Atwater, as oblivious to the undercurrents flowing beneath him as the ill-fated dinghy had been a few minutes ago, remarked about the staggering possibilities of Cheeney’s new submarine.
“Indeed, it presents a great threat to the Union,” Major Lawton replied in an ambiguous tone.
Atwater held out the crook of his arm. “I should be escorting Mrs. Webster back to the Monument now.”
Hattie curtsied toward Lawton before allowing Atwater to convey her back to the carriage.
“I look forward to speaking with you again, Mrs. Webster,” Lawton called. Hattie glanced back to see his expression, but he was facing the water.
When she returned to her room in the early evening, she had written page after page of notes and accompanied them with drawings, trying to recall everything Cheeney had spoken about. She concluded by suggesting the navy employ some sort of way to drag the water if the blue floating device was spotted. This would serve to destroy the tubes that supplied air to the men within the submarine.
Hattie met the Atwaters and a few other acquaintances that night for dinner. The talk, of course, centered on the submarine, but Hattie was hardly listening. Her thoughts floated from finding a way to inform Pinkerton about the plans to blow up the federal ships to Major Lawton and what he had been doing on Confederate soil.
They were finishing up the main course when a new man entered the dining room.
“Major Lawton!” Atwater called. “What a pleasure to see you twice in one day.”
He introduced him to his wife. “Major Lawton was at the viewing I was telling you about earlier.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Atwater replied, holding out her hand to Lawton. “The… what did you call it, dear?”
“Submarine.” Atwater supplied.
“Indeed I was,” Major Lawton sat down in the empty chair next to Hattie. “Mrs. Webster, it warms my heart to see you again.”
Hattie met his dark eyes once again, noting in the abundant candlelight that the lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper than she had once drawn. She resolved to fix her sketch when she returned to her room that night. She figured that once again Lawton would be a fleeting presence before he disappeared. Although she longed to explain her presence in Richmond, she knew that doing so would possibly put her, and Timothy as well, in danger. And what exactly was Lawton doing in the Confederate capital, anyway?
The talk at the table turned to war, as it always did once the men got a suitable amount of whiskey in them.
“They say the Feds are concentrating their efforts on Tennessee,” Lawton said. Despite the determined tone of his voice, Hattie had a hard time believing that his convictions could change so easily. She pushed her dessert around her plate with her fork, the fluttering in her stomach from being once again so near to Major Lawton meant that she was unable to eat another bite.
As if one unit, the men rose for their after-dinner cigars. Lawton grabbed for Hattie’s hand and placed something in it as he bid her farewell.
Hattie waited until she was back in her room before unfolding the slip of paper. “I need to speak with you,” Lawton had written. “Do you have a suitable disguise to meet with me? I’ll be on the street bench outside the sweet shop on Main.”
Hattie threw on the male clothing she’d worn to cross the Potomac. She put her ear to the door to make sure the hallway was silent before cautiously opening it and peering both ways. After she was sure the coast was clear, she made her way to the stairs.
If Lawton was surprised to see Hattie dressed in male attire, he didn’t show it as he patted the bench next to him. She sat enough distance away that they would not be touching, but could still converse in low voices. Despite their earlier relationship, she did not fully trust that he was not a Confederate, and she also did not necessarily trust herself in keeping her cool.
Lawton began by saying, “We have to get information to Washington City about what we saw today.”
“You are not with the Southern cause, then?”
Lawton held his hands out, palm up. “How could you believe that is so? Did I not risk my life and limb to help John Brown and your brother cross the country and rescue twelve slaves from a life of torture?”
“And myself.”
He relaxed his arms. “Yes. I do not forget the reason you ran.”
She nodded. The tone of his voice was even, holding no hint of emotion that she could pick up on.
“And I am familiar with your new husband’s underground activities as well,” he continued.
“If that’s the case, I suppose you also know he is not my husband.”
Lawton grinned, his teeth bright in the lamplight of the street. “I have met the real Mrs. Webster. Charlotte is a devoted wife, though perhaps not as pretty as you.”
Hattie chose to ignore the compliment. “I’ve made sketches of the submarine. I have contacts in Washington City.”
“Yes, we must get the plans to Pinkerton. He’ll be able to pass them on to General McClellan.”
“How did you—”
“I told you, I’m familiar with the Union Underground. I’m also aware that Timothy is currently away on a mission. In his absence, I must return through the lines tonight if we are going to get those papers into the right hands. Where are they now?”
“No.”
Lawton clearly did not expect this reply.
“Mrs. Webster. Carrie—”
Her given name sounded foreign to her. “It’s Hattie, now,” she corrected him. She’d changed it upon arriving in Chicago, lest her husband come looking for her.
“Hattie then. Do you not trust me?”
She gazed at him. He looked as sincere as ever, and she knew he was the same person that saved her from an abusive marriage all those years ago. But Hattie had also been treated cruelly by the most important men in her life: first her father and then her husband.
His expression was still inscrutable, but there was a tenderness in his voice as he spoke. “You know I was there when Aaron was shot.”
Hattie took a deep breath at the mention of her brother’s name. “No, I was not aware of that.”
“I was. I even attended the hanging. He died like a man.”
Hattie nodded, never having believed Aaron would act any other way when faced with death. “How did you escape?”
He shot her one of his easy-going grins. “I have my ways. But Hattie, if you think I would ever abandon the cause those men died for, that your brother died for, then you don’t know me at all.”
Hattie, thinking again of Aaron and his blind, if not foolhardy, devotion, blinked back tears.
“Hattie…” Lawton reached out a hand as if to touch her, but then thought better of it and dropped his arm by his side. “You must believe me.”
She finally consented. “All right, Major Lawton, you’ve convinced me.” She stood. “Now we need to figure a cover for two men, neither of whom are her husband, arriving at Mrs. Webster’s hotel room in the dead of night.”
“Hugh,” he said in a barely discernible tone, causing Hattie to lean in toward him. “Pardon?”
There was that grin again. “Now that I’ve officially earned your trust, you can call me Hugh.” He got up from the bench and laid a jocular arm around her shoulders. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” he declared loudly. He leaned heavily on Hattie, his lips next to her ear. “And that’s my real name,” he whispered.
Hugh kept up the ruse of being drunk as Hattie escorted him to the hotel. Luckily there was no one around. Once they’d arrived at her and Timothy’s room, Hattie handed over her intelligence on the submarine.
“These are fantastic,” Hugh said, looking over her sketches.
“It’s a living,” Hattie replied.
“You do a great service to your country, you know. I’m sure Pinkerton and McClellan will agree when I deliver these.” Hugh put his hand on the door.
“Thank you.”
He looked for a moment like he would much rather have stay
ed. “Hattie—”
She drew in a deep breath. “You’d better go now if you want to get through the lines before morning.”
He nodded. “I hope someday to meet you again. Perhaps not with you under the guise of Mrs. Webster, though. And perhaps not with you dressed in men’s clothing.”
For one brief moment, Hattie let go of her reserves. She walked over to Hugh and undid the tight chignon she’d worn under her kepi before embracing him. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his hand in her hair. After a moment entwined, he pulled away with a sigh. “Till we meet again,” he said and then closed the door behind him.
Hattie, blinking back tears, retrieved her sketch book and began a new drawing, this time incorporating the look of love that Hugh’s eyes held before he walked out of her life again.
Chapter 28
Belle
March 1862
Belle threw herself into the Front Royal social scene. She quickly recognized that the women there were not her biggest fans, though she continued to tell of her adventures despite their lack of enthusiasm. The midnight rendezvous with Colonel Ashby had increased her already overflowing confidence in her abilities as a spy. When she heard about a position for a courier in Winchester from her cousin James, Belle volunteered straightaway. She went into her aunt’s hotel to locate her latest pet, Lieutenant Hasbrouck, a tall, thin redhead.
“We are friends, aren’t we, Lieutenant?” Belle demanded when she caught sight of him.
“Why, of course, Miss Belle. Why do you ask?”
“Auntie has asked that I pay a visit to one of her friends in Winchester who has fallen ill.” Belle placed a pale hand on the man’s sleeve. “Will you accompany us through the lines?”
“Today?”
“I’m sure Colonel Shields will grant you permission if you tell him it is a favor to me.”
Lieutenant Hasbrouck agreed and went off to find his superior.
Lieutenant Hasbrouck had been assigned some business and disembarked from the carriage near the federal camp outside of Winchester before the carriage continued with Belle and Mauma Eliza to town.
Winchester was a contentious area and frequently vacillated between rebel and federal control; it had once changed hands thirteen times in one day! The town was currently under Union control, but Belle was pleased to see that the women of the town refused to bow to their authority. Despite being outlawed, they continued to wear secession cockades and “Jeff Davis” bonnets, gingham hats that had been supposedly designed by Varina Davis herself. The Union soldiers didn’t like them because the wide brim concealed most of the wearers’ faces from their would-be Yankee accusers. Belle even spotted one woman, after a Union officer passed her on the street without tipping his hat, spit on him. The Yankee went about his business, not noticing the wad of spittle that dripped down the back of his coat. He had to zigzag most awkwardly in order to avoid being targeted by women evacuating soiled chamber pots onto the street.
Belle was not sure who or what her mission was supposed to involve, but James had arranged for her, accompanied by Mauma Eliza, to meet her contact at the home of Mrs. Winslow, an old friend of Belle’s mother.
The woman, her daughters, and other neighbors of obvious secessionist sentiments were in the living room, repairing Confederate uniforms.
“Rumor has it that Stonewall Jackson is on his way toward Front Royal,” one of the ladies commented.
“Front Royal?” Belle asked. “I just left there.”
The woman nodded. “Lord knows we wouldn’t mind him returning here and freeing us from these Yanks.”
The other women murmured their agreement and Belle spent a pleasant enough evening sewing and chatting about the Southern cause. No other visitors came, and Belle went to bed wondering how she would complete her mission if she didn’t know exactly what it entailed.
The next morning, she rose early. The house was quiet and she was surprised to find Colonel William Denny standing in Mrs. Winslow’s kitchen. Colonel Denny was familiar with both Belle’s father and cousin and Belle had become casually acquainted with him.
He bowed. “Miss Boyd.”
“Colonel Denny,” Belle replied, a question in her voice.
He bent over to retrieve something from his pack. “I need you to take these letters to the Confederate army outside of Front Royal. This package,” he continued, passing a brown parcel to her, “is of great importance.”
Belle stacked the letters and the parcel in a picnic basket.
“Lastly,” Colonel Denny said, “it is imperative that this letter gets to Stonewall Jackson as quickly as possible. It needs to arrive carefully and safely to him or another high-ranking Confederate. Do you understand?”
Belle bowed her head. “I do and will obey your orders with great haste.”
Colonel Denny tipped his hat to her before exiting the house.
Before she and Mauma Eliza left, Belle took stock of the information Colonel Denny had passed her. She folded the most important one, the letter to Stonewall Jackson, into a tiny square, intending on keeping it in the palm of her hand. The large package seemed too conspicuous in her basket, so Belle gave it to Mauma Eliza to enfold it in her skirts, knowing that the Yanks would never search a darkey.
Belle was too preoccupied with arranging Colonel Denny’s missives to pay much notice to the servant who had entered the living room, ostensibly to dust, but who also watched the exchange between her and Mauma Eliza.
Belle’s next task was to arrange a way to return to Front Royal as she had gotten word that Lieutenant Hasbrouck had been detained on his business. She and Mauma Eliza went to the florist shop, where Belle purchased a fine bouquet to send to Winchester’s provost marshal, Colonel Fillebrown, whom she had heard was susceptible to flattery. She wrote a message asking if he might pause his grand duties to write out a pass for Belle to get through the lines. The pass came via Fillebrown’s aide-de-camp in less than an hour, accompanied by a note from the colonel himself thanking Belle for the sweet compliments.
Belle and Mauma Eliza secured a carriage and had made it as far as the picket lines outside of town when a repulsive-looking Yankee with greasy black hair and bad teeth stopped them. “We have orders to arrest you.”
Belle’s fingers tightened around the letter in her palm, but she forced herself to swallow back her fear. “On what reason?”
“We’ve heard that you have suspicious letters on your person.”
Belle blinked hard, suddenly recalling the servant in Mrs. Winslow’s living room that morning. The soldier leaned in and gave instructions for the coachman to travel to Colonel Beal’s headquarters.
“Miss Belle—” Mauma Eliza began in a panicked voice as the coachman turned his horses around.
“Shh, Mauma, let me think a bit.” Belle paused before opening the picnic basket, pulling out a rose she had intended on sending to Lieutenant Hasbrouck. She placed the handwritten card with the words “Kindness of Lieutenant H,” under the twine holding together the packet of letters before unfolding the creased letter to Stonewall Jackson.
When they arrived at headquarters, Colonel Beal immediately demanded to see the letters. Without hesitation, Belle reached into her basket and pulled out the packet that Denny had deemed of least importance.
Colonel Beal ripped open the card. “Kindness of Lieutenant H? What is the meaning of this?”
Belle fanned herself with the letter to Stonewall Jackson. “It is for Lieutenant Hasbrouck. It is of no consequence.”
Beal dug his fingers under the twine and pulled. Letters of various sizes and a few magazines spilled onto his desk. He picked up a copy of a rebellious news journal and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
Belle attempted a smile as she fanned herself more rigorously.
“What is that?” Beal demanded, pointing at her fan/ letter to Stonewall Jackson.
“This?” Belle asked. She held up the wrinkled missive, the address facing her. “It is nothing.” She waited
for his reply, thinking fast. There was no way she was going to let Beal’s beady eyes note the intended recipient. She would have to rip it up and swallow it the way she’d heard Rose Greenhow once did.
But Beal’s gaze refocused back to the letters scattered on his desk. He picked up Belle’s hastily scrawled card and ordered one of his guards to fetch Lieutenant Hasbrouck.
“What of these traitors?” the remaining guard asked.
Beal threw up his palm. “Be gone with them. What harm could a young lady and her darkey do?”
And with that, Belle and Mauma Eliza left Colonel Beal’s office, Belle clutching her makeshift fan in her hand and the important package still buried within Mauma Eliza’s skirts.
Chapter 29
Loreta
March 1862
After the disaster at Fort Donelson, Loreta made her way to Memphis, Tennessee where she was pleased to encounter the dapper Captain De Caulp once again. He invited Harry to go with him and a few other officers to a local saloon. Loreta decided to use the opportunity to ferret information as to the captain’s romantic notions.
“Why, my intended resides right here in this fair city,” Captain De Caulp announced. “Would you like to meet her? I can arrange for her to be accompanied by a friend if you’d like.”
“A friend for that dandy? What purpose would that serve?” The remark had come from the man on the other side of De Caulp, who had been introduced as General Peters. Loreta knew of his reputation: he evidently had a greater fondness for whiskey than he did his own reputation, and consequently spent more time in the cups than at the front commanding his unit.
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