The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “But John brought the girls back to the Church Hill house, and now I help supervise them.”

  “Do they know of your secret room?”

  “Not yet. But perhaps someday I will fill them in on all that happens in our home.” Miss Lizzie waved her hand. “And now, Mary Jane, what of the going’s on in the Davises’ home?”

  Mary Jane had not much to report besides the changing of Judah Benjamin’s title from Secretary of War to Secretary of State.

  Mrs. Thompson looked up from her sewing. “Why’d Davis do that? I thought he doted upon that old Jew.”

  Mary Jane bristled, wishing that derogatory term hadn’t slipped so easily from the seamstress’s tongue. “When they were debating over the Conscription Act, Benjamin suggested that the Confederate army employ slaves as soldiers. He thought they could win their freedom by serving the South. It was vastly unpopular, and although many in Congress called for Benjamin’s complete resignation, Mr. Davis wouldn’t hear of it.” Despite herself, Mary Jane had looked favorably upon the portly Mr. Benjamin. He often tried to distract the president with his humorous outlook on the blunders of the Confederate generals of late. All but those of Bob Lee, who had taken over the Army of Virginia after Joe Johnston had been wounded. Both Benjamin and President Davis had nothing but praise for Lee, calling him the Confederacy’s most able general.

  “They have no choice but to keep soldiers in their army by force,” Miss Lizzie stated.

  “Indeed,” Mary Jane agreed, scooping up Mrs. Davis’s newly hemmed dress.

  When Mary Jane returned to the house, she found Mrs. Davis in a state of panic.

  Mrs. O’Melia confided that a courier had come, informing the Davises that their plantation in Mississippi had been raided, their possessions stolen and their remaining slaves confiscated.

  “Disaster follows disaster,” Mrs. Davis muttered as she sat in the snuggery. She began rocking as Mrs. O’Melia and Mary Jane exchanged frightened looks. “First the death of our great friend and loyal commander, Sidney Johnston, and then the evacuation of my family from New Orleans, and now this.” She reached over to touch the satin drape. “McClellan might as well come now and finish the job. This dreadful way of living depresses me more than I can say.”

  Mr. Davis entered the room. “Winnie,” he said sharply.

  His wife stopped her murmuring and looked up. “What is it, Jeff?”

  He sat down next to her and clasped her small hands in his large, thin-fingered ones. “If our cause succeeds, we shall not mourn over personal deprivation any longer.”

  “You’re right, of course Husband,” Mrs. Davis replied, retrieving her hands from his grip. “Someday we Southerners will all laugh at how vain we were.”

  Although Mary Jane knew that Mrs. Davis had a different definition of vanity than herself, the slave couldn’t help but hope that Mrs. Davis was right.

  Chapter 41

  Belle

  June 1862

  Although Belle’s feat at the Battle of Front Royal further solidified her heroism in the South—the papers there hailed her as the “Secesh Cleopatra”—she made an enemy of the Northern newspapers, and especially Mr. Dunham. After Belle had locked him in the hotel room, he attempted an escape through the window but the Rebel army caught sight of him shimmying down a drain pipe and captured him. When he spotted Belle on the street, he threatened her, saying it was her fault he was now a prisoner and that he’d make her rue the day she did that to him. As General Jackson considered him an “innocent journalist,” he was released only hours after he’d been taken prisoner. When Dunham returned North, he wrote an article in which he called her an “accomplished prostitute who’d passed the first freshness of youth.”

  Rumors had been circulating for weeks that Lincoln had finally persuaded General McClellan to take action and Stonewall Jackson had therefore abandoned the Shenandoah Valley to try to recapture the Virginia Peninsula.

  The new Federal commander in Front Royal, General Nathaniel Banks, also decided to establish his headquarters at her aunt’s hotel. Belle intended to weave him under her spell much like she had his counterpart, General Shields. She took careful care getting dressed before she went to call on him for the first time: accessorizing her dark green dress with a hat covered in Confederate buttons and her gold palmetto pin at her breast, a nod to South Carolina, the first state to secede from the Union.

  Her plan appeared to work; after they exchanged pleasantries upon meeting, Belle asked if the general could grant her a pass to travel to Alabama to visit her cousin.

  The general tilted back and let out a big belly of a laugh. “But what would Virginia do without you?”

  “Why General, whatever do you mean?”

  “How can your native state do with your absence? We have heard about your daring during the Battle of Front Royal and beyond. It caused the defeat of my own army, but it still was admirable.”

  Belle fluttered her lashes. “So you will grant me a pass.”

  “Of course not,” the general replied, turning back to his papers, the genial facade disappearing. “I would prefer to keep you in your aunt’s cabin where I can watch over you.”

  Belle, at first not sure if she’d heard him right, folded her arms across her chest, but the general refused to look up. With a harrumph, she left his office.

  As she navigated the brick walkway back to the cabin, she reflected on the conversation. She supposed she couldn’t blame the general; after all, she was a great danger to his army, perhaps the greatest of them all.

  Now that she was stuck in Front Royal, at least for the time being, Belle resumed her role of being a flirtatious spy and managed to coax a Union private to give her a pistol. He told her he was an admirer of her courage in defending her mother from the German. Belle planned on presenting it to Stonewall Jackson when she had the chance.

  Although she had her share of admirers and hangers-on, she recognized that some of the men who pursued her might have ulterior motives. She confronted such a man one day as she was waiting on a bench for the Union provost marshal, intending to inquire about another pass. Although his face was much less worn than her father’s, the man’s uncombed hair and beard were a premature gray. His eyes, which kept darting around the room, looked to be black as pitch, however.

  Belle had seen him a few times previously about town. Each time had resulted in an admonishment from General Banks about leaving the cabin without his permission.

  She acknowledged the black-eyed man with a slight nod. “I suppose you came to report me again.”

  “Miss Boyd.” His low voice contained a hint of an English accent. “Are you aware that we have a mutual friend?”

  “I’m sure you mean General Banks.” Her own voice carried more than a hint of accusation.

  He smiled an oily smile. “I was referring to Eugene Blockley.”

  Belle searched her memory. “The shoemaker?”

  The man nodded before bidding her adieu, leaving Belle wondering as to his purpose in mentioning Blockley, whom she knew vaguely. He owned a shop in Front Royal, but, upon thinking more about it, she recalled seeing a man who resembled Blockley on the street during her trip to Winchester. After she was once again denied a pass, she left the office feeling slightly worried that Banks, Blockley and now this other man might be tailing her.

  The next morning, Belle sat by the window in the cottage’s parlor, warming herself in the June sun. She caught sight of a Confederate soldier standing next to the provost marshal’s tent. She grabbed her white bonnet before strolling into the courtyard and venturing over to the handsome soldier to inquire his name.

  He bowed. “C.W.D. Smitley.”

  “My, that is quite a mouthful.”

  The Rebel man smiled. His neatly trimmed brown beard had hints of red that glimmered in the sun.

  “Are you trying to get a pass?” Belle asked, nodding toward the tent.

  “Indeed. I’ve just been paroled, and now I’m hoping to head south to
Richmond.”

  “Good luck. I tried to get a pass just the other day, to no avail.”

  “Well, let’s hope I’ll be more fortunate than you.”

  Belle fiddled with the ribbons on her bonnet. “When would you leave?”

  “Not until late this evening.”

  “In that case, you must dine with my aunt and me tonight.”

  “I’d be honored.” Smitley tipped his hat.

  “Will six o’clock give you enough time to pack? We’re just in that cottage over there,” she said, pointing.

  “Six o’clock will be perfect.” Belle thought for a moment she saw his eyes twinkle, but then decided it had just been a trick of the sunlight.

  After getting word that General Banks was out on duty, Belle decided to call on the Dahl women to invite them to dinner. She chose these particular sisters for a few reasons; besides the fact that Emma, the older one, was betrothed to a Confederate soldier, they were both plain-looking and dull in personality. They also usually complied with whatever Belle commanded.

  Sarah Dahl, who was a year younger than Belle, answered the door.

  “What happened to your maid?” Belle asked.

  “She ran away.” Sarah opened the door a little wider. “Are you even supposed to be wandering about town?”

  “Probably not. Listen, Sarah, this is important: I want you and Emma to come to dinner tonight. And make sure you ask plenty of questions about what happened during the Battle of Front Royal.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “I think everyone in the town has that story memorized.”

  “Maybe so,” Belle admitted. “But not Mr. Smitley.”

  “Oh?” Sarah peered down at Belle. “Who is this Mr. Smitley? Is he handsome?”

  Belle waved her hand. “Just do as I asked, if you don’t mind. And tell Emma to do the same.”

  Sarah gave a deep sigh before agreeing.

  “Six o’clock,” Belle reminded her before Sarah shut the door.

  As soon as Belle returned to her room, she scrawled a missive to Stonewall Jackson, updating him on the Union’s command of Front Royal. She called Mauma Eliza in to help her get ready.

  Mauma Eliza’s eyes widened upon spying the white muslin dress that Belle had laid out. “Lawdy, Miss Belle, this here an evenin’ gown. I thawt y’all was just havin’ dinner.”

  “Yes, Mauma,” she replied, fingering the blue ribbons on the dress. “But clothing has a great deal to do towards making us all appear what we would like the world to take us for. I may be a spy, and perhaps a tomboy, but I’m also a young woman now.”

  Mauma Eliza eventually complied, muttering under her breath how folks have too many other things to be worried about than their clothing.

  Dinner went exceedingly well, with Sarah and Emma Dahl playing their parts to a tee. Not only was Belle able to brag of her exploits in front of Mr. Smitley, but the Dahl sisters were so monotonous that Smitley’s eyes barely fell on them.

  When Mauma Eliza began clearing the meal, Belle pulled Smitley aside to ask if he would be able to deliver a letter to General Jackson when he set out on his journey.

  Again, that twinkle appeared. “I will do so with utmost fidelity,” Smitley replied. He peered over Belle’s shoulder. “In fact, I should be going soon. It’s getting dark, which is the best time to slip through the Union lines.”

  “Will you call on me when you return?” Belle asked with a little sway in order to show off the fullness of her skirts.

  “Of course.” He again tipped his hat and then returned to the dining room to take his leave of Belle’s other guests.

  After the Dahl sisters had left, Mauma Eliza demanded to know what she had given “dat man.”

  “A letter for Stonewall. He’s on his way to Richmond.”

  Mauma Eliza grasped Belle’s arm. “Miss Belle, that man ain’t no Confederate. I seen him talking to dat Union man with da black eyes. He’s a spy.”

  “No, Mauma,” Belle insisted. But her blood turned cold as she recalled the odd twinkle to Smitley’s gaze. She shook off Mauma Eliza’s hand. “Mauma, quick, we have to send a message about him.”

  “How?”

  Belle put her arm under her chin and thought. “Through the underground, of course. But we can’t use you this time. Send George in.” Mauma waddled off as Belle sat down to write a letter to Henry Kyd Douglas of the Confederate cavalry. She described Smitley’s coloration and build, whom he claimed to be, and his intended destination. She folded the note several times and then held it in her hands for a moment, wondering how to disguise it. She opened a desk drawer and dug around, her fingers closing in on an old pocket watch of her uncle’s. After a moment of thought, she used her knife to open it and remove its innards, replacing them with the folded note. The watch didn’t quite close, but someone would have to look really close to realize that. Belle knew that George would be unlikely to be questioned since the Yankees assumed all darkeys were on their side. She instructed George to have Douglas read the note on the spot and send her a reply.

  Belle spent the next few days feeling as though she were one of the ill-fated coils she’d removed from her uncle’s pocket watch. Ever since the confrontation with the man with the black eyes, Belle had been nervous about getting caught. Now there was a letter addressed to Stonewall Jackson carrying intelligence that was probably at this moment in Union hands. Every day that went by was agony as she waited for the coil to spring out of control.

  Chapter 42

  Loreta

  June 1862

  Once again dressed as Harry Buford, Loreta managed to make it through the Union lines to Memphis. The going was rough—at times she found herself crawling through the underbrush, brambles scraping at her face and hands. When she finally reached Confederate lines, she found a picket and told him she had escaped from a New Orleans prison camp. He whistled at the officer in charge, who rode out from the woods and dismounted, scanning her very closely. Loreta stood as tall as she could while knowing her masculine appearance was scanty at best. She tried smoothing her mustache, but touched only skin and realized she’d must have lost her fake facial hair somewhere along the way.

  She decided to appeal to the officer’s basest desires. “Sir, I’ve been walking since last evening without food or sleep. I’d love some breakfast.” She pulled out the flask of whiskey Dr. Childs had given her before she left. “Would you like a drink?”

  The officer’s eyes widened as he accepted the flask. He took a long drink before handing back the practically empty bottle. He then motioned for Loreta to follow him, leading her through the woods to their camp. Breakfast had already been set, and the captain offered Loreta a place at the table. The meal was as meager as Loreta’s threadbare uniform, but it was the most she had to eat in days.

  After breakfast the other soldiers, having heard the news that Loreta was an escaped prisoner, plied her with questions. She filled them in on the capture of New Orleans and what she had seen of their troops on her recent journey. She then showed the captain her arm and told him she was in need of medical care. He directed her to the hospital. Loreta, eager to see Tom at last, even if it was as Harry Buford, set off accordingly.

  It had not just been a ploy to be under the same roof as Tom. Although she would have marched through hell to be near him once again, the arduous traveling had taken its toll on Loreta’s injuries, and, after a brief examination, Dr. Hay admitted her to his ward.

  After she was settled, her arm re-wrapped, Loreta inquired after Tom.

  “You must have some rest,” Dr. Hay chided her.

  “No, I must go to him now.”

  Dr. Hay indicated the room next door. “He is there, but he too is sleeping. If you give me your name, soldier, I will convey your message.”

  Loreta had nearly forgotten she was still dressed as Harry. “Tell him his old friend Lieutenant Buford is next door and is eager to pay his condolences at his earliest convenience.”

  Loreta tried to console herself that it
would only be a matter of time before she could lay eyes on her long-lost love again, but it was of little help since even then she would not be able to express the depths of her feelings as Harry Buford.

  When she was finally permitted to go to him, Captain De Caulp seemed quite glad to see his friend. “Harry, my brother in arms,” he said weakly.

  Loreta rushed to his bedside, trying not to cry. She touched his hand for a brief moment and wished she could hold it in hers. “I thought you had died.”

  “I almost did. I was parched for water and shrapnel had hit here,” he indicated a spot to the right of his chest with shaking fingers. “And my leg was broken. But they were not mortal wounds and I lived to see more days.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “A cavalry regiment nearly trampled me after the retreat was called, but I managed to cry out. A good Samaritan Yank picked me up on his mount and took me back to the Union camp. I never caught his name,” he said with more than a trace of regret. “In the morning I was well enough to escape and found a Confederate camp, and they brought me here.”

  “Are you well healed?” Loreta thought she might know the answer, based on Tom’s frail frame and the nearby tureen filled with both pus and blood.

  “Mending every day,” was Tom’s meek reply.

  “And what of your lady friend? Does she know of your fate?”

  “I have written to all of the contacts I know in both New Orleans and Memphis, begging them to tell her I’m here.” He turned to face the wall. “I’m not sure why she does not come to me.”

  Loreta’s fragile heart nearly cracked as she realized he was crying. She sat silently until Tom composed himself, wiping his eyes with his sheet and turning back to face her.