“Yes, sir, it is me and not a ghost.” She pulled a paper out of her bag. “I’m sorry to disturb you and your kind hosts at this hour, but you must know that the Yankees are setting a trap for General Jackson’s troops.”
Ashby took the note from her and scanned it, his weary eyes growing wider. “Good God,” he repeated. “I need a pen and paper!” The host nodded and disappeared further into the house. “Thank you, Miss Belle, for this information. But you should be getting home now. I’ll take it from here.”
Now that the excitement of reaching Ashby had worn off, so had Belle’s adrenaline and she was anxious to head back to the warmth of the cottage. She took her leave of Ashby and then remounted her horse. She had not gotten very far in her journey when it began to rain. A crack of lightning lit up the landscape around her. That it was void of Yankees was the only pleasant thought Belle had as a loud boom of thunder quickly followed. The next time lightning flashed, Belle caught sight of a rifle barrel staring her down. She stuck her hand into her pocket, but her pass was not there. She was too fatigued to remember the countersign, and felt panic mounting as thunder sounded again, closer this time.
“Let the boy pass,” a deeper voice commanded. Belle glimpsed an officer standing behind the soldier. “I know him.”
The soldier turned to give his reply, but Belle had already started galloping away. When the first light of dawn arrived, Belle was asleep in her bed, dreaming of the praise she was sure to receive from Stonewall Jackson himself once he caught word of her bravery that night.
Chapter 23
Hattie
January 1862
Hattie and Timothy Webster met in the office early to go over their mission before they left for Richmond at the end of January.
“Mr. Webster—”
“I suppose you ought to call me Timothy now since we’re supposed to be married.”
“Timothy, then. What exactly is the nature of our mission?”
He reluctantly related the real reason that Hattie was to accompany him. When he wasn’t infiltrating the Order of the Knights of Liberty, Webster had become a trusted Rebel courier and frequently made trips from Southern locales such as Memphis and Fredericksburg, bearing correspondence for Copperheads up North. On his most recent trip, he had journeyed from Pinkerton’s office in Washington City back to Virginia. He stopped, as he frequently did, at a hotel run by John Miller, a known Rebel sympathizer. Miller arranged for a canoe to ferry Webster across the Potomac. Two women and three children had also paid to cross, but the canoe could not dock and Webster carried all of the passengers and their baggage through the freezing cold water to get to the boat. The canoe trip took over three hours, all of which Timothy said he spent trying to huddle against the wind in his wet clothes. In addition, once they got across to Virginia, they discovered that the landing spot had been destroyed by Union boats, and Timothy and the rest of them had to sleep on ground covered by frost. “As you can imagine, the experience triggered a drastic effect on my own health.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. That was a kind thing you did, bringing the women and children to the boat.”
He gave her a half-smile. “I had to keep up my guise as a Southern gentleman.”
Hattie returned his grin. “Something tells me that you would do the same thing under your own identity.” She straightened her face back into operative mode. “What will be our assignment in Richmond?”
“You will do your best to ferret information from the Southern belles you encounter. As for me, it will be more of the same. I’ve been entrusted by several high-ranking Confederates as a courier. That allows me both to travel throughout the South as well as pass on those same messages to the Boss,” He tugged his uniform sleeves down. “On my previous trip to Richmond, General Winder asked me to carry messages back to his son in Washington City.”
Hattie’s brow furrowed. “The son of the Richmond provost marshal is in the Union army?”
Timothy nodded. “General Winder confided in me that he wants him to desert as soon as possible. He’d have him stay in jail the duration of the war, or,” Timothy smiled at the recollection, “he said he’d rather his son suffer death in the most dishonorable way possible than serve the United States in a war against the South.”
Hattie shook her head. She was still sometimes taken aback by the contempt the rebels held for their former country. “Do you think he will desert?”
Timothy scratched at his beard. “I don’t think so. I think the younger Winder ultimately will remain true to his country, despite the discord with his father. Besides, his salary as captain is the only income he can provide for his wife and son. He’s approached McClellan and asked to be relocated to California. Pinkerton, however, wants him arrested—he says there is no parallel short of that penultimate traitor, Benedict Arnold.”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far—it sounds to me like the son wants to please his Confederate father and his country, but can’t do both. Benedict Arnold committed treason for a more nefarious purpose. Besides, is there any evidence that he will give up information on the Union?”
“No.” Timothy reached for something under his desk. “Not yet, anyway. But if anyone knows how to supply counterintelligence, it’s Winder.” Timothy replaced his stovepipe hat with a wider-brimmed one.
“What is that?” Hattie asked, pointing to his new headpiece.
“It’s a secession chapeau.”
“A what?”
“A Confederate officer’s hat. My contacts in Memphis bought it for me.” He handed her a carpetbag. “Did the boss tell you how we are getting to Richmond?”
“He mentioned something about hiring a boat to take us across the Potomac.”
“Yes.” His blue eyes flashed with an emotion Hattie couldn’t discern. “I don’t suppose he mentioned your disguise, though.”
“Disguise?”
He nodded at the carpetbag and Hattie took out the contents: a man’s shirt, pants, and overcoat.
“There will be fewer questions about two men crossing than a man and woman. Once we get to Fredericksburg, you can change and we’ll take the train into Richmond.”
“How will we pass through the lines?”
Timothy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was a pass signed by the Confederate secretary of war, Judah Benjamin.
“My, you have indeed infiltrated the enemy government.”
Instead of replying, he tipped his Southern-style hat to her.
Hattie and Timothy set off for Leonardtown, Maryland, arriving at a boarding house kept by a contact of Timothy’s named Mr. Miller.
“Just so you are aware,” Timothy said, his hand on the door of the carriage, “he’s pretty vocal about his secessionist viewpoints. I usually stop to chat with him, but, circumstances being as they are,” he nodded toward her masculine garb, “I will try to avoid that today.”
Hattie picked up her carpetbag.
“Mr. Webster!” A short man with a balding head greeted them. “You’ve brought a companion.”
“Yes, Mr. Miller, this is Mr.—”
“Lawton,” Hattie supplied. It was the first name that popped into her head.
“Ah, nice to meet you.” Hattie felt a tingle of nerves as his eyes traveled up and down her form. She pulled her kepi hat down a little further on her forehead. She was regretting her and Timothy’s decision not to glue any facial hair on her, for that way she could have at least hid a bit of her face.
Luckily Mr. Miller was distracted by the appearance of another man. The newcomer was tall, with a heavy beard and mustache. The man’s eyes darted to Hattie first and then to Timothy before he turned to Mr. Miller. “Can I speak to you in another room?”
As the two men walked through a door off the lobby, Hattie raised her eyebrows at Timothy. He scratched at his beard and then shrugged.
When Mr. Miller came back alone, he told Timothy that the man asked the quickest route to Richmond, and Mr. Miller supplied t
hat Timothy might be able to help.
“He seemed to be quite nervous, wouldn’t you agree?” Timothy asked.
Mr. Miller shrugged. “He has cause to be, I suppose.”
Timothy tilted his head. “A Yankee deserter?”
Mr. Miller leaned forward, Hattie and Timothy following suit. “He says he worked as a surgeon for the Union army, but he’s a Southerner and quit his commission in order to join our side.” Hattie straightened, trying not to cringe at the words, “our side,” as Mr. Miller continued, “He also mentioned that he is carrying messages for Judah Benjamin and, accordingly, is anxious to deliver them as soon as possible.”
Timothy nodded. “He can accompany us if he wants. What’s his name?”
“He said it was Dr. Gurley.”
Hattie could almost see the thoughts churning in Timothy’s head. She knew he wanted to get his hands on those messages for Secretary of War Benjamin and wondered what his plan would be.
“I will make the arrangements to get you all to the boat tomorrow,” Mr. Miller added.
“Thank you,” Timothy replied. Hattie echoed the sentiment.
Mr. Miller pulled out his ledger. “Separate rooms then, gentlemen?”
“Yes, please,” Hattie was eager to get to her room, if just to take the bindings off her chest for a few minutes.
“I think I will take a short walk before dinner,” Timothy patted his stomach. “It helps me work up an appetite.”
“Would you like company?” Hattie asked after Mr. Miller had handed them their room keys. She figured Timothy’s “walk” had something to do with Dr. Gurley’s dispatches.
“No, I’ll be fine,” Timothy replied as the two walked out of the lobby. “I’m sure you’re probably tired after a long day of traveling and would like to… freshen up?” He whispered the last two words and Hattie smiled at him gratefully.
Mr. Miller formally introduced Dr. Gurley to Hattie and Timothy at dinner.
“Rest assured Mr. Webster here is quite familiar with the countryside and will help get you to Confederate territory safely,” Mr. Miller said, rising from the table.
“Whatever your reasons are for wanting to get to Richmond,” Timothy added as Mr. Miller left the room.
Dr. Gurley’s eyes wandered about the room before returning to Timothy. “Thank you.”
Miller appeared, brandishing a bottle filled with amber liquid and four glasses. “Kentucky bourbon,” he stated. He poured a glass and then handed it to Dr. Gurley. “The best, although now it’s hard to come by down South.”
As he began to pour the other three, Timothy advised him to serve just a bit to Mr. Lawton. He rattled the ice in his glass and then pointed at Hattie, intimating that “Mr. Lawton” had trouble handling his alcohol. Miller filled each one to the brim anyway.
Dr. Gurley drank the glass in one gulp and then set it on the table. “Indeed it is good bourbon.” He rose and nodded at Hattie and Timothy. “I will meet you two gentlemen on the morrow, then.” He tipped his hat to the landlord. “Mr. Miller, thank you for your hospitality, but I must be heading to bed now.”
“G’night, Dr. Gurley,” Mr. Miller replied, pouring himself another shot. “You two need to drink up, now,” he said, waving his glass at Hattie.
She took a cautious sip. The bourbon tasted faintly sweet, but mostly it burned as she forced it down her throat.
Mr. Miller was well into his third glass when Timothy finished his first one. Hattie’s was still nearly full. She gave an apologetic smile to Mr. Miller. “I’m trying to take it easy.” She had just gotten the words out when Dr. Gurley burst back into the room.
“I’ve been robbed!” a hatless Dr. Gurley shouted, his face gone pale. “Someone broke into my room!”
“Now, sit down, Doc,” Miller said, kicking out the empty chair.
Gurley remained standing. “My room’s been ransacked, but the only thing taken was the dispatch to Mr. Benjamin.” He glared at the hotel keep. “What kind of place are you running here, Miller?”
Miller poured him a refill. “Clearly whoever it was knew that you had information for the Confederate government. You’re lucky they didn’t arrest you for deserting.”
Dr. Gurley’s eyes shifted guiltily to Timothy, who raised his glass of spirits at the elder man. “It don’t matter to me what your circumstances are, but at least you had the guts to leave them abolitionists.”
Gurley turned his glance to Hattie. She murmured in agreement.
Timothy continued in sotto voce, “When you arrive in Richmond, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Benjamin and you can tell him personally of whatever was in those papers.”
Dr. Gurley fell into his chair, taking a long gulp of bourbon. “I didn’t actually know what was in them. They were given to me by the secessionists who brought me here. As they were sealed, I didn’t open them.”
Timothy waved his hand. “Perhaps the people who gave them to you had second thoughts on your loyalty, you once being in the Union army and all, and retrieved them themselves.”
Hattie hid her smile by taking another sip. Although Timothy’s reasoning made no sense, it seemed to reassure Gurley, who finished his second glass. Her partner’s lack of concern meant that he knew the whereabouts of those papers. Not only had he prevented their arrival in Richmond, there was no way for the Confederate secretary of war to receive his message. She wondered who had broken into Gurley’s room, however, as Timothy had not left the table all night.
She had no further chance to reflect, however, for Timothy soon rose from the table, claiming that he had to get a decent night’s sleep for their journey tomorrow. “And you men should do the same,” he told Hattie and Dr. Gurley.
Dr. Gurley was already in the lobby when Hattie arrived the next morning. He made a few expletives as he checked his bag, probably making sure the papers were really gone.
He stood up. “Oh, Mr. Lawton, I didn’t know you were behind me.” He made no apologies for his bad language, and Hattie wondered if he would be rightfully embarrassed had he known he’d spoken such obscenities in front of a woman.
She offered her condolences for the theft of his papers as Timothy entered the room. “If you want to stay and see if Mr. Miller will investigate, you can. But my companion and I must leave today.”
Dr. Gurley gave his bag a small kick. “No, no, that’s okay. If the message was that important, the secessionists will find another way to get that information to Mr. Benjamin.”
The trio took the coach to a house owned by a Mr. Gough, whom Timothy appeared to know well. Mr. Gough invited them in for supper, telling them that, weather permitting, he could take them across the Potomac that evening. Hattie looked anxiously at the gray clouds gathering above them.
Mr. Gough was evidently not so concerned about the possible storm, for, after a hearty supper, they boarded his boat. Hattie curled into a corner—the rest of the deck was crammed with boxes of various sizes. Mr. Gough told them they contained medicine, weapons, and other goods that were getting harder to come by in the South because of the Union blockade.
It took several hours to cross the wide Potomac and they reached Virginia around midnight. When they arrived at the spot that Timothy named as Monroe’s Creek, they were greeted by a Confederate officer. He nodded at Mr. Gough, obviously familiar with the man. Timothy produced the pass from Secretary Benjamin and handed it over. “I’m a courier. And these are my associates, Mr. Lawton and Dr. Gurley.”
The man nodded and handed back the pass to Timothy, who pocketed it. Timothy glanced up and down the creek before asking, “Where are all the rest of the docks?”
“We had orders to destroy all docks and boats anywhere there were no pickets placed. It’s to prevent the slaves from running away—a fortnight ago we captured more than a dozen trying to escape.”
Timothy nodded.
The soldier helped them carry the boxes of supplies to the home of a Mr. Woodward, a partner of Gough’s who obviously played a part in his shipment of Un
ion goods into Rebel territory. They slept for a few hours in their clothes, and at dawn, parted ways with Dr. Gurley. Woodward promised to secure the deserter a pass to board the train to Richmond.
Timothy and Hattie started off on foot for the station. The morning was cool and cloudy but mercifully it was not raining. After about half an hour of walking, Timothy stopped at an abandoned farmhouse. “You’ll be wanting to make the transition to Mrs. Webster before we get to Fredericksburg.” His eyes flashed again. Hattie had the brief notion that Timothy’s eye color changed with the territory—she could have sworn they were blue when they left the Union, but now they appeared as gray as the Southern sky above them that morning.
Hattie had never been so grateful to don a corset and petticoat in her life; no matter how constraining she’d once thought they were, they were nothing compared to the bindings she had worn to keep her curves hidden under her jacket and pants.
“How did you manage to confiscate Dr. Gurley’s papers?” she asked when she came out of the farmhouse.
“I have another contact who travels in and out of the lines. I took the chance that he was in Maryland and found him on my walk. It was he that snuck into Gurley’s room.”
“Is your contact another Pinkerton operative?” Hattie paused at a fork in the road.
“Not exactly,” he replied, motioning her to follow him down the path on the right, “but I’m confident he will get those papers to McClellan.”
They arrived in Richmond at nine o’clock in the evening. The first thing that Hattie noticed when she disembarked was the pungent odor of tobacco that hung over the city. They hastened to the Monument Hotel, where they were to stay for the duration of their mission. A military officer came to Webster’s side, watching intently as he wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. T. Webster” in the registry. Webster placed his hand on Hattie’s elbow and stepped back as another man who had also been a passenger on the train carefully signed the registry. As Webster picked up their baggage, Hattie noted that the military officer was copying the names from the registry onto a ledger.
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 43