blue dress and bonnet, nodding to them as they passed. Both Wolf and Roberts kept their eyes downcast and nodded in return, trying not to make too much eye contact.
“Figure if we keep walking, perhaps we can walk on out of here,” Wolf said.
“Fine by me,” Roberts said.
Maintaining their current direction, they navigated into the heart of Richmond.
Chapter Five
Evening, April 29, 1864
Richmond, Virginia
Elizabeth Van Lew took two different routes to reach Richmond’s public square. Each path took her around the plaza in a relative figure eight. This gave her the lay of the land and an opportunity to make sure no one was tailing her.
Her route was carefully selected and would force men or women following her into bottlenecks. If in fact they were onto her, this would draw them out, or in some cases, she could lose them by slipping into a tavern or stopping by a friend’s house.
If she did catch someone on her tail, like she had those grimy looking Plug Uglies, she would utter the most ridiculous things and, if needed, reverse her route. This always threw anyone following her into a tizzy, fumbling over themselves to scramble out of the way.
But Seamus MacAllister was good at his job. He was a natural man of the street and he tended to blend in anywhere. The only thing that could have drawn him out was a random stop at the bakery. His partner was an adept detective as well, but she hadn’t survived this long by taking chances. No, one could only survive with precise caution when operating in a city that would rip you to pieces if they discovered your deceit.
She swallowed down the fact he might have wanted her to know, and that scared her. Not knowing what his purpose was and how much he knew ate at her courage. But she didn’t have time to be frightened. The prisoners needed her help, and now they were late. So behind schedule that she had taken a seat on a park bench in the largest square in Richmond.
Women of her social status shouldn’t be alone in a public square, even less so at night, but she was a crazy woman. A woman like that could be anywhere at any time because social norms didn’t apply to the mad, crazed, and disturbed.
A group of drunken boys loudly made their way through the square. Brothels and bars had found their way into every nook and cranny of the city as it had more than quadrupled in size since the beginning of the war. And this was in addition to the numerous prisons, hospitals, and military camps. Vagabonds and invalids from the hospitals would lurk in the parks and squares at night, sometimes committing petty theft or harassment.
She started to hum to herself and sway in place. One of the young men hefted a small stone and chucked it at the stinking body across the way. The others laughed and took up the rock fusillade.
Their propped-up victim would never retaliate because he was a corpse. Colonel Ulric Dahlgren had suffered at the vengeful Richmonders’ hands. The poor boy and his poor family.
His father had requested the return of his body for proper burial for weeks. She’d even gotten Major General Benjamin Butler to ask on Admiral Dahlgren’s behalf from the Confederate government. Everyone’s hands were tied. And there the corpse sat, well, more stood.
The coffin was propped upright like a book on display. His body was still slightly slumped in the coffin for he only had one leg and his wooden prosthetic was missing. It had most likely been taken as a souvenir by one of his killers. He leaned on the side like a drunkard fallen asleep.
She kept rocking to make herself seem crazier as the young men walked by. A few looked at her and laughed then proceeded onward. She brought herself to rest, watching them from the corners of her eyes.
The weight of the Derringer pocket pistol inside her dress tugged at the fabric on her shoulder. The secret pocket concealed the weapon and was readily accessible.
Mr. Henry should have already arrived with the prisoner. Ross had given the candlelight signal. It should have taken no less than forty minutes to make the trek through the streets. That was thirty minutes ago.
Sighing, she took another view around the square. Two men rounded a corner, disappearing from sight. A man and a lady walked brazenly through the middle of the square apparently to view the vile corpse of the enemy.
The woman hiked her dress a bit too high, revealing an ankle, but pretending she was trying to avoid splattering it with mud. Mr. Dulany and Miss Tennyson. Not Mrs. Dulany. A nice little tidbit of gossip. She bet the old dog would still be sitting in front pew of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church on Sunday morning singing at the top of his lungs. It appeared that he had much to repent for.
Perhaps she could use that for leverage against the man in some way. She filed that piece of information back into her brain for later. It was amazing what you could learn by just sitting back, being quiet, and paying attention to everything going on around you. People tended to loosen their tongue and speak freely around her because they thought her mad. Confederate officials dismissed her but paid enough lip service because of her social status. Little did those men know this woman was sabotaging their every effort.
A cool breeze washed over the streets, the few towering oaks in the square ruffling in the night. The days grew warmer, but the nights still remembered winter.
She sighed and removed a timepiece from her dress and clicked a button on the side. The lid sprang open and she glanced a
t the watch face. Late. Her mind began to race with contingency plans. Who bailed? Ross? No, he was a staunch Unionist. Mr. Henry? Reliable. He could be bought for the right price. After all, he’d been bought by her.
Was there trouble with Colonel Wolf? Illness? It was a possibility. He was in bad shape a few weeks back. A fever almost took him. But Ross had communicated he was able, and if she didn’t liberate him now, he may languish the rest of the war in a Georgian prison. And that could be years, or it could be months. Regardless, it would be a futile struggle with illness and starvation until one inevitably took him like taxes enacted by a government, certain and permanent.
However, if she hadn’t acted, she would have backed out on her promise, and she wasn’t a woman to do that. If Henry didn’t get the prisoner here, she would back out on two promises: one to Wolf and one to Admiral Dahlgren to reclaim his son’s body. She wondered if she could carry the corpse on her own. It would be a difficult task to accomplish.
How much more time should she give them? She closed the pocket watch and slipped it back inside her dress. Five minutes? Ten? She sighed, eyeing a rough-looking man with a long drooping mustache coming her way. He passed in front of her then turned to ogle her.
“You Miss Van Lew?” he asked.
“I am,” she said. Her voice conveyed a level of social status and let it be known that one such as himself shouldn’t be speaking to her. She gulped, keeping herself composed. This breakout could be turning into a heap of dung.
“Late night to be out without a chaperone.”
“That is none of your concern.”
“I am only concerned about your well-being.”
“I only convene with the true Lord our God. He guides my hand!” She stood abruptly, raising her hands in the air. The man took a step back.
“He speaks to me all the time. Whispers the truth.”
The man settled with his hands in his pockets. “Remember it ain’t safe out here at night.”
She leveled her eyes on him. “God watches my back.”
A creepy grin filled his lips. “You have a good night, ma’am.”
They are all over this. I must return to the mansion. Send someone else to collect the prisoner. But we are already behind. The boat captain might not wait any longer unless he wants a better payout. Then he’ll wait, she thought to herself.
The man strolled away, his hands holding low on his lapels. He whistled a soft tune. She averted her eyes and started for the far street while mumbling incoherent things and throwing in a mix of rhetoric about God, fire, brimstone, angels, and demons. It mattered not as long as it sounded like the insane driveling of a mad woman. Which of my servants should I send back?
Bowser was the only one she truly could trust with this mission but risking her when she was already in such a fruitful position would be unwise. But if these prisoners were caught, she might lose Ross and Mr. Henry. Information from the Confederate White House or helping those brave imprisoned patriots? Which one was more important to our cause?
She reached the edge of the square and two men in gray rounded the corner, making her heart leap. She kept her head down and mumbled to herself. The two men stopped, staring at her. Soldiers? Have they come to arrest me?
“Ma’am?” the taller of the two said.
She glanced at them, making sure to stare through them. “Fire will reign from above and the seas will boil from below. The dead will walk the earth, having been released from hell,” she hissed at them.
The two younger men wore rebel gray. Both lieutenants. They had scraggily beards and the flesh around their eyes was gaunt. They looked like men on hard times, men who lived on the streets, only much worse. Parolees? Sick? Injured? The bigger soldier had a limp.
“The Lord cares for all his angels,” she said. She wavered her hands toward the sky like the most fervent of his worshippers. Waving her hands, she went to move past them until she felt the ironlike grip of the larger man grasping her arm.
“How dare you touch a lady!”
He leaned near her ear. His stench was sourly ripe like a man who hadn’t washed a day in his life. “Van Lew?”
She lifted her chin with haughty indignation. “Yes.”
“A friend sent us.”
She turned, looking him in the eyes. They’d only met twice, but she remembered now. “You are Wolf.”
His eyes darted around scanning the square. “I am.” He released her.
“Where is Mr. Henry?”
“He left us.”
“Who is us?”
“Captain Roberts and I.”
She eyed the smaller man. He had dark hair and a mischievous countenance to him like he’d steal a pie from her kitchen and not even bat an eye as he ate his fill. “I was only expecting you, Colonel. Not two. Your passage is only booked for one.”
“I will not leave him.”
She studied him for a moment. There was a sense of stubborn nobility about him. Or was it a righteous ignorance? He knew not what his demand forced her to risk when she’d already risked so much to free him. “Then we must move quickly for you both are late. And hold yourselves like military men. You are my escorts for tonight.”
She led them around the square. Seeing that it was sufficiently empty, she guided them toward the open-faced coffin propped against a tree. A torch on either side burned, illuminating the dead colonel.
An audible gasp came from Wolf. “Ma’am? What are we doing?” Their feet squelched in the mud as they drew near.
“That’s Dahlgren,” he whispered.
The ground here was beaten from thousands of feet. It wasn’t every day a dead man sat in the square. It was still even grander to have a dead enemy raider on display. An enemy that had come to ravage their city only to be killed by Richmond’s brave defenders.
Dahlgren’s body leaned to the side in the coffin as if he’d passed out on a wall, but it was because his prosthetic leg was missing along with his single boot, revealing a lone bare foot.
Black flies buzzed around him. His sky-blue Union officer’s pants were on, but everything else had been stripped away. After he had been displayed in such a way for only a few days, complaints came from Richmond’s fine ladies about how it threatened their sensibilities. In turn, authorities clothed him in a new shirt and a U.S. Army blanket to hide the grotesque wounds that covered his pallid, bloodless torso.
But now Dahlgren had taken on a greenish hue. His head had been laid to the side so only the entrance wound from the bullet was exposed like a coin had entered his skull. The other side was a mess of frayed skin and bone where the bullet had broken free. Maggots toppled over one another as they consumed his flesh. No one wanted to see that.
She glimpsed at them from over her shoulder. “Take him down.”
“Surely we can’t take him with us,” said Wolf.
“He is your guide north. You don’t go without him.”
The two men exchanged looks before Roberts said, “Don’t look like he can guide much of anything in his current state.”
“Not sure I’d want him guiding us again anyhow,” Wolf said.
She settled her eyes on him. “Let us put his soul to rest. Give his father some peace. He has paid for your passage.”
“All right. All right,” Wolf said.
The two men moved forward, covering their noses with jacket sleeves. “No offense ma’am, but he smells fierce,” Roberts said. They struggled to hoist the rigid man from the coffin.
A voice cut through the night. “Crazy Bet.”
She turned to see Seamus MacAllister standing nearby watching her escapees.
“And what are these fellers up to?” the Plug Ugly said, nodding his bald pate at the two men.
Best to be out with the truth. “These men are removing Colonel Dahlgren’s body for transportation north.”
Wolf and Roberts stopped and set the body down. The body lay malleable, taking the shape of the ground.
“And on what orders are these brave r
ebel officers acting?”
Both the prisoners stood silent.
“President Jefferson Davis.”
Seamus’s eyes widened with surprise, and he scratched at his jaw with a dirty fingernail. “Really? These men were ordered to sneak into the square at night and remove this body with the town crazy lady?”
“I have the orders right here. I act as a messenger of good will. You know this, Seamus,” she said. She held out a letter written on cream-colored paper.
“You mean as a Union sympathizer.” He snatched the paper from her hand. His eyes scanned the document, and she was surprised the cretin could read. If indeed he could, he would recognize the letter was in fact signed by Jefferson Davis. It was amazing what she could get her hands on with a spy in his house.
Seamus’s voice grew pompous. He held the paper out, reading aloud. “The person who bears this letter is on official business of the Confederate States of America. Do not impede their mission under penalty of treason.” He waved it into the air. “These are some serious orders.”
She reached her hand out, but he kept hold of the paper, grinning at her. “So how did you come across this? Thieve it?”
“It is of none of your concern, aside from the fact that I conduct his official business.”
“So you’re telling me that tomorrow when Richmond rises with the sun, President Davis is responsible for removing this stinking body from the square? When the papers report the corpse is gone, he won’t be surprised one bit that Miss Elizabeth Van Lew and her Confederate officers buried the body or wherever you are going with it?”
“That’s true.”
Seamus took a step toward them. “So when I go and find the Home Guard and imprison you until morning everything will be just dandy? I will look a fool and you will be set free?”
“Yes, you will most likely be removed from your station.”
Seamus laughed. It was a hard harsh sound much like himself. “My station? Lady, you are fucking crazy.”
Her mouth stayed flat and she shifted her hands over her stomach, nearing her pistol.
“If I am to believe this crock of shit.” He took his time tearing the paper in half and then quarters until it was mere confetti on the ground. “That’s what I think of your ‘orders.’”
Northern Blood Page 5
