“I know,” Brenton said apologetically. “I should have sent a telegram, but I was afraid if I did, you might urge me to remain in New York.”
“For certain, I would have,” Marcum replied. “Why did you come to Baltimore?”
“I’ve come to enlist.” Brenton took a seat on a hard red leather chair and waited for the barrage of protest that was bound to come.
“Enlist? Your mother and father would never agree to such a notion. Why would you wish to trade your freedom and safety in New York to come here and enlist? The matter is serious, no doubt, but there are men in better positions to see to it. I can see no sense in including you in the fracas.”
“It’s a matter of honor, sir. I feel it is my duty to support the land I love. I desire to protect Baltimore and the railroad. I believe my parents would appreciate this effort on their behalf.”
“But which side will you choose?” Marcum questioned. “Baltimore is greatly divided. Nay, in fact is far more southern in its sympathies. Will you join the Confederacy and support slavery and states’ rights to secession?”
“Of course not. I don’t believe in the institution any more than you do,” Brenton countered. “But the railroad is in danger of being destroyed. People and property will be completely wiped out unless we afford them protection. There’s already been a great deal of destruction at Harper’s Ferry. I can’t stand by idly and do nothing.”
Marcum, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and a thick beard, rubbed at his whiskered chin. “It is my sad opinion that we will be hard-pressed to protect the great Baltimore and Ohio. The track runs throughout hostile territory now. You must know this.”
“Of course.”
Marcum shrugged. “The southern states consider the B&O to be theirs by rights of the land it runs on. Of course, President Lincoln refuses to see it that way. There has been great destruction along the line—fires, explosions, rails torn apart. Protecting the railroad now consists of arresting anyone who looks even remotely suspicious. Why, two days ago I myself saw Union soldiers hauling in an old man and his wife for questioning, all because they were walking to Baltimore via the cleared and easy pathway of the tracks.”
“That’s outrageous and completely uncalled for. What about our rights? Lincoln suspends habeas corpus and throws innocent people into jail, and all because they were walking down the tracks?”
“The railroads have been nationalized for use by the troops,” Marcum replied. “Troops must move freely in order to be successful. This is the first war in America to have such mobility. The railroad may well change everything, and whichever side controls the railroad will probably be the victor.”
Brenton’s temper got the best of him, and he slammed his fist down on Marcum’s desk. “I can’t abide this war! We are supposedly fighting for men’s rights and freedom, yet I see nothing but freedom repealed.”
“In many ways you’re right. Businesses have been closed and citizens arrested for nothing more than showing themselves to support the southern cause. As Maryland stands, so must Baltimore, but she will do so only by being held there at gunpoint.”
Shaking his head, Brenton closed his eyes and tried to reason the situation in his mind. “Everything has changed.”
“It’s worse in Virginia. I had a friend come through not long ago, and he was heartbroken at the sight of it. The Union has removed many Confederate families surrounding Washington. Some have been arrested; some simply fled for their lives as the soldiers marched through. Robert Lee’s house at Arlington has been confiscated for its superb view of Washington. It’s a necessary vantage point according to the Union.”
Brenton opened his eyes and stared at Marcum. “How awful! I’ve been there. I’ve enjoyed parties upon their lawns. My grandfather Adams is a good friend of the Lees—my father and mother as well.” Brenton hesitated before asking the question most on his mind. “What of Oakbridge?”
“Your grandfather’s ties to the government and the fact that he freed his slaves has kept it safe thus far, as you know. But now that your uncle has joined the Confederate army—”
“When did this happen?” exclaimed Brenton. “I have heard nothing.”
“I recently received a letter from him, in which he also included a letter for you that I was preparing to send to you in New York.”
Brenton felt sickened. He would easily side with the Union on matters of slavery and obedience to the law of the country. He would proudly stand with the North and remain faithful to the ideas of a unified nation and liberty for all mankind. But his own family was now at risk. And what of his grandfather’s plantation? The ancestral home was now under the care of the eldest Adams son, York. York Adams was, in fact, to act as advisor and guardian to Brenton and Jordana in the absence of their parents. But now that he had joined up with the Confederacy and was no doubt an officer, it was very possible that Oakbridge had been taken over by Federal troops.
With this thought, a hundred questions came to mind. Where would York’s family have gone? Uncle York and Aunt Lucy and all of their children lived there. Would they have made it to safety?
“Perhaps I’ve worried you unduly,” Marcum continued. “I can’t say that anything has happened to your family.”
“Neither can you say that it has not,” Brenton countered. “This is complete insanity. How can I take up arms against the South—against many members of my own family? Yet how can I sit idly by while others decide the fate of this nation?” He pulled off his glasses and, placing them on Marcum’s desk, leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. “This affair will not be settled easily.”
“Without a doubt, you are correct on that matter,” Marcum replied. “If the citizens of this city are any indication of the nation as a whole, we will see much bloodshed before we see peace. The riots at the beginning of the war were enough to open my eyes to the seriousness of the situation. To see those in Baltimore who support the South appear with their Confederate flags and clubs, then to watch them attack the Union soldiers and even innocent citizens who happened to be in the way—well, let me tell you, it was a sight I’d just as soon never see again.”
Brenton couldn’t even bring himself to look up. He simply shook his head and sighed. “I came here with the purpose of enlisting, and now I am hopelessly torn. I pray God will give me some direction, but no matter the answer—it will come at the cost of someone’s blood.”
“My suggestion is that you go to the house and sleep on it,” said Marcum.
Brenton sat up and nodded. “Perhaps.” In his mind he was already plotting a trip to Oakbridge to see Uncle York for himself, and if he wasn’t there, to attempt to find him. Knowing this would haunt him until he saw it through, Brenton took up his glasses and looked at Marcum. “You should know that my sister Jordana is staying at Deighton for the summer. No matter what happens to me, continue to send her portion of support, as well as mine. She may need the extra money in the maddening days to come. There is also the matter of our brother-in-law’s sister Caitlan O’Connor. She is working presently for the Cornelius Vanderbilt house because she refused to take what she calls charity, but who is to say how long this will last? I don’t want to worry that either of them are struggling for funds while I’m away from New York.”
Marcum nodded and went to his desk to note Brenton’s instructions. “I will increase the stipend accordingly. I’m certain your parents would heartily approve of your care of Miss O’Connor.”
“I’m certain they would as well.” Brenton slowly got to his feet and secured his glasses in place. “If something should happen to me . . .”
He didn’t know how to continue the thought. He wanted to make sure that Jordana had everything she needed, and he wanted all of his family to know how much he loved them—that he was willing to die for them.
“If you would care to write a letter,” Mr. Marcum suggested, “you could leave it in my care on the chance that the unthinkable should happen.”
Brenton considered this f
or a moment. “Yes. I believe that would be a sound and reasonable thing. I’ll bring something by tomorrow.”
Brenton struggled with his conscience for over a week before giving up the fight. He would go to Oakbridge and talk to his uncle York, if he was still there. He knew the man to be pro-slavery, but he also knew him to be a loving husband and father who cared greatly for the welfare of his family. Brenton hoped they would still be in residence—and safe from the onslaught of war. If not, then he prayed there would be a way to find them.
Going to the railroad station had proved fruitless. Brenton could in no way secure passage to Washington.
“You should understand, son, all rail travel will be strongly devoted to the military’s use. We’re moving troops to Washington right now, and I haven’t got a spare seat among the lot of them. And what with the renegade activities around the track areas—well, I’m not exactly sure I’d want to ride a train just now,” the ticket agent told Brenton that humid summer morning. “It’s getting mighty dangerous, and President Lincoln has ordered extra guards along the rails to Washington.”
“I have to get to my uncle’s home. It’s near Falls Church.”
The man shook his head. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you. They’re arresting just about anything out of uniform and shooting anyone wearing colors that don’t match their own. I’d stay put.”
“Thanks for the help,” Brenton replied and turned away to walk back home.
If I can’t get there by rail, Brenton reasoned, then I’ll simply have to go by horse or on foot. He made his way to the Baldwin house to make his plans. There would be no escaping the city by means of the regular roads, so Brenton figured on finding another way out through the forested edges and back roads. One way or another he had to reach Oakbridge. He decided to seek out Able Stewart’s help and see what his friend might suggest.
Days later, the plans were in place and Brenton needed only to wait for the opportune moment. Able had alerted him as to Federal troop movement, as well as sharing what little he knew of Confederate movements. There was no sense in getting caught by either side because either group might be inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. Then, too, in spite of Brenton’s support for the Union, his travel to a Virginia plantation would no doubt make him suspect in the minds of the northern soldiers. Just as true, the Confederacy would never accept him because of his inability to support their views. Tempers were hot now, needing little to ignite them. The war was new and men were driven to the cause—whatever that cause might be. Both sides would probably just as soon kill him as have to contend with him.
Brenton stretched out on his bed and tried not to think about the possibility of his own death. He knew his soul to be firmly secured in salvation, but that didn’t make him long for heaven as he’d once heard an elderly lady in their church congregation convey. He didn’t want to die. He had too much to live for—there was still so much he wanted to do.
He felt a twinge of loneliness, while at the same moment finding himself grateful that his parents had had the good sense to close the estate down in their absence. He relished the silence of the house—the stillness that seemed to engulf him like a mother’s arms. This place held good memories for him. Happy times and family. The house represented all that was good and right in his world, and now it welcomed him back. It seemed to have just been waiting for his appearance, as if asleep and unconcerned with the affairs going on around it. But it couldn’t stay that way forever.
Startling awake, Brenton realized by the darkness that he’d slept for some time. Yawning, he got up, stretched, and realized his moment of truth had come. Hurriedly gathering his things, he made his way to the stable. The balmy warmth of the night seemed to beckon him into his nocturnal escapades, and Brenton almost began to enjoy himself. He’d never gone on an adventure of such proportions, and the thought of doing something extraordinary and noble appealed to him. Perhaps he would find a way to bring peace to both sides. After all, he had connections to important men in both camps of the war.
The thought fueled his senses. Perhaps that was why God had led him here in the first place. It might be he was on a mission of much greater importance than he had realized. He opened the stable door as quietly as possible and went to the stall where he’d left the borrowed horse he intended to ride.
Brenton quickly saddled the bay and led him from the stable under the shroud of a moonless night. He worked his way down back alleys and side streets until he reached the edge of the city. Now the navigation would become more difficult. He had to remember Able’s instructions to the smallest detail because if the war didn’t claim him as a victim, then nature might well do the job. There were boglands and ravines, gorges and woodlands so thick a man could lose his way completely. Brenton had to be sure of his moves.
After riding for over two hours, however, Brenton started to relax. He’d seen no sign of anyone, and Able’s suggestions were proving a true course. He started to whistle, then caught himself and chuckled softly. It would certainly do no good to announce his presence. He realized more than ever how unskilled he was in secret missions and such.
Father, guide me into your plan. Show me what it is I’m to do next, Brenton silently prayed.
The words were still echoing in his head when he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse’s whinny. Startling, Brenton reined back too hard on his mount, causing the horse to protest in like manner. Realizing he’d just exposed himself, Brenton eased back on the reins and sat perfectly still. But it wasn’t still enough.
“Look here,” a deep male voice called out. “I think we’ve caught us a spy.”
Brenton felt his blood run cold. Weren’t spies usually hanged—or shot on sight?
“I’m not a spy!” he declared quickly, hoping the man would listen to reason.
“And I say you are,” a big, beefy man replied, coming out of the shadows to take hold of Brenton’s reins. “Luke—John—Davis, get over here and help me. We’ve got us a spy!”
“No, you don’t understand,” Brenton said, trying hard to remain calm. His heart was in his throat and his hands had gone clammy, but noting the man was garbed in a gray uniform he decided to take a risk. “I’m trying to get to my grandfather’s house near Falls Church. It’s called Oakbridge. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
But no one was listening to him. The burly man held the horse while someone from behind knocked Brenton from the saddle.
“Get up,” one of the men ordered. “We’ll go back to camp and let the cap decide what to do with ya.”
Brenton got to his feet quickly and tried again to explain. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand that you’re gonna get the butt of my gun if you don’t shut up. Now move out,” the big man told him.
Brenton did as he was told but found his legs were like rubber. Fear gripped his heart as never before. He thought of the times he’d allowed Jordana to talk him into stupid adventures. Rock climbing, sledding off the side of a train tunnel, and a half dozen other senseless dares. But never before had he been as frightened as he was just now.
I thought I was on a mission for you, God, he silently implored. I thought I was doing the right thing.
They marched through the heavy underbrush for nearly half an hour, and just when Brenton started to tire a bit, the trees opened up onto a small camp. They must feel secure here, Brenton reasoned, because a small fire burned in the center of the camp. Around it, several gray-clad soldiers talked in low whispers.
“Caught me a spy,” the big man announced. “Figured you boys would like to help hang him.”
All eyes turned to Brenton. The stares were filled with anger, resentment—even hatred.
“I’m not a spy. My name is Brenton Baldwin. I was making my way to my grandfather’s plantation. It’s called Oakbridge. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“I’ve heard of it all right,” a voice called out from behind him. “I know it well.”
13
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sp; From out of the shadows stepped a tall blond-headed man. He secured a high-crowned forage cap atop his head and finished buttoning the double-breasted gray frock coat that completed his uniform. For a moment, recognition failed Brenton, but as the man drew closer to the fire, the details of his face became clearer.
“Nathan!” Brenton exclaimed.
“You know this spy, Captain?” one of the men questioned.
Nathan Cabot laughed. “I suppose I do. This is my cousin Brenton Baldwin. It’s just as he said.”
The big man grumbled, looking quite disappointed that there wouldn’t be a hanging after all.
“What in the world were you thinking, stalking about on a night like this?” Nathan questioned. “Don’t you know there’s a war going on around here?”
Brenton looked at the gathering of Confederate soldiers and exhaled rather loudly. “I was going to see Uncle York. I wanted to make sure they were all right. Someone in Baltimore told me the Union troops had thrown Robert Lee’s family from the property and now occupied Arlington House.”
“It’s true enough,” Nathan replied. “Most likely true for Oakbridge as well.” He looked around him at the loafing men. “Who’s on picket duty?”
“We were, Cap,” the burly man replied. “That’s how we caught us this here man.”
“Well, I suggest you men get back to your post until you’re relieved,” Nathan ordered. The men glanced at one another before giving Nathan a brief salute. Disappointment registered on their faces. Nathan seemed to understand. “Oh, and, men, you did a good job here.”
The men grinned, patted each other on the back and, after handing Brenton the reins to his horse, disappeared into the woods.
“Would you like some coffee?” Nathan asked, eyeing Brenton as if trying to size him up and figure out what he was all about.
“That sounds good.” Brenton hadn’t seen Nathan in at least two years, but they had always gotten along. Nathan’s father had disappeared after serving a prison term for attempting to kill Brenton and Nathan’s grandfather. There were always ominous whisperings between his mother and Nathan’s regarding the man. Aunt Virginia, Nathan’s mother, had moved with her little family into the Baldwin house in Greigsville just as the Baldwins returned to Baltimore. There had been several weeks, however, when they all lived together, and while Brenton didn’t think much of Nathan’s conniving twin sisters, he liked Nathan well enough. The man was quiet and thoughtful, and to Brenton, he made an amicable companion.
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