Belle ran faster as renewed adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had not another thought but of her mission to reach General Jackson. As she got closer to the Confederate line, she tore her bonnet off her head and waved it in a circle, calling for the rebels to press toward town. The men started running forward, shouting triumphantly, some of them cheering her by name as they passed her.
Belle paused, watching the men heading toward Front Royal. There did not seem to be as many of them as she had thought. She sank to her knees, fearing that she had just sent them toward their deaths. There was no time to delay, Belle reminded herself as she rose. She continued, a bit slower this time, toward the hilltop on the outskirts of town where the gray coats had seemed to be emerging from. Presently, Belle heard hoofbeats and looked up to see Henry Kyd Douglas, a native of Martinsburg only a few years older than herself, approaching.
“Good God, Belle, you look a fright.”
“Henry,” Belle gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Tell Stonewall to charge down the hill and he will be able to capture every last Yankee haunting Front Royal.”
“Are there so many Yanks in the town still?”
Belle opened her hands as though counting and flexed her fingers several times instead of replying. Hundreds.
Henry caught her meaning and tipped his cap. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He turned his horse around. “Aren’t you just the girl to dare to do such a thing!” He shouted this last remark over his shoulder as he began galloping back in the direction he’d come from.
“Remember, should anyone ask, you did not meet with me today!” Belle called to Henry’s retreating back. She blew a kiss into the air in Henry’s direction. In short order, she heard the unworldly Rebel yell sounding as more men headed in the direction of the town. Belle ducked behind a tree as she heard the beats of dozens of horses, watching as the Confederate cavalry rode right past her.
Belle sat under a tree to rest her throbbing legs for an hour or so. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, she headed back to the nearly empty town, her steps much more labored than they had been when she had set out that morning. A few federal officers still roamed through the Fishback hotel. Belle kindly offered them some lemonade and inquired if they had any news. Sadly, they did not.
In the end, the Confederacy was, once again, indomitable, and the Union retreated, attempting to burn the bridges exactly as the Yankee scout had declared they would. However, the Confederate cavalry reached the bridges in time to save them from becoming uncontrollable conflagrations.
Henry Kyd Douglas arrived on horseback with his regiment to declare any remaining Federals in Front Royal prisoners of the Confederate army.
“Henry!” Belle called as she caught sight of him. He stopped his horse in front of her.
“I have something for you.” Belle stood on her tiptoes to pin a bright red rosette to his coat. “The color is the blood red of succession,” she told him, “and it looks quite fair on you.”
“And I have something for you too.” He passed her a sheet of paper before he rode off.
Belle quickly scanned the note and then held it against her heart before she read it again, slower this time, mouthing the words. It was addressed to her and written by none other than Stonewall Jackson:
Miss Belle Boyd,
I thank you, for myself and for the army, for the immense service that you have rendered your country today.
Hastily, I am your friend,
T. J. Jackson, C.S.A.
The short note became Belle’s most valued possession.
Chapter 39
Loreta
May 1862
Loreta scoured the papers, reading with glee the exploits of Mayor Monroe, her recent nemesis, when he was asked to surrender the city. Monroe had declined, professing his loyalty to the Confederate States of America. He’d also refused to lower the Louisiana state flag from the courthouse, the same one he’d ordered raised in Loreta’s presence. Federal naval officers had then been ordered to take it down and raise the Union flag in its place.
Loreta’s next order of business was to befriend Eugenia Phillips, a Richmond exile who was known to have conspired with the legendary Rose Greenhow. When Loreta informed Eugenia that she too wished to become a spy, the older woman broke into a wide smile and told her that they could use her now more than ever.
Accordingly, Loreta began accompanying Eugenia to dinners and balls, borrowing fancy gowns from Eugenia’s adult daughter. At one dinner, Eugenia introduced Loreta to a civilian friend of hers, Mrs. Taylor, a widow who was anxious to return to England but was currently staying at the same boardinghouse as Loreta.
“This whole war is having the most turbulent effect on my nerves,” Mrs. Taylor told Loreta, taking a casual sip of sherry.
“Have you heard about poor William Mumford?” Loreta asked.
Mrs. Taylor shook her head.
“He pulled down that wretched Stars and Stripes from City Hall, intending on returning it to Mayor Monroe.”
“But a mob ripped it to shreds,” Eugenia added. “That beast General Butler arrested him and now he’s in the Parish Prison, awaiting trial.”
Loreta did not think it was necessary to add that she had recently spent time there as well.
“But that’s not the worst thing General Butler has done since he’s come to power,” Eugenia continued. “Have you read his latest proclamation?” Both ladies shook their heads and Eugenia called in her servant to fetch it. “Officially it is known as General Order #28, but Butler’s calling it ‘The Women’s Order.’” Eugenia cleared her throat and then read aloud:
As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subjected to repeated insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of New Orleans, in return for the most scrupulous non-interference and courtesy on our part, it is ordered, that hereafter, when any female shall, by word, gesture, or movement, insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States, she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the town plying her avocation.
“Can you believe it?” Eugenia asked, putting the paper down. “He hints that we are not ladies at all.”
“What a barbarian,” Loreta replied. “He’s likening us to prostitutes and practically giving permission for his soldiers to rape the women of New Orleans.”
“Oh my, oh my,” Mrs. Taylor said, fanning herself with her napkin. “This is just terrible. Now I know I must return to England as soon as possible.”
“They are just idle threats,” Eugenia said. “They cannot possibly enforce such sadistic treatment of women.” She ended the night by inviting both women to a party she was giving the next day.
“Aren’t they giving a procession for a fallen Union soldier tomorrow?” Loreta asked. The route would take them right under Eugenia’s balcony in the French Quarter.
“Indeed they are. You should probably reschedule,” Mrs. Taylor told her hostess.
Eugenia gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “There is no need for that. This is New Orleans, after all. It is rare for a day to go by without some sort of procession.”
Accordingly the women met again at Eugenia’s apartment the next day. Eugenia insisted on hosting tea outside on the balcony.
The newest gossip was over Mayor Monroe’s arrest for protesting Butler’s order.
“At least someone is willing to defend our honor,” Loreta commented, remembering the mayor’s determination.
“Honor?” another woman sneered, turning to Loreta. “Aren’t you one to talk, going about parading as a soldier.”
Loreta was about to deny the accusation when Eugenia threw her head back and laughed. “Loreta, was that you? I never put the two together.” She put a gloved hand over her chest, catching her breath, before looking at Loreta with admiration. “I was right, we could use women like you.”
Loreta straightened the hem of her dress. “It was nothing, really.” She had started to tell of her battle adventures, but Eugenia�
�s black servant appeared on the edge of the balcony. “I’s sorry to inarupt but Mrs. Phillips, there be some men lookin’ for you’s at the door.”
“Did you tell them I’m occupied at the moment?”
“Yes’m, but they’s insistin’.”
Eugenia rose. “I’m sure I won’t be long.”
But the men were already making their way through the living room. “You are all under arrest,” one of them declared.
Loreta’s heart sped up when she recognized the speaker as the detested General Butler himself.
“Whatever for?” Eugenia asked, stepping forward.
Butler walked over to her and stared her down, his droopy eyes and triangular mustache giving him the appearance of an old, overweight beagle. “You women are breaking the law.”
“By having a party? Are you going to outlaw having fun in our fair city now?”
“You were laughing during a funeral procession,” Butler sneered.
Eugenia returned his glare with a bewildered look until understanding dawned. “I was laughing at something one of my companions said.”
“You can tell that to the judge.” He put his hands on his wide hips. “I know exactly who you are, Mrs. Phillips. I will imprison you for now, but I expect that either you or Mrs. Greenhow will be my undoing and will someday be responsible for my murder.”
“You are wrong on that account,” Eugenia spat back as one of Butler’s soldiers began leading her out. “We usually order our Negroes to kill our swine.”
Loreta could not contain the giggle that slipped out and, consequently, while Butler consented to let the other women go, she was also placed under arrest.
Loreta was none too happy to be back at the Parish Prison, but the assistant provost marshal, who was tasked with arraigning her, treated her kindly.
He introduced himself as Deputy Steward. “I don’t agree with Butler’s proposition,” he told her helplessly, “but I have my orders.”
Loreta had absolutely no desire to go back to jail, and pretended to be a devoted Federalist. “I did not know what Mrs. Phillips stood for when I accepted her party invitation. Had I known about the funeral procession, I would have stood at street level to pay my respects to our fallen soldier.”
Steward grabbed a napkin to wipe up the tea he had dribbled at Loreta’s declaration. “Is that so? It is rare we get women in here expressing Union sentiment. They’d rather spit on us in the streets.”
“Oh no, sir. I was happier than a clam to see the federal flag being raised once again in New Orleans. It won’t be long before the Stars and Stripes wave from every rooftop in the South.” Loreta reached behind her and crossed her fingers, hoping the movement would suffice for retribution if she ever had to confess to denouncing the cause that she loved.
Steward tilted his head. “Have you taken the oath to the Union?”
Loreta had not and did not intend to. She changed the subject instead. “You see, I am of Northern birth—my father was from New York—and, as I was caught down here with the blockade, could not return.”
“Have you any family?”
“No sir,” Loreta replied truthfully. “I am a widow.” She then told him that her husband had been an Englishman and left her with a large sum of money and property. “But those wretched rebels robbed me of everything.” She reached into her reticule and drew out a handkerchief. She studied the officer as she dabbed at her eyes.
Her crocodile tears had the desired effect. Steward got to his feet, saying, “I think I can convince General Butler to drop the charges against you.” He left the room and returned a few minutes later.
“Mrs. Phillips is to be brought to Ship Island for her indiscretions, but I have better news, for you, Mrs…” he glanced down at his paperwork. “Williams. General Butler has agreed to release you as long as you promise to be more considerate when out in public.”
“Oh, yessir. Thank you.” She rose to leave.
“And Mrs. Williams, don’t hesitate to call on me if there is ever any way I can help you.”
“Thank you again, sir,” she said, leaving the office feeling light on her feet. Not only had she avoided arrest, but she’d managed to make the assistant provost marshal as an ally as well. She was sorry that Eugenia was to be imprisoned, but she knew that her friend would have approved of Loreta’s manipulations for the cause they shared.
Loreta ran into Mrs. Taylor in the lobby of their boardinghouse the next day. After exchanging what little information they had about Eugenia, Mrs. Taylor informed Loreta that she had secured passage to return to England. Struck with inspiration, Loreta asked if she could borrow her foreign identification papers.
“Whatever for?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
“They would assist me a great deal.” She told Mrs. Taylor of her latest plan, brought on by a letter she’d received that morning from one of William’s old comrades, who was now a surgeon in Mandeville, located on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. Loreta leaned in. “It is still under Confederate control and Dr. Childs told me that his hospital is low on medicine, especially quinine. As summer is almost upon us, he is worried that the malaria epidemic will wipe out the few Confederate soldiers they had left in the area. If I had your papers as authentication, I could secure a pass to Mandeville.”
“But I don’t understand how you would be able to help the situation there.”
Loreta glanced around the lobby before whispering, “The federal hospitals have plenty of quinine. I could use the provost marshal’s recommendation to get a job as a nurse.” She left the rest of the plan up to Mrs. Taylor’s interpretation.
Mrs. Taylor nodded as she dug through her carpetbag. She handed Loreta a certificate that gave her place of birth in England and her address at the boardinghouse.
* * *
In the next few months, Loreta managed to make a few trips back and forth across Lake Pontchartrain, and even once to Mobile, delivering the much-needed medicine and conveying Confederate correspondence. She was pleased that once again she could help the cause, although she knew that to do so under Butler’s beagle snout was inviting a great amount of risk.
With that mindset, she assumed she’d been caught when Dr. Childs presented her with a letter addressed to his hospital, but with Loreta’s name on it. “What is this?” she asked, flipping it over. The return address was in Memphis.
“I’m not sure, I didn’t open it,” Dr. Childs replied.
Loreta’s trepidation at being found out quickly turned over to joy. “It’s from Tom!”
“Tom?”
“Major De Caulp.”
“Why is my old commanding officer writing you?”
“He and I…” Loreta did not feel like trying to explain the situation to Dr. Childs. Clearly Tom had wanted to get in contact with her and used any New Orleans connections he could. “I must go to him.”
Dr. Childs took the letter and scanned it. “Most of Tennessee is under Union control now and it’s probably only a matter of time before Memphis falls. It’s highly unlikely you could get a pass to go there.”
Loreta felt her heartbeat, which had been hammering away at the astonishing news, slow. It seemed desperately unfair that, now that she knew her beloved was alive, she would be prohibited from seeing him. She thought for a moment before asking Dr. Childs what they did with the uniforms of the soldiers who have perished at the hospital.
He knitted his eyebrows. “We try to return them to the families of the deceased, provided we know where to send them. The others we store. Ailing soldiers often request replacements, especially the boots.”
“Where do you keep the extras?”
Dr. Childs led Loreta to a basement storeroom. She dug through a pile of old uniforms until she found a coat and pants that would fit her frame. Dr. Childs sighed. “This should be where I tell you to not do this, but even I can see any effort I would make to prevent you from leaving would be futile.”
“Indeed,” Loreta replied, shouldering the uniform. “Thi
s whole time I thought that Tom was dead. Nothing you or anyone else could say would prevent me from going to him. Not even General Butler or the United States government can stop me now.”
Chapter 40
Mary Jane
June 1862
The Confederate White House had been quiet these past few days. Rebel intelligence had informed the government that General McClellan was continuing his offensive by marching his army through the peninsula formed by the York and James rivers. For a few days in early June, it seemed that an attack on Richmond would be imminent.
“Let them come,” Miss Lizzie had stated at the seamstress shop. “I have prepared a room for General McClellan to stay if he so chooses.”
Mary Jane could not help but smile. “What about your sister-in-law, Mary? Something tells me she would not be so pleased to have McClellan as a houseguest.”
Miss Lizzie shook her head. “Mary’s gone. She’d said that she didn’t want her children raised by ‘damned Yankees,’ and took the girls to her family’s estate.”
Mary Jane’s mouth dropped open. She recalled Miss Lizzie’s nieces, two sweet young girls who definitely had not inherited their mother’s disposition.
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