“I’m guessing the Union wasn’t happy about this.”
“You could say that. A little more than a month after Manassas, she was arrested by Lincoln’s new Secret Service. She was held under house arrest, along with her youngest daughter, Little Rose. All the while she kept smuggling information south.”
“Doesn’t say much for the Secret Service that she was able to do all this right under their noses.”
“Exactly,” Journey said. “So after a few months they transferred her to the Old Capitol Prison, where she still continued running her little espionage operation. She was seen almost as a martyr in the South—a poor defenseless woman and her child locked up in prison. Rose was far from defenseless, but it still became a bit of a problem for Lincoln. A hearing was finally held on the charges of espionage, and the judge decided everyone would be better off if Rose was exiled to the South. When she arrived in Richmond, Jefferson Davis welcomed her as a hero.”
Tolman sat up, wide awake now. “And at some point Davis sent her overseas as his emissary.”
“He could think of no one better to plead the South’s case in Europe. Davis knew he needed help, and he also knew that if he could get the assistance of either Britain or France—or better yet, both of them—that would go a long way toward legitimizing the Confederacy.”
“So Rose went and made her case.”
“She took her daughter with her, and she made a splash wherever she went. Rose Greenhow never did anything in a small way. She had a private audience with Queen Victoria, became engaged to a British nobleman, and wrote her memoir, which was a bestseller in Britain. But she never accomplished her goal: official recognition of the Confederacy.”
“Then she went to France,” Tolman said.
“Rose loved France,” Journey said. “She thoroughly charmed Napoleon III. Saw him alone at Tuileries Palace. The emperor expressed all kinds of admiration for the South and especially for Robert E. Lee, but he was critical of some of the army’s maneuverings in the West. Rose shot right back at him and said he couldn’t possibly understand the enormity and scale of the conflict.”
“So she wouldn’t take bullshit, even from an emperor.”
“That’s right. She wrote in her diary that Napoleon was impressed with her and asked her to stay in France, but that he wouldn’t commit to anything without England. Napoleon III may have had great ambitions, like his uncle, but he wasn’t going to take a risk unless he saw a real benefit to France. Rose saw Napoleon one more time, for only a few minutes, the day before she left. She sailed to England, then boarded a boat for home.”
Tolman pointed at the letter. “Could this letter have come from her last meeting with him, right before she left?”
“I suppose it’s possible. But Rose’s journal stops when she leaves England to return to America.”
“And that’s when she drowned.”
“It’s one of the great and strange mysteries of the war.”
“What is?”
“Rose’s death. She didn’t have to die the way she did.”
Tolman heard a little bit of piano still coming from Andrew’s room, but otherwise the house was quiet. “Tell me.”
“In England she boarded the Condor, which was specifically built as a blockade runner, to get past the Union navy’s blockade of the Southern ports. It was a fast ship on her maiden voyage. She stopped over in Bermuda, which was often used as a way station at that time, then up to Halifax to pick up a few other passengers. The final destination was Wilmington. Early in the morning of October 1, 1864, the Condor was approaching the mouth of the Cape Fear River and got into a race with a Union blockader. Shots were fired, then the Condor ran aground. They weren’t that far from Fort Fisher, and the guns from the fort protected the wreck. All they had to do was wait out the night and the weather, and they would have been fine.”
“But Rose didn’t wait.”
“She demanded a lifeboat, went to the captain and begged him, threatened him, told him she had to get off the ship. Rose was almost hysterical, and this was a woman who never lost her cool. Finally the captain gave in. They lowered a lifeboat and as soon as it touched the water it capsized. Rose was wearing a heavy wool dress and had a leather bag around her neck with two thousand dollars in gold pieces and papers and such. It dragged her down, and she drowned within sight of Confederate soil. No one else died. All the other passengers and the crew who manned the lifeboat held on to the boat’s keel and were rescued. Rose washed up on shore the next morning.”
“Why did she get so hysterical? After all she’d been through, why then?”
“That’s been the question for all these years. Was she carrying something that she believed to be so valuable she couldn’t allow it to fall into Union hands, at any cost? Nothing she had with her was that explosive.”
Tolman touched the plastic sheet. “But maybe it was,” she said.
Journey waited a long time before replying. “Then why wasn’t it with her things when her body washed up on shore? Or with the things she left behind in her cabin? How did this letter get to the woman who gave it to you today? There are too many holes in this little story. And we don’t know that it’s authentic.”
“It doesn’t explain anything about Dana, either.” Tolman slapped the arm of the couch. “And it doesn’t explain why I have a bullet hole in my luggage.”
“There are always stories,” Journey said, “but we’re getting out of my expertise here. If this is real, the Silver Cross is something Napoleon III wanted very badly, to be willing to commit money and troops to the Southern cause.”
“What did he want that much?” Tolman asked.
“I don’t know. But we’re going to talk to someone who knows more about it than I do.”
“When she was dying, Dana said, ‘Tell Meg … the rose and the silver cross.’” She looked at Journey, eyes never wavering. “We have to know.”
“Yes,” Journey said, meeting her gaze. “I think we do.”
* * *
Half a block from Journey’s house, on the other side of the street, a slim man in his late twenties sat in a rented Toyota Tercel that he’d picked up at DFW Airport, where he’d watched the American flight from Springfield, Missouri, arrive. He’d rented the car under the name of Mark Barrientos, though that wasn’t his real name. He hadn’t done any kind of official transaction under his birth name in several years. The surveillance of Meg Tolman had been handed off to him, and he’d followed her through the endless Dallas suburbs, into the rolling plains of north Texas, across the Red River into Oklahoma, across Lake Texoma, and past the stone sign that read, CARPENTER CENTER, OKLAHOMA, HOME OF LAKE TEXOMA, SOUTH CENTRAL COLLEGE OF OKLAHOMA, AND A GREAT QUALITY OF LIFE!
Tolman had been inside the Tudor home with the sagging front porch for over an hour, and she’d taken her bag in with her. Barrientos didn’t know who lived here, but that wasn’t his job. His job, for the moment, was to follow and to gather information. He flipped open his laptop and sent an e-mail update that included the address where Tolman had gone—he would find out soon who lived here, and what the connection was to Tolman. Gray was in transit right now, but Barrientos knew she would find out soon. Ann Gray always found out.
CHAPTER
9
After dropping Andrew at his day camp at eight o’clock in the morning, Journey drove to the South Central campus, parked, and he and Tolman walked across the street to Uncle Charley’s. As they walked, Journey said, “The guy we’re going to meet is Graham Lashley. He’s our resident specialist on nineteenth-century Europe. Interesting guy, if a bit pompous. He’s originally from Barbados, then did his doctorate at the University of Kentucky. He doesn’t like me very much, but he knows his stuff.”
“Why doesn’t he like you?”
“Thinks I’m an academic hack, the clichéd ex-jock history major. Also, I’ve missed a couple of meetings over the years because of things with Andrew, and he doesn’t like that. I once overheard him mumbling about �
��Journey always being off with that kid.’”
“Disharmony in the hallowed halls of academia?”
Journey shrugged. “It happens.”
Uncle Charley’s was a campus hangout, open from early morning until late at night, a favorite of both faculty and students. Graham Lashley was waiting for them in a corner booth, under a poster commemorating SCC’s 1955 national champion basketball team.
“Hello, Graham,” Journey said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Thanks for coming over to meet us.”
“I must say that I’m intrigued,” Lashley said in a melodic Caribbean-British accent. He turned to Tolman. “And you must be Nick’s governmental acquaintance.”
Tolman smiled. “‘Governmental acquaintance.’ I like that. I’m Meg Tolman.”
They shook hands. “A pleasure,” Lashley said. “Nick, you mentioned a paper you thought might be authored by Napoleon III.”
Journey nodded at Tolman, who slid the plastic sheet out of her bag. She passed it to Lashley. He accepted it without speaking, adjusted his rimless glasses, and read.
Lashley looked slowly up at them.
“Not just another insignificant paper, if it’s real,” Journey said.
“I can see that,” Lashley said.
Tolman looked back and forth between the two men. “Well, is it real?” she finally asked.
Lashley said nothing.
“Hello?” Tolman said.
Lashley looked at Journey. “What’s your intention, Nick? Are you going to publish?”
“Graham, is it authentic?” Journey said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Tolman looked at Lashley, thinking how out of place he looked in a dark suit, starched white shirt, and tie in the corner booth of this casual college hangout. “Dr. Lashley, right now this document is part of a U.S. government investigation. When that investigation is complete, we’ll make a determination about what to do with it.”
Lashley ignored her, staring at Journey. “When you do publish, I want to be first author, not second.”
“You’re assuming a lot, Graham,” Journey said.
“You’re a Civil War historian. I presented a paper last year comparing and contrasting the two Napoleons. It’s a natural collaboration for something like this, but I should be first author.”
Tolman shook her head but held her tongue.
“So you think it’s real or you wouldn’t be talking about publishing,” Journey said.
“I didn’t say that,” Lashley said.
“You didn’t have to.” Journey glanced at Tolman. “We’re looking for insights on what it might mean.”
“I think it’s highly likely that it’s real. When I was studying primary sources for my Napoleon paper, I read a lot of his original writings. Look at the ‘N’ in the signature. It’s a very unusual shape. I’ve also read a fair number of documents that were forged, and some of them, while quite good, never get that ‘N’ right.” He tapped the paper. “So this letter is to Jefferson Davis.”
Journey briefly recounted the story of Rose Greenhow’s trip to France.
“Greenhow,” Lashley said when he’d finished. “I recall the name. Rather cagey of Davis to send an attractive widow to Napoleon’s court. Napoleon III did have his vulnerabilities.”
A waitress came over and took their orders: only coffee for Journey and Lashley. Tolman ordered an omelet. “I think getting shot at gives you an appetite,” she said.
“Pardon me?” Lashley said.
“Nothing. Dr. Lashley, if you think this is real, what is the Silver Cross?”
“I don’t know,” Lashley said. “How much do you know about Napoleon during the time of the American Civil War?”
“I know nothing. Pretend I’m an incoming freshman majoring in, say, piano performance, who could care less about history.”
Journey smiled. Lashley glared at Tolman.
“Nick, I guess I should expect this sort of thing from an associate of yours,” Lashley said.
“You must be kidding,” Journey said.
“You have very little respect for true scholarship,” Lashley said. “It shows in your students, and in your … acquaintances.”
“Dr. Lashley—,” Tolman said, then took a deep breath. “Nick assured me you knew your stuff, that you were the right person to ask. If you’re not, then we can go to any of the other God-only-knows-how-many historians who have written papers on Napoleon III. We need your help.”
“Graham, the investigation is serious,” Journey said in a quiet voice. “People may have been murdered because of this.”
Lashley placed both his hands flat on the table and gave a rueful head shake. “Napoleon III was elected president of the Second French Republic in 1848. He staged a coup and declared himself emperor in 1852.”
“Like his uncle, he was first a liberator, then a tyrant,” Journey said.
Tolman’s omelet came and she ignored it, tapping the table. “The Silver Cross.”
“I have never heard of anything called the Silver Cross with regard to Napoleon, if that’s what you want to know,” Lashley said. He took a sip of coffee. “The fact that this letter says Napoleon is willing to commit troops to help the Confederacy in exchange for this Silver Cross is interesting, given what was going on in Mexico.”
“Mexico?” Tolman said. “This doesn’t say anything about Mexico.”
“The word ‘silver’ says Mexico to me,” Lashley said.
“My God, Graham,” Journey said, sitting up straight. “I hadn’t thought—”
Lashley adjusted his glasses again. “Napoleon invaded Mexico in 1862.”
“Wait,” Tolman said. “What? While the American Civil War was going on, the French were invading Mexico?”
“Oh, yes,” Lashley said. “The timing was not accidental, either. The war here directly affected Napoleon’s decision to go to Mexico.”
“Why Mexico?”
Lashley and Journey looked at each other.
“Silver,” Lashley said. “Napoleon was looking for silver.”
CHAPTER
10
They all stared at each other.
“So I have your attention,” Lashley said.
“Fill in the blanks for me,” Tolman said.
“There are interesting parallels between that period and today in France,” Lashley said. “Right now the French are in a financial crisis that threatens their entire economy. It was the same at that time. France had financial problems ever since Napoleon III became emperor. The country had a bimetallic monetary standard, which was based on a balance of gold and silver. But an influx of gold from America and Australia upset that balance, and then came the American Civil War.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with Mexico and silver,” Tolman said.
Lashley looked at Journey. “Cotton,” Journey said.
“Cotton?”
“Countries like France and Britain imported their cotton from the southern U.S.,” Journey said. “Remember the Union blockade of Southern ports? The Confederacy couldn’t ship and sell cotton overseas to some of its biggest customers. The demand for cotton was high in France, so they had to look elsewhere for their supply.”
“Yes,” Lashley said, nodding. “India became the biggest cotton supplier to France.” He spread his hands apart. “And India demanded payment in silver, which had become in short supply.”
“And there was silver in Mexico,” Tolman said.
“The world’s biggest supply of silver was in the Sonoran mines,” Lashley said. “Those mines were largely undeveloped. So in January of 1862, Napoleon landed troops in Mexico. His public statement at the time was that it was due to Mexico’s refusal to pay its foreign debts.”
“Was that true?” Tolman asked.
“Yes, but it was a fairly flimsy pretext for a full-blown invasion and occupation. Napoleon installed the Habsburg prince Maximilian on the throne of Mexico, and the mines were his.”
&nb
sp; “How long did this last?”
“About five years,” Journey said. “After the war was over, the United States was able to pay attention to foreign affairs and started to notice what was happening south of the border. Maximilian was a weak ruler anyway and didn’t last much longer.”
“And the silver?”
“Oh, Napoleon acquired some silver,” Lashley said. “But nothing near what he would have liked.” He held up the letter. “And here is where we depart from history.”
“What?” Tolman said.
“There is a legend,” Lashley said, “that some of Napoleon’s agents found a remarkable artifact, something so stunning, so beautiful that it was beyond comprehension.”
“And made of pure silver,” Journey said.
Lashley looked at him as if he’d spoken out of turn, then said, “Indeed. Whether it had been left behind by an ancient civilization, or recently fabricated … the legends vary. There are no descriptions of it, only that it defied human understanding. Its worth was beyond estimation—especially to Napoleon. You see, Napoleon was ambitious yet practical, spiritual yet pragmatic. If he could get his hands on this stunning piece of treasure—a treasure made of the very metal he so desperately needed—it would be a sign from God that He had approved of the incursion into Mexico. Maximilian’s regime was always on shaky ground, right from the beginning, and Napoleon needed a public relations victory. So he supposedly sent agents everywhere from Brazil to Canada in search of this fabulous artifact.”
Journey looked thoughtful, rubbing the scratches on his arm. “The letter would seem to indicate that this Silver Cross was found in Confederate territory. But they couldn’t just take it back to Paris with them, considering French agents weren’t supposed to be roaming around the Confederacy in the first place. If it was that valuable, the Confederates wouldn’t just let it go.”
“So Napoleon had to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse,” Tolman said.
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