Just then another man dressed in a gray suit entered the hotel lobby and, after casting his eyes around the room, walked up to the fellow train passenger. He whispered something into the passenger’s ear. The newcomer’s eyes kept darting around the room, Hattie noticed. She cast her own eyes downward, but his gaze did not seem to linger upon her. Finally, the two men left the hotel. Hattie was standing close enough to the door that she could watch them walk hurriedly down the street, the train passenger’s arms behind his back.
After the men were out of sight, Hattie turned to Timothy to inquire, “What was that about?”
He walked toward the stairs. “I believe it means that man is under arrest.”
“Arrest?” Hattie stumbled a bit on the first step. “For what reason?”
Timothy paused to gesture toward the lobby, and presumably, the registry. “My suspicion is that he signed a home address from the North.”
Hattie took a deep breath. “Is that enough to warrant his arrest?”
Timothy was occupied with unlocking the door to their room and did not reply until they were inside and the door had been shut. “You have to remember that we are amongst the enemy, and most of the people around here would hang any Northerner on sight.”
Though Hattie’s stomach was a ball of knots, she was determined not to let her partner know of her apprehension. Her eyes surveyed the room from the desk and chair to the large wardrobe in one corner of the room to the lone bed. Timothy saw her gaze and gestured toward the bed. “It is yours.”
“No.” Hattie replied. She was under no false notion that her duty was as important as Timothy’s. She was only there as his accomplice and that did not necessitate a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. Still, Timothy insisted and built himself a nest on the floor out of extra blankets he found in the wardrobe. Hattie lay awake long after Timothy’s snoring commenced, listening to the sounds from both inside the room and outside, wondering just exactly what she had got herself into.
Chapter 24
Loreta
February 1862
It was becoming increasingly apparent that if the South was going to achieve independence from the Union, it would be through a long and bloody war. The terrifying scene at Ball’s Bluff had made even Loreta think twice about whether she could continue on as a soldier, but she was still determined to prove herself worthy in the cause for Southern independence. Upon hearing that the Federals were attempting to capture river ports in Tennessee, Loreta, accompanied by Bob, headed that way.
By the time Loreta and her slave reached the Cumberland River, Fort Henry had already been captured by the Union. Everyone knew Fort Donelson would be the site of the next attack and Loreta and Bob were immediately put to task constructing fortifications for the purpose of defending the river. It was tough work conducted in brutally cold conditions, but most of the Rebels were in good spirits, confident that they would be able to defend the stronghold in the way that those at Fort Henry could not. For her part, Loreta was pleased to come upon her old friend Major Bacon, toiling away a few men down. They’d exchanged pleasantries, filling each other in on their adventures since Martinsburg. Major Bacon stated with pride in his voice that he had recently become engaged to a young woman from Leesburg. Loreta wished them good tidings before the hard work made it too difficult to talk much more.
By late afternoon, the Union gunboats were visible on the river below them. “Massa Henry, them Feds look to have quite a large force,” Bob gasped out before tossing a shovel full of dirt behind him.
Loreta dug her blade into the ground. “Indeed Bob, but they haven’t met as fine and gallant fighters as our forces here.”
Major Bacon, obviously overhearing their conversation, ventured to say, “Those Feds need this position. They will stop at nothing to gain it. And the darkey’s right,” he said, nodding at Bob. “The odds won’t be in our favor.”
“Still,” Loreta stood up, “There’s not much we can do now but make this the most impregnable fort those blue bellies have ever seen.”
Loreta’s enthusiasm waned as the evening wore on. Both Bob and Major Bacon were much better excavators and each could toss two shovels of dirt for every one of hers. The Battle of Manassas, her first battle as Harry Buford, had taken place on a pleasantly warm day in July. She’d been naïve and eager, and hadn’t yet experienced the horrors of war seen at Ball’s Bluff. Now that thirst had been replaced by misgivings. It felt unseasonable, that war shouldn’t be conducted in winter time, and as her comrades continued building the fortifications, she had a feeling that she was being shut in a prison from which there was no escape.
Finally, she cast her shovel aside. Even Loreta was willing to admit there were some, though few, things that men could do better than women and digging trenches in a ground white with hoarfrost was one of them. She righted herself, clutching her aching back with her blistered hands.
“Hey, what say you?”
Loreta glanced back to see a young man standing behind her.
“Tired much?”
Loreta dropped her hands by her sides. “Just winded.”
“I won’t tell General Floyd you’re shirking your duties if you do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Go on picket duty for me tonight in the trenches. I want to take French leave and go see my girl in town.”
Loreta nodded.
It turned out Loreta was even less suited to lie in the trenches in the freezing cold than she was at digging. This she blamed less on the fact that she was a woman and more that she had grown up in semi-tropical climates: first Cuba, and then Texas and New Orleans. But Loreta’s pride would not grant her permission to give in, despite the storm that formed overhead, causing the snow and sleet to come in horizontally, stinging her face. She endured, convincing herself that she was no better than the other men in the trench. Their moans turned into cries and then shouts, as the soldiers begged for water, for medicine, for anything to take their minds away from the wind and biting cold.
Loreta folded her arms around her and bent her head, trying to escape the wind. She focused her mind on the stories of her childhood heroines, most of all Joan of Arc. It was Joan’s doing that she was there. All of her life she tried to find an opportunity to prove herself and could scarcely believe it finally had presented itself. She thought that perhaps she would have been a good wife and eventually mother, had William lived. But he hadn’t and there had been nothing holding her back from becoming a soldier. She’d been fortunate to be at the right place at the right time to participate in the Battle of Manassas.
Not so fortunate now, though. Loreta came crashing back to a sorrowful reality of aching limbs. Her body seemed to be frozen everywhere. The minutes stretched into hours and the memories of her husband seemed like a thousand years ago. She felt like lying down and giving in to the cold and the wind, wondering if eternity would be warm and sunny. Just when she thought she would totally succumb to her misfortune, the soldier she had relieved returned and she was able to climb out of the entrenchment to seek shelter.
The next day, Valentine’s Day, Loreta found herself in the midst of yet another battle. The air was thick with bullets humming fast and furious, severing tree branches, shattering fence rails, and slamming into wagons. Soldiers to the right and left of Loreta fell to the earth. When she heard a bullet whizz by at close range, she thought that the end had finally come and searched herself for the telltale sign of blood.
But the words, “I’ve been hit!” belonged to Major Bacon.
Loreta tried to catch him as he fell, but his solid body was too much to bear. She sank to the ground with him, her clothing stained with his blood.
“Damn the Yankees! They have killed me,” he gasped.
“No, my friend,” Loreta replied, touching the hole in his uniform in nearly the center of his chest, knowing that a Minié ball must have lodged in his heart. “You will live to see yet another dawn.”
Bacon’s body went
into convulsions and then he was still. Loreta sat beside him for an immeasurable amount of time until she became aware of the chaos around her. At the whoosh of yet another bullet, Loreta realized she must leave her fallen friend in order to save herself.
Chapter 25
Hattie
February 1862
Timothy woke Hattie up early the morning after they had arrived in Richmond. The dark circles had disappeared from under his eyes and his countenance seemed refreshed. Hattie felt just the opposite. In silence, they riffled through their respective bags, pulling out their attire for the day and then parted to dress in the hall bathrooms. They re-adjourned in their room before heading downstairs for breakfast. Timothy dug something out of his bag and held it out to Hattie.
“What’s this?” she asked, accepting the object, which appeared to be a brooch. “Oh,” Hattie said as recognition stirred a desire for her to fling it at the wall. The black and white cockade had come to be an unofficial badge that secessionist women wore in support of their cause.
“If you are to be successful in the role, you must look the part,” Timothy said as he adjusted his string tie in the mirror.
After breakfast, Hattie and Timothy went out for what would appear to observers as a leisurely stroll to the post office. Hattie’s grip tightened on Timothy’s arm as she noticed a man in a Confederate officer’s uniform on the other side of the street. Timothy seemed to take no notice of the man as he began whistling, slowing their pace. A few moments later, Timothy stopped to peer into a store window. Hattie looked to see if the man had passed them, but he had also paused, standing parallel to them across the road. Timothy pulled Hattie into the store.
“Is he following us?” she asked once the door had shut. Timothy looked at the clerk, who was writing in a ledger and paid his new customers no heed. Timothy held one finger up to his lips briefly before nodding. The two operatives stalled in the store for a while, Timothy plopping hats on Hattie to try on. They would have made for a passable married couple had anyone else been in the store or the clerk actually noticed them. After approximately fifteen minutes, Timothy declared that they must be going. The clerk finally looked up, seemingly startled that he had customers. Timothy tipped his hat and the clerk followed suit.
Outside, Hattie noticed the officer was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. She tried to convince her racing heart that this was a perfectly normal thing to do on a pleasantly sunny day. Timothy turned her back in the direction in which they had come. Hattie avoided glancing backward until an intersection gave her the opportunity to do so, at which she spotted the man a few paces behind them. She was now positive they were being shadowed. Timothy must have recognized this fact as well though his face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking.
Timothy led Hattie back to the dining room of the hotel, where he ordered her a sherry and himself a whiskey. He lit a pipe and opened up the paper as Hattie gazed around the nearly empty room. After a few minutes, three men in Confederate uniforms entered and took seats at the bar. Their conversation was loud and easily overheard.
One man, clad in an extravagant officer’s coat with gold lace detail said, “I agree with you in principle: it will not do to let a Southern man set foot on Kentucky soil until the Northern troops disregard the neutrality of that State.”
Hattie refrained from wrinkling her lip. She immediately hated everything about the man, from his gaudy get-up, to his large stomach that he seemed content to fill with just liquor, to the fact that he seemed to thoroughly enjoy listening to himself talk. But most of all, she hated that he was a Southerner.
At this, Timothy carefully folded his paper and got up to saunter toward the bar. “Pardon sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your comment. Will you permit me to ask you a question?”
Hattie sipped her sherry as she watched the trio of officers turn toward Timothy, expressions of mild curiosity on their faces, as the shortest man replied, “Why of course.”
“Do you not suppose,” asked Timothy, “that Kentucky will allow the Northern army to march through the state without instigation?”
“Not by a jug-full,” the older man in the garish uniform responded. “The moment that blue devil Grant crosses the Cumberland river, Kentucky will rise in arms in Southern solidarity.”
“And if she doesn’t,” Timothy mused heartily, “she will prove herself unworthy of any true Southern man’s respect!”
At this, the older man’s face lit up. He placed his hand on Webster’s shoulder as he asked, “May I inquire from where you hail?”
“I was born in Tennessee and raised in Maryland,” Webster stated evenly. “I’ve newly arrived to your fine city direct from Baltimore.”
This seemed to please the men as they repeated “Baltimore!” and reached to shake Timothy’s hand in turn. Hattie marveled at the ease at which Timothy had inserted himself into the welcoming arms of the enemy.
“I am always glad to meet a Baltimorean,” the old man added, “Despite Maryland’s poor decision not to secede, I know there is many a true Southern man in that city. May I now inquire of your name, sir?”
“Timothy Webster.”
“And a devilish good name at that,” the old man said. “My friends call me Doc Burton.” He gestured to his companions. “Allow me to introduce you to Colonel Dalgetty and to Captain Stanley of the Arkansas Rifles.”
As if he suddenly remembered her, Timothy indicated Hattie. “And that’s my wife, Harriett Webster.”
Hattie raised her cup of sherry as Doc bowed toward her. Timothy turned back to the trio. “Gentlemen, I am pleased as pie to know that there is still hope for the fair state of Kentucky.” He raised his glass. “To the health of Kentucky!”
One of the other men echoed the gesture, saying “Death to the Yankees!” Webster met each man’s glass with what must have been forced enthusiasm, although Hattie couldn’t discern anything amiss from her vantage point. She raised her glass again in solidarity, but the men paid her no heed as they clinked their glasses together. “Down with the rebels,” she said to herself.
Timothy invited Doc and his companions to dine with him and Hattie. As they were digging into their afternoon meal, Hattie noticed a new man enter the room. She covered her gasp of recognition with a sip of her sherry. Now that she caught a closer glimpse of the man who had been following them, she realized that it was the same one who had arrested the Northern man in the hotel lobby the other night. Hattie’s eyes followed him as he went to the bar.
“That fellow is one of the safety committee,” Doc commented casually as he refilled his glass.
“Is he looking for someone in particular?” Hattie asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.
“I reckon,” replied Doc. “He’s always looking for someone. And, thank goodness he is—he does a great deal of good for our cause. A Union man stands no chance around here if the safety committee spots him. They’ll hang ‘em just on suspicion.”
Hattie gave Doc a flirtatious smile. “Indeed, Mr. Burton, I believe in hanging every Union man that comes skulking around these parts. And without a trial.”
Timothy shot her an appreciative look from across the table, but Hattie could detect something else lying below the surface. Fear perhaps? Her heart was still racing and it seemed as clear as the crystal on their table that the man from the safety committee was following them.
“Doc.” Timothy leaned in. “Will you introduce us to that man? I’d love to show my appreciation.”
Doc gave a loud whistle. When the man at the bar looked over, Doc beckoned him to their table.
“Burton,” the man said in a gruff voice. “How goes it?”
“Not bad, not bad. I wanted to introduce you to my new friend. This here’s Timothy Webster and his wife—”
“Harriet,” Timothy supplied.
The man tipped his hat to Hattie and then Timothy. He looked to be in his late 30s. With his dark hair and eyes, he might have been attractive but for a large paunch above h
is belt. “How do you do, Mr. Webster?”
“I could be better, considering I’ve heard the Yanks are crawling all over Tennessee as we speak.”
“Is that so?” the man replied.
“Tim here’s originally from those parts,” Doc put in. “He’s just returned from Baltimore.”
Hattie watched the man’s face for any hint of recognition, but his expression was inscrutable. He met her eyes. “And where do you hail from, Mrs. Webster?”
“Kansas.”
“Ah.” Again the man gave no hint as to what he was thinking.
Doc laughed. “I know you too well, Wes. But I’m going to vouch for my new friends here. Just because they’re new in town doesn’t mean they’re Northerners.”
The man attempted a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No?”
“C’mon,” Doc replied. “Take a break from your duties and sit down with us. You’ll see you couldn’t be more wrong if you think these two are spies.”
The man did as he was bid, introducing himself as Captain McCubbin of the Confederate Military Police.
“Is there an active Union underground of information in Richmond?” Timothy asked.
“Yes,” McCubbin replied, helping himself to a bite of chicken with his fingers. “We are working to uncover them, but they seem to be highly organized and elusive.”
Timothy nodded. “Those blue devils usually are.”
McCubbin swallowed his meat before replying. “Indeed.” He stood up from his chair. “I must be going now. Duty calls.” He reached out to shake Timothy’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Webster.” He tipped his hat to Hattie. “Mrs. Webster.”
“G’night, Captain,” Hattie replied, discreetly wiping sweaty hands on her skirts as the man left the room.
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 44