by Mary Ellis
“Hurry, Miss Harrison. Shimmy into this.” Lila flew into the bedroom and thrust a stiff apparatus at her. “Miss Margaret outgrew this one before ever wearing it. I’ll turn my back.”
Emily studied the garment to determine top from bottom and drew it up over her hips. Despite her skinny-as-a-stalk frame, she had to hold her breath to close the hooks-and-eyes.
“Turn around and I’ll lace you up. Then I must leave to help Miss Margaret. Shall I send in another maid?” asked Lila, already knowing the answer. All of the other maids were slaves.
“No, thank you.” Emily was barely able to inhale as Lila tightened the stays. “I can manage. You run along when you’re done. And don’t worry about me eating too much. That would be impossible wearing this. I’m not sure I’ll be able to even sit down.”
Once alone in the room, Emily slipped the dress over her head and struggled to reach the row of buttons in back. Then she lowered herself to the stool before her mirror and pinned her freshly washed hair into a cluster of curls atop her head. Springy tendrils slipped loose to frame her face. Her burnished cheeks glowed, inappropriately suntanned from her walks without a hat. Emily touched rouge to her lips, dabbed lemon balm on her pulse points, and sucked in a deep breath.
On her way downstairs, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the woman who gazed back.
“Miss Harrison, there you are. I’d like you to meet some of my guests,” boomed Dr. Bennington before she reached the landing.
“Good evening, Dr. Bennington.” Emily bobbed her head politely. “Perhaps I should check on Anne or Margaret.”
“Nonsense, they’ll be fine. We don’t stand on ceremony on my little island. Relax a bit tonight.” He took her forearm and practically dragged her out on the portico. An elderly couple stood alone, sipping iced tea. “Miss Harrison, may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Hull of Parkersburg. Edwina, Howard, this is Miss Emily Harrison of Marietta.”
“How do you?” she murmured, withholding her curtsey at the last moment.
“You’ll be pleased to discover they share your views on slavery,” said Dr. Bennington. “They feel the institution should be abolished and say so often and loudly at every public meeting and forum they attend.” His eyes twinkled, apparently pleased with himself. Then he bowed to the Hulls and disappeared into the throng of guests.
Reluctantly, Emily struck up a conversation with them. “I am pleased to learn there are antislavery sentiments on this side of the river too,” she said to Mr. Hull.
“An archaic system that places a few rich planters at the top of society while the rest of us struggle to earn a living!” he thundered. “How can a farmer or shopkeeper compete with free labor?” Mr. Hull made little attempt to modulate his voice. “Young people are hard pressed to find decent jobs if they weren’t born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”
Emily glanced around uncomfortably. “You speak of economic concerns, but what of the ethical reasons for the institution’s abolishment?” she asked.
Mr. Hull blinked like an owl and took a swallow of something brown in a bowl-shaped glass. Mrs. Hull tilted her head toward her. “I’m not sure how much traveling you’ve done, my dear, but few families in these western counties have been blessed with so much…abundance as our dear host and hostess.” Smiling, she nodded in the direction of Mrs. Bennington. “I assure you, slaveholding plantations are rare in this part of Virginia.”
“We’re forced to suffer to maintain old King Charles’s land grants from a hundred years ago,” interjected Mr. Hull. “Those created some very rich men among the king’s cronies. With no offense toward our friends, the Benningtons,” he added hastily.
It was Emily’s turn to blink with disbelief. “King Charles should have insisted that the Colonies contain no slavery from the start.”
Ignoring her comment, Mr. Hull downed the contents of his odd-shaped glass. “Economies aside, Miss Harrison, what about the principles of states’ rights? That’s what this rebellion is about, at least here in Wood County. Why should some Yankee in Washington tell us how to live our lives?”
Emily felt the boning of her corset cut into her ribs and breathed with relief when Joshua threw open the French doors.
“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served,” he announced with a deep bow.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir, ma’am, but I must locate my charges.” She bobbed her head and hurried away from the tiresome couple.
She spotted Margaret near the dining room door, looking winsome and lovely in her new gown. “Thank goodness I found you,” Emily whispered in Margaret’s ear. “Let’s find two seats at the far end of the table.”
“Dear me, Miss Harrison. We must sit where our name cards have been placed. And I doubt that will be together. Wish me luck at my first gala.” Margaret squeezed her hand and then glided into the room without waiting for Emily’s wishes, good or otherwise.
She entered at a less enthusiastic pace, trying not to gape at her surroundings. At least a hundred tapers illuminated the beautifully appointed Hepplewhite table. The silver gleamed and the crystal sparkled in the candlelight, reminding her once again of her modest upbringing. As Margaret predicted, the governess and charge had been separated. Margaret sat between two young men, one more simpering than the other. Emily found her name card across from Dr. Bennington and between two slightly older men. Neither was as expensively dressed as their host. During the meal, they attempted to outdo one another with stories of bravado in vain attempts to impress her. Dr. Bennington appeared amused by the attention they lavished on Emily, but she wished to be anywhere but here with these vapid Southern aristocrats. Only when the conversation turned to the Gray Wraith did her interest pique.
“You’ll be happy to learn, Miss Harrison, being a Unionist, that the Gray Wraith never harms a hair on a Yankee head,” said the older of the two men. “Why, he doesn’t even carry a firearm.” He nodded his head, revealing a shiny, bald patch of scalp.
“He does carry a saber, but I understand he uses it solely to sever the purse strings of rich businessmen,” the younger of the pair added to the great entertainment of all. “More wine, Miss Harrison?”
“No, thank you. I don’t imbibe. And I fail to comprehend how being a thief is a noble occupation, gentlemen.” Emily kept her voice low with great effort.
“Ah, the difference is that our mysterious Wraith steals food only to feed a hungry army, medicine for the wounded in field hospitals, and clothing to keep our boys in the Shenandoah warm.”
“I understand he also steals money from the Federal Army payrolls.” Emily’s voice rose in agitation despite her desire not to embarrass the Benningtons at their dinner party.
But her table companions didn’t seem to take exception. “True enough, Miss Harrison, but your Federal Treasury contains much placed there by Southern planters. You can’t really blame the man for wishing to redistribute the funds more equitably,” the man concluded. Everyone within earshot nodded their well-coifed heads in agreement. Several began relaying stories they had heard of the Wraith’s exploits. Everyone but Emily, that is. Red-faced and cross, she sipped her grape juice in an effort to curb her tongue. Even though she refused the constant offer of spirits, she found herself growing light headed before the main course was finally served. Then, thankfully, the political conversation changed over to polite compliments regarding the fare.
Emily picked at the undercooked rib of beef—meat so rare it was still bloody—and enjoyed only the side dishes. The spiced apples and baked squash reminded her of home. Inside, she seethed over the blithe remarks about a cavalier thief. How dare they turn his sinful behavior into a crusadelike cause? Women who idolized the Wraith were pure fools. If I knew the man’s identity, I would expose him to the authorities, she mused. He wouldn’t look so noble swinging at the end of a noose like a common thief. Reaching for her flute, she swallowed a hearty mouthful before realizing someone had refilled her empty glass with red win
e. The wine roiled bitterly in her stomach, yet she dared not excuse herself from the table. Drinking spirits…thank goodness my mother isn’t here to see this.
“I can’t blame you one bit, Porter. Selling Bennington Plantation to an Ohio horse breeder is probably the wisest thing you can do at this point. Since Virginia seceded, conditions have worsened in this area for the planter. Why, there’s even talk among the rabble that these western counties should break from Virginia. Could you imagine such an idea? Nothing will come of it, of course, but men of our class will be more welcome in the East than here. Although I must say, the town of Parkersburg will be sorry to see your medical practice go.” The elderly man’s booming voice cut through Emily’s reverie. Her head snapped around in attention.
“Yes, the Ohioan offered a fair price. I haven’t been able to turn a profit since inheriting the plantation from my father, so I thought I should sell.” Dr. Bennington leaned back in his chair. “I am a physician and not much of a gentlemen farmer.”
“That’s due to your generous nature, Porter. You don’t press anyone to pay for your services. I heard you let your people keep the profits from their businesses,” drawled an overly made-up woman. “You are too kind for your own good.” She dragged out each word for emphasis without taking her eyes off Mrs. Bennington seated at the other end of the table.
“Porter is indeed a charitable man.” His wife beamed a smile at him. “I wouldn’t have him any other way.”
He lifted his glass in salute. “Thank you, my dear. My hope is that we will be surrounded by as many caring friends in Martinsburg as we are here.” He drained his glass and held it out for Joshua to refill.
When everyone raised their glass to toast, so did Emily, forgetting her flute no longer contained juice. The wine began jangling her thoughts as she tried to absorb Dr. Bennington’s words. “Martinsburg?” she asked in a tiny voice. “You’re moving your family to Martinsburg?”
Every head turned in her direction. “Yes, Miss Harrison, right after the Christmas holidays.” He smiled patiently at her. “I have sold Bennington Plantation and will move my practice there.”
“You’re moving east because things have become uncomfortable for slavers here?”
The room grew so quiet one could hear wax drip from the sconces.
“No.” His heavy lids drooped, rendering his eyes impossible to read. “I’m moving because doctors are desperately needed in that area. Most doctors in the East have joined one or the other armies, leaving towns frightfully short of medical professionals.” Several guests put down their glasses and stared at her with undisguised hostility.
Emily couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Your guest just said planters are more welcome in eastern counties than here, where most farms are run without keeping people in bondage.”
Ladies reacted to Emily’s display of unfeminine behavior with a sharp intake of breath. To be sure, no one present had ever heard a woman speak so boldly before. The gentleman on Emily’s right covered her hand with his and squeezed, as though attempting to bring her to her senses. The older man on her left cleared his throat. “Here, here, miss. Do not talk of matters of which you have no knowledge.”
“But I do have knowledge of such matters, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Hull confirmed my suspicions about slavery in this area.”
“You are correct, Miss Harrison,” said Dr. Bennington. “Slaveholding plantations are few and becoming increasingly unpopular here, but that is not my reason for leaving.”
“Porter, you don’t owe this ill-bred young woman an explanation,” interrupted the elderly man. His bulbous nose had grown increasingly pink during the meal. “Isn’t she your governess? She should be sent back to the nursery to her charges at once, if not given her walking papers.”
More than one dinner guest nodded in agreement. Except for Margaret. She stared at Emily with wide-eyed horror. And not Mrs. Bennington, either. Oddly, she watched the ordeal with teary eyes, wringing her hands as though frightened of the outcome.
Sipping his wine, Dr. Bennington remained unruffled. “No, Walter. Miss Harrison is encouraged to speak her mind in my house. That’s how we are raising our daughters.”
Emily regained her composure and looked at him squarely. “I acknowledge that you are an unusually benevolent master, Dr. Bennington, but how can it be just to uproot and move your people miles away against their will?” Again, the room grew so quiet she could hear the clock ticking on the mantel.
“I agree with you, Miss Harrison. That is why I signed Deeds of Manumission today for all my workers. They are free men and women, and they can go east with us…or not.” He took another sip of wine, but his gaze never left his young employee. “I will resettle in Martinsburg with only paid staff. And I intend to send Margaret and Anne to Europe until I’m confident Virginia is free of hostilities that might threaten their safety.”
At long last, Emily was speechless.
SPRING 1862
Alexander had always preferred an active, dangerous life. Unfortunately it came with secrets, subterfuge, and deception. From his earliest days at the University of Virginia, he’d told his parents a steady stream of white lies to protect them from the scandal of his brawling, gambling, and carousing with women. He’d been expelled after dueling with another student over a not-so-virtuous lady. Only by luck had the man recovered from his wound and intervened to have him reinstated, following payment of an exorbitant sum of money.
His parents had all but given up hope of children when Alexander was born. He soon became his father’s pride and joy and the apple of his mother’s eye. But when he grew into a rebellious teenager, James Hunt sheltered his delicate wife from his rowdy behavior. Now that his father had grown old and troubled by a weakened heart, Alexander’s web of lies also included him. However, it was no longer schoolyard brawling that would bring shame to the Hunt family reputation. These days he was up to his neck in something that could send him to a Northern prison…or put him at the end of a hangman’s noose.
His mother had begged him not to join the Confederate Army during Jefferson Davis’s call for volunteers. She insisted he run the plantation due to his father’s poor health. Many in his social class resisted the impulse to enlist and fulfilled their patriotic duty in safer ways. Alexander had no desire for the tedium of camp life—the endless drills, marches to nowhere, and the stultifying boredom between battles. Following secession, he yearned to serve his fledging country, but not within the confines of the regular army.
His role as partisan ranger—a guerrilla—hadn’t been planned. During one of his frequent rides, he discovered that a Union telegraph office had been set up behind newly drawn battle lines. After Alexander overpowered and tied up the operator, his friend Daniel Ellsworth cut into the circuit using a ground wire. From intercepted messages, they learned of the transport of Confederate prisoners through Loudoun County. Alexander answered messages for the Yankee agent, giving false reports of troop movements to throw off the enemy and inflating Confederate troop numbers before the next battle. With Ellsworth’s knowledge of telegraph lines and Alexander’s natural military intellect, they began a series of clandestine forays that would eventually make him famous. No telegraph office in the Shenandoah Valley was safe from their trickery. Newspapers dubbed him the Gray Wraith due to his mastery of disguise and stealth. Commissioned in secret by the Secretary of War, Colonel Alexander Hunt walked a fine line, giving his handpicked men the necessary advantage to supply the Army of Northern Virginia. Because they would be nowhere near as effective if his identity became known, he and his rangers returned to their quiet lives between raids. But each day the subterfuge grew harder to maintain.
His parents frequently questioned his absences and were less than satisfied with his evasive replies. Alexander envied his men who returned to wives and children, but despite his attraction to the red-haired governess at his uncle’s home, he doubted marriage would ever be his destiny. Not that Emily Harrison would make a suitable wife, Northern
or Southern. Pity the poor man who married that sharp-tongued, ill-tempered troublemaker.
On a lovely spring afternoon, as peepers created a frenzied tumult from the pond, Alexander was in no hurry to return to life in Front Royal. Because his father employed well-paid trainers, grooms, and jockeys, besides overseers and field hands to run his horse breeding operation, Alexander never felt essential at Hunt Farms. Only in the saddle in the backwoods did he feel part of something significant. He rode like a true Southern aristocrat after many summers of steeplechase in his youth. He and Phantom were two halves of one powerful whole. And that ability to handle a horse saved him in many close calls during his current identity.
Their last raid hadn’t yielded what he had hoped. The Union train from Alexandria contained only grain forage for livestock and a limited amount of rations—no weapons or ammunition, and no military intelligence. But the last boxcar yielded a rare treat—crates of oranges, lemons, candy, and fresh shad. Fish was scarce due to the Union blockade of the seacoast. His rangers carried the provisions back to camp for a fish fry. Like children they cavorted around the fire as grease in the pans spattered, eagerly awaiting the change in cuisine.
After dispersing his troops, the colonel had spent the day scouting new rendezvous locations in the Berryville area. It wouldn’t be prudent to keep to familiar haunts. He had learned of a small abandoned barn outside of Berryville, and therefore was surprised to spot a horse tethered to the water trough. Might be a deserter, but from which side? Alexander carried no firearm. His mother’s instructions on the Quaker way of life had taken root, giving him no desire to take another life. An intelligent man knew other ways to gain the upper hand. Using handholds in the side of the barn, he climbed up the wall to the hayloft window and perched silently over the door, prepared for anyone exiting the barn.