The Women Spies Series 1-3
Page 48
“It’s no matter, really.” She held up the water glass. “I was just going to get a drink for my husband.”
He tipped his hat to her. “I will leave you to it. G’day, ma’am.”
She watched him walk into his room before she retrieved the water.
Timothy woke up when Hattie shut the door behind her. Predictably, he was none too pleased when Hattie told him that a member of the Confederate military police had taken the room next door.
“What do you think that means?” Hattie asked.
Timothy grimaced. “It’s probably a bad sign. Perhaps you should return to Washington City and get help.”
Hattie shook her head vehemently. “I can’t leave you here. We will wait for you to get better and then we will go together.” Her mind drifted to Hugh Lawton. If he were here, he would know what to do, but Hattie hadn’t heard from him since he left Richmond and even Timothy didn’t know how to contact him.
Timothy took a deep breath. “Hattie, just so you know, Pinkerton was afraid this would happen. That’s why he had you come on this mission—to be my nursemaid.”
Hattie picked at a thread on her skirt. “It’s just the same. I’m here now.”
Timothy took her hand in his. His grip was weak, his hand cold. “You are better than that. Pinkerton will see that once he receives the information about the Confederate submarine.” It was obviously painful for him to talk, and Hattie admonished him to get some rest.
“No,” he sighed. “You should be out in the field, not in here taking care of me.”
“You will be on the mend soon,” Hattie promised. “And then we can both leave here and be back on Northern soil.”
Resigned, Timothy lay back. “Just a little longer,” he said before he fell into an unsettled sleep.
But even after two weeks of Hattie’s constant care, Timothy’s health had not improved enough for them to travel. One afternoon, after she’d fallen asleep in a chair with Timothy breathing laboriously beside her, she was awakened by a knock at the door. She opened it to find fellow Pinkerton operatives Pryce Lewis and John Scully. She gestured them inside and then shut the door as quietly as possible.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed with a glance at Timothy’s sleeping form.
“The Old Man sent us here. We haven’t heard any dispatches for weeks.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Hattie said. She moved toward the bed to reposition Timothy’s sheet.
“Ah,” Scully began to laugh. “Are we too busy playing love games to serve our country?” he asked, a condescending tone discernible beneath his Irish accent.
“Hush up,” Hattie commanded. “It’s not what you think.”
“Wha—?” Timothy awoke with a start, sitting up straight in bed. His eyes briefly focused on his colleagues before his gaze grew feverish again. He managed to say, “Pryce? John?” before he fell back onto the pillow.
“Tim,” Pryce began as Hattie soaked the washcloth in a nearby bowl.
“Now do you see why we haven’t been able to communicate?” she demanded. “He is very ill.” She placed the cloth on his forehead before turning to the operatives. “You shouldn’t be here. You are endangering our cover.”
Scully stepped forward, a scowl on his face, but Pryce held up his hand. “The Old Man wanted us to give you this letter.” He handed it to Hattie.
“We’ll take our leave now,” Pryce said with a nod at Hattie.
Just then there was another knock at the door. She glared at her comrades, intending to communicate just how much trouble they’d caused, but they avoided her eyes.
Hattie dropped the letter in a desk drawer before she went to answer the door. “Captain McCubbin,” she exclaimed, a bit louder than necessary. “What brings you here?”
“I wanted to check on Mr. Webster’s health.” His observant eyes landed on Pryce and Scully. “Hello, who’s this?”
“Pryce Lewis.” He moved forward to shake McCubbin’s hand as Hattie wondered if it was a good idea to use his own name.
John Scully did the same, stating that they were businessmen on their way to Chattanooga to discuss a cotton contract.
“They are old friends of mine from Baltimore,” Webster added in a weak voice.
“Ah,” McCubbin said, obviously catching Webster’s implication. “In that case, have you gentlemen reported to General Winder?” he asked as Hattie bit down a rush of nerves.
“No, sir,” Pryce replied. “Our permission to travel was granted by Major Beale. We didn’t think it was necessary to report to the provost marshal.”
“Of course it is necessary to report to Winder,” McCubbin stated, spittle flying out of his mouth. “All persons crossing the Potomac must report. I’m giving you official notice.”
“Sure thing, sir.” Pryce nodded at Scully and the two men exited.
They returned less than an hour later. McCubbin had thankfully left after Hattie reassured him Timothy was recovering from a minor illness.
“No problem,” Lewis stated after Hattie had let them back into the room. “Winder told me he was glad to meet any friends of Captain Webster’s.”
“You need to leave Richmond as soon as possible,” Timothy managed to gasp out.
“Boss,” Scully replied. “Lewis just said—” he paused and fell silent as a hard knock on the door reverberated through the room.
Hattie went to the door to find that McCubbin was back. This time he was accompanied by a young man in a Rebel officer’s uniform.
“Sirs?” Hattie inquired.
McCubbin removed his hat. “Mrs. Webster, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Chase Morton.”
Hattie curtsied before inviting them in. “Captain McCubbin has returned, Timothy,” she said.
She couldn’t help notice that Scully was avoiding the rebels’ eyes. He stepped toward the door and put his hand on the knob, as if he couldn’t wait to leave the room. “I must take my leave of you now, Mr. and Mrs. Webster. I can see you have company.” He fled down the hallway, leaving the door open behind him.
The room fell into a shocked silence until finally Pryce spoke. “I apologize for my companion’s rudeness.” He retrieved Scully’s coat, which, in his haste, he had left draped over a chair. “I shall go find him and admonish him for his behavior.”
“No need for admonishment,” the man named Morton stated. “It is clear from your friend’s reaction that he recognized me.” Morton nodded at McCubbin, who left the room. “And that you recognize me as well,” Morton turned his gaze to Pryce.
Hattie’s eyes met Timothy’s as she handed him a glass of water. She could tell they both were wondering the same thing: who was this Morton and what was his relationship to Lewis and Scully?
“I do not recall ever having seen you before today,” Pryce replied. After months of working with the nearly inscrutable Pryce, Hattie could just detect the waver in his voice.
“You don’t recall raiding my family’s house in Washington and searching through my mother and sister’s things?”
Hattie kept her outward expression neutral, but inside she was fuming. Of course—Morton was the son of Mrs. Morton, the suspected spy that Scully and Lewis had banned from Washington City! Morton would not have forgotten the faces of the operatives who had accused his mother of being a spy and who had searched through his family’s possessions, looking for evidence.
McCubbin burst back into the room, a downtrodden Scully at his side. Another man in a general’s uniform smelling of whiskey entered the room. Provost Marshal Winder, Hattie supposed.
“Ah, Mr. Lewis,” Winder moved forward as if to shake his hand. “How goes Mr. Pinkerton?”
Hattie’s gaze once again connected with Timothy. His was pained with more than fever. They were clearly in agreement that their cover had been blown by Pryce Lewis and John Scully. The rebels escorted the two men out of the room as Hattie and Timothy sat in shocked silence, not daring to say anything in case someone was listening.
McCubbin returned to their room the next morning. He barely murmured a word of greeting to Hattie before he pulled a chair beside Timothy. “Strange events that occurred last night, wouldn’t you say, Webster?”
“Strange?” Timothy paused to cough. “I don’t quite get your meaning.”
“Those men, are they friends of yours?”
“I would say more acquaintances,” Timothy corrected.
“Spies are more like it. Can you believe it?” McCubbin’s gaze was locked on Timothy’s, waiting for any sign of betrayal. But Timothy, even in his poor health, gave no sign of recognition. “They were here to deliver a letter. Did they give it to you?”
Timothy’s gaze focused on Hattie. “Wife, do you know where that note was?”
She got up to retrieve it, trusting that Timothy knew what he was doing. Hattie handed it over to the detective, who pocketed it and then, after a terse goodbye, strolled from the room.
After he left, Timothy fell back onto his pillow, his reserve spent. “Hattie,” he gasped, “You must leave as soon as possible.”
“I will not.”
His breathing grew even more difficult. “We are in grave danger. You need to leave Richmond before the axe falls.”
“I can’t.” She placed her hand over his waxy, cool one. “We must remain here and hope for a favorable outcome.”
Scully and Lewis were put on trial for sedition against the Confederate government. Webster was summoned as a witness and gave testimony from his bedside, stating that both men had been friends of the Southern cause and were not Union spies. But they were found guilty, anyway. Hattie read aloud a newspaper with the headline “Yankee Spies to be Hanged” to Timothy. The article contained both facts and fiction about their apprehension, stating that “the proof of their connection with the secret service of the enemy is most positive.” Because they were both British subjects, they were appealing to their government, banking on the Confederacy’s determination to gain favor with England to stay their execution. But, as the article claimed, “this will avail them little.”
“Now will you leave?” Webster asked when she finished reading.
Hattie was about to refuse again as their door burst open. She rose from her vigil at Webster’s side. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Philip Cashmeyer,” the man replied. He shook out a paper. “Under the orders of General Winder, you are both under arrest. I am to convey you to Castle Godwin.”
The silence in the room was deafening. Hattie refused to give into her instinct to cry out her denial. Instead, she said in a voice as calm as she could manage, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. But to take Mr. Webster now would be the death of him. As you can see, he is in no condition to travel.”
“I’m sorry as well.” Cashmeyer’s gaze dropped to the floor. His obviously apologetic manner revealed that he was one of the rebels whom Timothy had cultivated a friendship with. “My orders were to retrieve him, dead or alive.” He whistled and two Confederate officers immediately appeared in the doorway, their bayonets directed at the inhabitants of the room.
“My wife is innocent of all charges. You cannot mean to condemn her to my fate,” Timothy declared in a halting voice.
“Nonsense, Husband,” Hattie moved toward him. “I intend to accompany you.”
Cashmeyer nodded. “My orders are for both of you.”
“What are the charges?” Timothy demanded.
“I’m afraid I am not privy to that information,” Cashmeyer replied, opening the door. Hattie bent forward to help Timothy to his feet as Cashmeyer and the soldiers watched.
Chapter 31
Loreta
April 1862
General Sidney Johnston ordered his Confederate army of Mississippi to attack the Union army of the Tennessee stationed at Pittsburg Landing on April 6th. The Yankees were not expecting them. As the Rebel army rushed out of the woods into their encampment, men half-dressed in blue uniforms sleepily reached for nearby rifles. In only a few minutes the Confederates took possession of the camp and Loreta sat down to consume a still-hot breakfast that a Federal officer had been forced to abandon.
She had just finished eating when Tom De Caulp came upon her. “Well, Harry, now that you have been fortified with a healthy breakfast, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”
Loreta could feel her face grow hot and put the bowl down. “Sir, I am anxious to do my share in battle, and request to be placed where there is ample chance of combat.”
Tom nodded. “There’s still plenty of fighting to be done and we will wait to see what action we can bring about.”
In short time, the command was given for them to advance and Loreta experienced an unfamiliar anxiousness. She had never worried about her own fate in battle before, but for the first time, she fretted for the safety of another. She forced herself to bury her feelings of uneasiness so that she could fight with even more vigor than ever. Though Tom couldn’t have known the man beside him was the same woman he’d pledged to write to, Loreta was determined to win his praise.
The Confederates rushed through the lines with unfaltering perseverance. To Loreta, it seemed they cut the Federals down as methodically as a mowing machine sheared grass. Before long, much of the enemy lay on the ground in every position imaginable. The wounded who could still speak begged the assiduous rebels for help, to no avail. Loreta glanced down as she passed over a deceased Yankee, his eyes wide open, staring at eternity.
Upon spying a crowd of Confederates gathered around a fallen man in an officer’s uniform, Tom shouted at one of the men standing helplessly, “Who lies there?”
“General Johnston,” the soldier replied.
“Is he dead?”
The man merely shook his head and waved at them to continue on.
In the late afternoon, a rider came up to Tom shouting “Halt! We have orders to halt!”
“Halt?” he repeated. “Who gave this order?”
“General Beauregard, sir.”
“Where is he stationed?”
“Shiloh Church.”
Tom scratched at his beard. “Is the general aware that the Yanks have been pushed all the way back to the landing? One more blow and this will be another victory for the rebels.”
The man turned his horse and called, “These are the orders, sir,” before riding off.
Tom shot a bewildered look at Loreta, who shrugged.
They retreated back through the Union camps, which were nearly abandoned. After Tom’s men took prisoner the few Yankees they found lingering, the men in his unit began rummaging through the cache left behind, confiscating boots, clean shirts, and even Federal dollars, which were plentiful in the tents.
Loreta sat by the campfire to eat her second ample meal of the day.
“You Rebs don’t know what you have in for you.” Loreta looked up to see that the voice had come from an exceedingly dirty Yank in an equally soiled uniform. He sat nearby on the ground with his arms tied behind him.
“Is that so?” Loreta spoke with a mouthful of gruel. “What say you?”
“I say nothing to slaveholding coots.”
A plan popped into Loreta’s head. She set her bowl down. “If you must know, I own no slaves. They forced me into the army. The first opportunity I have to desert, I will.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Or if they take me prisoner, I’ll be glad to pledge an oath to Union.”
The Yank smiled an oily grin. “You might have such an opportunity sooner than you think.”
Loreta picked up a loaf of bread and walked closer to the man. “How so?” She broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into the man’s mouth before tipping her canteen toward him.
Water and crumbs dripped from the man’s mouth as he told her that the Feds were expecting General Buell to arrive that night with reinforcements.
Loreta did not bother to reply. She dropped the bread beside the soldier and immediately went into Tom’s tent. “Sir, I have information from one of the prisoners
that the blue devils are expecting more men to arrive this evening.”
Tom sighed. “I knew it was a mistake not to press forward.”
“Sir, with your permission, I’d like to get closer to the Union lines to try to get an idea of their movements.”
“Harry, while I commend your fortitude, that’s an exceedingly dangerous proposition. The colonel would never agree to it.”
“The colonel does not have to know.”
Tom finally consented, knowing that if the rumor was true, the Confederates would possibly lose their advantage.
Loreta approached the riverbank by keeping close to the ground and frequently pausing when she heard a noise, at times crawling under bushes to avoid being seen. As Tom had predicted, the Feds crowded at the landing above had no means of crossing the river, and, had the Rebs pursued them, could have pushed their advantage and caused a repeat of Ball’s Bluff. It angered her that General Beauregard had allowed the opportunity to inflict another crushing defeat upon the enemy slip by.
Loreta watched in disgust as a steamboat arrived with fresh bluebacks. She crept on her elbows and knees to get a better view as yet another boat appeared and more enemy troops unloaded. She was close enough to smell the steam and hear the bells directing the troops to disembark. She was about to report back when she saw a smaller boat pass by. This one only had two officers in it. She shielded her eyes against the moonlight to get a better view, recognizing one of the men from his picture in the newspaper articles on Fort Donelson. She could hear the pitch of their voices, but the splashing of the oars and the chirping of the crickets beside her made it difficult to discern what they were saying. Loreta grabbed her pistol and took aim. General Ulysses S. Grant had been declared the hero of Fort Donelson, and half of her wished that he not be declared a hero ever again.
But the other half of her would not let her pull the trigger. It was too much like murder. She watched as the boat floated out of range. When the general boarded one of the gunboats, Loreta rose from her position, her knees aching, her shoulders lowered in defeat.