The Sapphire Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  Charlotte smiled discreetly at Braham’s combined use of her name and Jack’s. “He is brilliant, but spying is apparently not his forte.”

  “Avoiding capture is not his forte,” Jack said. “We haven’t had any news of him in three days. Have you heard about any trials or executions?”

  Elizabeth clasped her hands so tightly in her lap her knuckles turned white. “No, and I would have heard.”

  Jack moved away from the mantel and parted the lace curtains to study the street. “I know you were under surveillance at one point. Are you still?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He dropped the curtain and sat in a chair across from the sofa. “The prisoners will be rounded up tomorrow night and transferred to points south, out of the reach of the oncoming Federal Army. The evacuation of Richmond will provide us with an opportunity to rescue him.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes darted from Jack to Charlotte and back again. “Is the government evacuating, too?”

  Jack nodded. “Jefferson Davis will catch a late train out of the city.”

  Elizabeth clapped her hands. “I’ve waited four years to hear this news. But you said you’ve been traveling for three days. How do you know your information is current?”

  Charlotte took a composing breath. “We can’t explain how we know. We can only tell you what will happen during the next forty-eight hours.”

  Jack leaned forward in his seat, rested his forearms on his thighs, and clasped his hands. “Three of your associates, Hancock, White and Lohmann, are with Major McCabe in Castle Thunder. Is it possible to get a message to one of them?”

  “It will be difficult. They’re in solitary confinement, often referred to as the dungeon.”

  “Do you believe the major has been tortured?”

  Elizabeth reached out and squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “The prison guards are known for their brutality. Major McCabe was captured at James Duke’s tavern. He was there to assist refugees escaping to Union lines through Fredericksburg. He was tortured to reveal the identities of other members of the underground network. He never broke, although I hear he has suffered.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed with worry. “Braham knows he only has to hold on until tomorrow. He’s strong enough to manage it, I believe.”

  “He’s not Superman, Jack. And I’m not sure he’s fully recovered from the gunshot.” If Braham needed extensive medical treatment when they found him, her small medical kit wouldn’t be enough. Would he go home with her? Yes. She wouldn’t give him a choice. Then she’d give her brooch to Elliott and ask him to lock both brooches up in a secure location—like Fort Knox, or the basement of the New York Federal Reserve Bank.

  “What about the clergy? Can Reverend Moore get into the prison now?” Jack asked.

  “Or a doctor?” Charlotte asked.

  “A doctor would have the most success, but we don’t have a doctor we can trust.”

  Jack skewered Charlotte with a long, cool glare, twitched his shoulders irritably, and then quickly hid his emotions behind a mask of pleasant blandness.

  She kept her features composed, choosing not to have a body language battle with her brother, but then reconsidered, turned in her seat, and gave Jack a good view of her back. “I rescued Braham from Chimborazo in October by impersonating a Confederate surgeon. This time I don’t need to get him out. I only need to get a message to him. Do you think you could get me inside? I could tell them I’m there to evaluate the injured, or…something.”

  Elizabeth tapped the chair arms with white, elegant fingers tipped with neatly trimmed nails. “If the prisoners are going to be evacuated tomorrow then your idea might work. Will they travel by train?”

  “There won’t be any available. They’ll have to walk,” Jack said.

  Van Lew shook her head, sighing. “With Lohmann, Hancock, and White locked up, all other operatives have had to shoulder extra burdens. It’s why the major was at the tavern. The Confederates believe if they punish every Unionist, we’ll scale down activities out of fear. What they don’t understand is their activities spur us to take greater risks.”

  “Someone betrayed the major last fall,” Charlotte said.

  “We believe someone in Washington or Maryland tipped off the authorities about our activities.” Elizabeth went to the doorway and pulled the sliding doors together. “I’m a pragmatic person. And while I’ve patiently listened to your stories and predictions, I don’t know how it’s possible for you to have the information you have unless you’re using a scrying bowl. In which case, I have absolutely no confidence in what you’re telling me.”

  Charlotte’s emotions were a turbulent cocktail of worry and fear, and she was having trouble accessing her well-practiced professional calm. If Elizabeth wouldn’t help them, the rescue would be twice as difficult. “What we’re—”

  Elizabeth held up her hand. “Please let me finish. I have known Carlton Jackson Mallory my entire life. I’ve attended parties at Mallory Plantation and the Mallorys have attended dinners here. I’ve never heard your names mentioned. I don’t know who you are, but you look enough like Carlton’s wife, Kathleen, to be her twin sister,” she said to Charlotte. “You could be a distant relative. I don’t believe you’ll betray me. I’m very fond of Major McCabe, and I can see in your eyes, Miss Mallory, you are, too.”

  Elizabeth yanked on a tasseled bell pull. “I have an appointment in the city center and may be able to have a plan in place by the time I return. In the meantime, I’ll have rooms prepared for you. I’m sure after your long journey you’d like a bath and breakfast.”

  Jack reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a roll of bills, and handed the roll to their hostess. “Thank you for trusting us. This money is for you, and for those people who’d be more receptive to turning a blind eye if they had cash in their hands. If food is available for purchase, you’ll need to stock up on food and supplies. You might soon have a house full of visitors.”

  Elizabeth clasped the money to her chest and relief relaxed some of the tightness from her face. “If placed in the proper hands, these funds will help immensely. While you freshen up and rest, I’ll call on a few people who might be able to help.”

  “Any news of Braham’s condition would be welcome,” Charlotte said.

  Elizabeth wrapped her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. “With this money, I’ll get more information than I could have without it. Rest now. I’ll be back soon.”

  As Charlotte climbed the sweeping staircase of the Van Lew mansion, a premonition told her the next forty-eight hours would be worse than she could possibly imagine. Even with all she and Jack knew about the future, they knew nothing of Major Michael Abraham McCabe’s future. Would he survive? Had he been living on borrowed time since his October rescue? Was she on a fool’s mission? She couldn’t answer her questions, but her heart urged her forward.

  When she reached the top landing, Charlotte turned to watch Elizabeth swing a cape around her shoulders, pick up a fruit basket, and quietly leave the house. Charlotte prayed silently, hoping when she returned she’d bring news—good news—because at the moment, hope was all they had.

  51

  Richmond, Virginia, March 31, 1865

  Late in the evening, the atmosphere was damp and heavy, which seemed to match her emotional state. Charlotte, Jack, and Elizabeth had sneaked out of the mansion for a clandestine meeting. Elizabeth carried a basket of cakes on her arm to share with those less fortunate. The threesome hurried quietly through the darkened streets toward a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city, slipping from shadow to shadow under low, dark clouds. Grant’s guns muttering in the background made the late-night conclave even more ominous.

  They reached a white clapboard farmhouse with its curtains tightly drawn. A thin woman who appeared to be in very poor health, pale with dark hollows under her eyes, opened the door and led them across the yellow pine floors to the back of the small, cramped house. Two men, a father and son, sat on a long bench drinking tea.


  “Did anyone follow you?” The woman looked like she had been pushed to the brink of her endurance. Her hands shook noticeably.

  “Jack came along a short distance behind us, keeping watch,” Charlotte said.

  He gave the woman a tight smile. “No one followed us except an old hoot owl.”

  The woman’s shoulders noticeably relaxed. “Sit. I’ll pour tea.”

  Steam from the kettle on an old wood stove took the edge off the chill in the room, and the tension in the air dissipated along with the cold.

  “If the rumors are true, the Union Army will be in Richmond in a matter of hours. Until they arrive, our lives hang precariously,” Elizabeth said. “Neighbors who have accused us of siding with the enemy may take this opportunity to burn us out. Thank you for taking the risk tonight.”

  The woman touched Elizabeth’s arm affectionately. “Thank you for the money, but we would follow your orders without question or payment. We haven’t come this far to abandon the cause now.”

  Elizabeth covered the woman’s hand with her own. “I haven’t suffered nearly what your family has, yet y’all soldier bravely on.”

  The older man allowed a tinge of wryness to creep into his voice as he said, “Don’t despair, Elizabeth. You might still see the inside of Castle Thunder.”

  Elizabeth chuckled, but it was a raw, nervous sound, without gaiety. “Then we must redouble our efforts. Over the next few days, Grant will need every tidbit of information we can gather. I’ve written to him letting him know a barrel of flour is now selling for over a thousand dollars, there is little food to be had, and our situation is deteriorating. But I also emphasized that we remain steadfast in our resolve to support the Union. We need to continue doing what we’ve been doing, but with greater caution than ever.”

  The woman and two men sat back heavily in their seats. Fear tightened the wrinkles in their leathery faces. The threadbare cottage and empty pantry shelves spoke of how destitute this family had become. Charlotte was uneasy drinking their tea, knowing they were sacrificing what little bit they had to honor Elizabeth and their guests. At least now they had money for food, if there was any left to buy.

  Charlotte turned to look at the younger of the two men. He had a rattling, persistent cough and had been lethargic all during their conversation. “How long have you had a cough?” she asked.

  “A couple months, I reckon.”

  “Can’t get him to wake up long enough to eat nothin’, neither,” the woman said.

  Charlotte would have had to examine him to be certain, but she was confident he had either TB or bacterial pneumonia. Either disease would kill him soon. She choked the thought off abruptly, before frustration set in. She had no magic pills available to prolong his life.

  Elizabeth explained to the young man. “I already told Doctor Mallory you were recently released from Castle Thunder after four months in solitary confinement.”

  The man coughed again when he tried to speak. “I thought I’d die in their rat-infested hole.”

  “We need to get a message to a prisoner. Is it possible?” Charlotte had a rush of guilt over reminding the man of a harrowing experience he’d rather forget.

  “Depends,” he said. “The third story houses soldiers and partitioned cells for prisoners tried by court-martial. Dangerous and disruptive prisoners are on the same floor. The second story has the disloyal citizens and deserters. If you can get word to one of them, they’ll get the message to those in solitary confinement.”

  The band of throbbing pain from the tension headache threatening Charlotte for several hours was getting worse. She pressed her fingers, warm from the teacup, between her brows. The heat soothed her chilled skin, but did little to relieve the pressure migrating toward the back of her head. She could recite the medical literature by rote: Episodic tension headaches are triggered by stressful situations. Thinking of Tylenol for her headache, she thought to ask, “Is there medical care in prison?”

  “The warden sends prisoners to sick bay, where they’re examined by the surgeon. There’s no medicine for prisoners. If they’re bad off, the doctor removes them to the hospital. They did nothing for my fever and cough. Just left me layin’ on the straw.”

  “How often does the doctor visit?” Charlotte asked.

  “He comes and goes. Has his own schedule.”

  “Does the warden visit the dungeon?”

  “Ma’am, there ain’t no real dungeon.” His statement triggered another coughing fit, and he couldn’t catch his breath. His mother tried to get him to drink hot tea, but he pushed the cup away. When he could speak again he said, “Cells used for solitary are small, no windows. Warden does the interrogation. Favors a whip mostly. Prisoners in solitary for misbehavin’ won’t see the warden. Won’t see nobody.”

  “I’ve only seen the interior of the side building housing the women,” Elizabeth added. “The prisoner we need to contact is probably in the front building.”

  “Confederate Army deserters and political prisoners are in the front building,” the older man said. “It’s where my son was held.”

  “I’ve seen the three buildings from the street,” Jack said. “But how are they connected? What’s the layout?”

  “The front is fenced,” the father said. “A long brick wall connects the two smaller buildings to the center building, making an enclosed yard for exercise and latrines. Guard boxes line the top of the walls facing the yard. If you get into the yard, there’s nowhere to run.”

  “If I impersonate a doctor, can I get to the cells used for solitary confinement?” Charlotte asked.

  “Them guards would be suspicious if a different doc showed up,” the coughing man said. “Doc never goes to the dungeon. If your man’s there, he’ll be staying put ’less he dies or the war ends.”

  Elizabeth set her teacup on the china saucer she held delicately in her palm with her thumb resting on the rim. “The war is going to end within days, and my sources tell me the prisoners will be evacuated tomorrow night.”

  “If it’s true, the guards will be distracted and might not question a different surgeon.”

  The coughing man wrapped his fingers around a coffee cup and tapped the china. His eyes seemed to turn inward to a scene playing out in his tormented mind. “Prisoners have ways to talk to each other. You get a message to a prisoner, it’ll find its way through the prison.”

  “Even to the prisoners in solitary confinement?” Charlotte asked.

  “When all you got to do is plan an escape, you become resourceful,” he said.

  The father refilled his cup at the stove, then went over to the window and pushed aside the homespun cotton curtain. After a moment, he dropped the fabric but continued to stare while holding the cup in his unmoving hand. Finally, he said, “If you showed a signed order requiring you to check on sick prisoners and decide if they’re fit enough to be evacuated, the guards wouldn’t bother you.”

  Charlotte’s fragile bubble of hope expanded with the heat from Jack’s scowl. “How do I get an order?” she asked.

  The father rubbed his stubbled chin. “I can have a forged order ready tomorrow afternoon. But if you get yourself into the dungeon, be prepared to see things you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  Her mind quickly flashed to the inhuman conditions and atrocities she’d witnessed in Afghanistan, and the horrific displays of inhumanity on display at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington. Nothing shocked her anymore, but it always saddened her. Knowing Braham was incarcerated under similar conditions chipped away at her heart. He was strong and healthy and could withstand deprivation and pain for a while.

  “What name should I use on the order?” the older man asked.

  “Major Carlton Mallory, Surgeon, Second Corps Army of Northern Virginia.”

  The older man responded with a grunt, staring bleak-eyed into some invisible distance for a long time and saying nothing more. Then, coming out of his trance or bleary consideration, he said, “A basket of flowers w
ill be delivered to Elizabeth’s house tomorrow afternoon. The order will be inside the false bottom.”

  Jack had been following the discussion, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting in his hands. He straightened up and said, “Sis, I don’t know if I can stand by doing nothing while you do this.”

  She chewed her lip, thinking. “You’re the mystery writer. Come up with a better plan fast, because right now this is the only one with any chance of succeeding.”

  “I don’t have one.” Jack’s voice was distant and distorted. Charlotte was often the brunt of his frustration when his muse misbehaved. She didn’t like it any more than he did.

  She gave him a cool look, folding her arms across her chest. “Okay. Let’s play what-if. What could happen if I use old Mallory’s identity to get inside the prison?”

  The wavering candlelight caught his profile and threw the stubborn set of his facial bones into sharp relief, the reflection of the flame visible in his dark pupils. “Well…if someone recognizes you, they’d wonder why you’re in Richmond and not with the Second Corps.”

  She threw up her hands. “Okay, then what? Help me out here.” An invisible cord seemed to stretch between them, drawing taut and then snapping back on her, bringing along the rejection she had experienced when he wouldn’t help her write term papers. There was no life lesson for her to learn now, as he had claimed when she was a teenager. So why was he being so obstinate? “I need your help, Jackson Mallory. Braham needs your help.”

  Jack slapped the tops of his thighs, stood, and did a tight-formation pace while his fingers plucked at his chin. Five sets of eyes observed pensively. Finally, he stopped and lifted one eyebrow, glancing at the people sitting around the table.

  “Can you limp?” he asked Charlotte.

  “What? Replace my perfected swagger with a limp? Are you kidding? It’s part of my persona.”