Behind Rebel Lines

by Seymour Reit

  Over a cup of coffee, Emma finally began to relax. “Thank you, Mrs. Butler,” she sighed. “Guess I was mighty lucky.”

  The chaplain’s wife shook her head anxiously. “You surely were,” she said. “This time . . .”

  12

  June 10, 1862

  The colonel signed the furlough papers and handed them to Private Thompson. “You’ve earned a good rest,” he said. “Take two weeks; look after that arm of yours.”

  Thompson thanked him, saluted, and hurried to the hospital, where he packed a small knapsack. His arm was sore but healing well, and he looked forward to his holiday. A supply wagon train was just leaving for Fort Monroe and he hitched a ride as far as Williamsburg, a peninsula city occupied by the Union.

  For a few days, as Private Thompson, Emma explored the city, taking in the sights and sounds. But after months of danger and battle, civilian life seemed dull. She was soon bored and spent the rest of her leave doing volunteer nursing.

  There were two main hospitals in Williamsburg, filled with the sick and wounded. One hospital was for Union men, the other for Confederates. Emma saw no difference and divided her time equally between the two. As far as she was concerned, wounds were wounds and pain didn’t play favorites. The war was a necessity, yes—but the price, the human price, was very high. Moving through the crowded wards, tending the rows of maimed and suffering men, she grieved for them all. But she kept in mind a prayer Major Butler had taught her. As the nurse worked, she repeated it to herself, gaining strength:

  Grant us grace to share in others’

  woes . . . and when their dreams or

  hopes begin to fade . . . help our

  hearts to feel and our hands to aid. . . .

  By the end of the furlough, Emma’s arm was healed, and she returned to camp fit and healthy—just in time for the final battle of Richmond. By now the Confederate armies had been greatly strengthened and had a new commander, General Robert E. Lee. The fighting (later known as the Seven Days’ Battles) raged back and forth, swirling around places called Mechanicsville, Frayser’s Farm, Gaines’s Mill, and Malvern Hill. In the end, the Union forces were completely stopped. McClellan’s battered army had to withdraw to the west and dig in along the James River.

  But Union troops were now needed elsewhere, and Frank Thompson’s regiment—the Second Michigan—was sent to the Shenandoah Valley. Here they joined the Federal Army of Virginia under General John Pope. At first the spy was alarmed, until she learned that Major and Mrs. Butler were being transferred, too. Hearing that, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  At the new field hospital, Thompson’s work went on as usual. But his reputation had followed him, and soon he was at headquarters again, serving as a special courier. The rebel commander facing them was the daring, brilliant officer General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. It was vital for Pope’s aides to learn everything they could about Jackson’s campaign plans, and before long, Private Thompson was sent off again on spying missions.

  Now that he was in a new zone, he felt it was safe to revive an old favorite. Several times in the hectic months that followed, he slipped behind enemy lines disguised as a small woolly-haired black man in ragged overalls—the amiable, good-natured Cuff.

  To Emma Edmonds, Cuff had almost become a real person. “I truly admire the little fellow,” she confided to Mrs. Butler, darkening her skin with solution and peering into the mirror. “He’s a plucky one; got his share of grit.” In the glass she saw Mrs. Butler grinning, realized what she’d said, and they both began to laugh.

  In August, the two sides began skirmishing for a rail junction known as Orange Court House. Asked to find out more about the enemy’s plans, Emma remembered the black women she’d seen at Richmond. She tinted her skin again, put on an old blouse, apron, and ragged skirt, and tied a bandanna around her head. She’d heard that a small group of contraband slaves, lonely and homesick, had asked to be returned to the Southern sector. Carrying a basket of laundry, she quietly joined this group and passed with them through the rebel pickets.

  Emma spent the whole next day in the Confederate camp, washing and sewing for the rebels. By now she was an expert at keeping eyes and ears open, and picked up valuable data. Late that afternoon, she found herself alone in the wash tent. As she sponged and cleaned an officer’s dress coat, a packet of official documents slipped from the inside pocket. The black woman was excited. She swooped on the papers and quickly hid them under her skirt.

  Emma’s heart was pounding. She’d made a great find—how could she get home quickly? Leaving the coat on its hanger, neatly cleaned, she hurried toward the slave quarters. Not far away a battle zone was being shelled. Emma had to act before the loss of the papers was discovered. So without stopping she slipped into this dangerous battlefield. Then she hid in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse. She had no idea what would happen next. Would the rebels come after her? Would she be killed by a shell? She crouched in the dark cellar and waited.

  All night, as she tried vainly to sleep, cannon shells and gunfire roared and crashed. Several times the old house shook with explosions. But somehow it remained standing. In the morning, Emma found that her luck had held. A troop of Federal cavalrymen overran the area, and Emma was free to come out of hiding.

  With some difficulty, the strange black woman convinced the surprised troopers that she was a Union agent. Once she was cleared, she rushed to headquarters and turned over the precious papers.

  Another time, a patrol captured two enemy horsemen from Kentucky. These Kentuckians, who had gone over to the rebel cause, all wore unique uniforms: pants and fringed jackets made of tan buckskin. Because of the color of their clothes, the men were called butternuts. With the chaplain’s help, Private Thompson obtained one of these outfits and for several days roamed the enemy front as a Kentucky butternut, collecting more information.

  For many months this pattern continued. Private Thompson divided his time between hospital and headquarters, risking his life on spy assignments. Winter came, and with it, much cold and hardship for the troops. Twice, while riding Rebel on courier trips, Franklin suffered frostbitten feet. His ailments were very painful, but they never stopped him. He was doing what he wanted to do—playing a part in the great war effort—and even the imp voice was quiet.

  At the end of the year, Private Thompson and the Butlers were transferred again, this time to the Ninth Corps under General Ambrose Burnside near Louisville, Kentucky. And while at this new post, Emma took on the toughest mission of her entire career.

  13

  February 17, 1863

  If I had a cow that gave such milk,

  I’d clothe her in the finest silk.

  I’d feed her on the choicest hay,

  And milk her forty times a day!

  Ha ha ha! You and me!

  Little brown jug, how I love thee!

  Ha ha ha! You and me!

  Little brown jug, how I love thee!

  Couples skipped to this lively polka played by the Kentucky Militia Band. Candles glowed from chandeliers. Servants passed goblets of wine and punch to the guests. And in a side room, beautiful tables were heaped with sandwiches, pastries, and fruit.

  The gala at the State House was a glittering event; all Louisville society was there. Most of the young men wore blue dress uniforms of the Union army. The older ones looked dignified in frock coats and ruffled shirts. But it was the women who added color and elegance in their fine hoopskirts, elbow-length gloves, and gleaming jewels, with fans and dance cards dangling at their wrists.

  From the festive look of things, it was hard to tell that Kentucky was in the middle of a grim war. At that very moment, rebel forces under General John Morgan were carrying out guerrilla raids, and there was skirmishing near Louisville. But none of it seemed to bother the party-goers.

  Two debutantes perched on gilded chairs were sipping punch and eyeing a slender young man who wandered about by himself. Unlike the others, Mr. Mayberry wasn’t in uniform.
His suit, well-cut and expensive, fit perfectly. He had blue eyes, dark wavy hair and a neat mustache, and moved with ease and confidence. The girls discussed him in whispers. Mr. Mayberry was a bit of a mystery; nobody knew much about him. One rumor had it that he was the heir of a wealthy Boston family who had been disowned for having Confederate sympathies. Another claimed the opposite: He was from a large Georgia plantation and had to leave home because he favored the Union cause.

  Neither story was correct. The mysterious Mr Mayberry was actually Emma on a new assignment, wearing another of her many faces.

  Back at the Union camp, General Hooker’s aide had explained the situation. When the war began, three states—Maryland, Missouri, and Kentucky—were known as border states. Though they were slave-holding areas, they formed a kind of buffer zone between the North and the South. People in Kentucky were about evenly divided—they supported slavery but didn’t want to secede and destroy the Union. It was a dilemma, and Kentucky tried to solve it by staying neutral.

  Then in August of 1862, General Kirby Smith invaded the state with a rebel army. Washington answered by sending General Ulysses Grant and his troops to occupy the key town of Paducah. With war on its doorstep, neutrality for Kentucky was impossible, and the state finally went over to the Union side.

  But wars aren’t fought only on battlefields. Louisville became a center of undercover activity. Because of the divided feelings, there were many Southern sympathizers, as well as agents who fed valuable data to the rebel leaders in Richmond. General Hooker wanted to stop all these leaks—and once again, Franklin Thompson was called in.

  “This time,” the aide said to Private Thompson, “you’ll work as a detective, not a spy. You won’t be operating behind enemy lines, but in our own territory, among friends.” The major tapped a street plan of Louisville on the map board. “This town is crawling with informers. Somehow the rebels know every blasted move we make. We know their main agent is feeding ’em facts every day. He’s brilliant and very cagey. Your job, Thompson, is to find out who the devil he is.”

  The officer scribbled a name and address on a slip of paper and passed it to Thompson. “This is your contact in Louisville. He’ll supply you with funds, clothes, and so on. We can’t use him for this job because he’s too well known there. What we need is a total stranger—a man with brains and backbone.”

  He stood up and held out his hand. “Keep your wits about you, Thompson. Get to know the pro-Southerners in Louisville. Take plenty of time, keep your eyes open—and don’t get shot.”

  Franklin tackled the new job with confidence. In Louisville he met his secret contact, creating the new identity of “Charles Mayberry.” Then he rented a room in a boardinghouse run by a woman said to have rebel sympathies. This had advantages for Mayberry: It tagged him as a possible Confederate supporter and gave him a chance to listen in on the other boarders.

  Through his contact, he began to meet the city’s important people and gradually to build an image. He played his role carefully, tactfully; and by the time of the gala dance, Mr. Mayberry had gained a toehold in Louisville society. By then he also had a fairly good idea of the city’s pro-Southern groups. But sympathy and political opinions didn’t add up to treason. The chief Confederate agent—the man Mayberry was after—remained a total mystery.

  At the State House dance, Charles strolled about in his fine suit, bowing graciously to his acquaintances. Now and then he casually stroked his mustache, pressing it gently to make sure the spirit gum would keep it in place.

  Later he went into the refreshment room and helped himself to a sandwich. Nearby, at the end of the long table, he spotted P. N. Aylesworth, a short round man with auburn muttonchop whiskers and fat ruddy cheeks. Aylesworth, said to be very “pro-reb,” didn’t know it, but he was part of Mayberry’s developing plan.

  “Enjoying the party, Mayberry?”

  “Indeed I am, sir,” Charles replied, remembering to keep his voice in a low key. “Especially the food.”

  He gulped his sandwich hungrily and reached for another. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aylesworth watching, and could guess what he was thinking: These young blades . . . easy come, easy go . . . no idea how to handle their money . . . look at him, half starved . . .

  “Mr. Aylesworth,” Charles said between mouthfuls, “I have a bit of a problem. I wondered, sir, if I could stop by to see you tomorrow.”

  The fat man smiled. “Sure, Mayberry. Come round to the office first thing in the morning. We’ll talk then.”

  Aylesworth was a wealthy dry goods merchant with a large, busy shop in Louisville. He also had contracts to supply Union regiments with blankets and uniforms. Early the following morning, Mr. Mayberry visited the shop and was directed to the owner’s office in back. Aylesworth greeted him, then lit a cigar and leaned back at his rolltop desk.

  Pretending embarrassment, Mayberry said, “Sir, I find myself a bit short of funds and needful of employment. I write a very fine hand and am good with sums. I . . . uh . . . thought, just possibly, there might be some opening for me here.”

  Aylesworth, his eyes keen, questioned the young man in detail about his background and opinions. To play safe, Mayberry mixed truth with fiction. He told Aylesworth he was born in Canada on a large, prosperous farm. After his education, he’d come to America to make his way. He’d worked in various cities as a salesman and now, winding up in Louisville, was out of funds and in need of a job. He also let slip a hint that his war sympathies were very much with the South.

  The merchant squinted and scratched his chin. It just so happened that his old bookkeeper was leaving and had to be replaced—as Mayberry already knew.

  At last Aylesworth nodded. “I’ll give you a chance, Mayberry—but mind you, it’s only a trial. If you want to stay here, you’ll have to prove yourself.”

  Mayberry thanked him gratefully and began to learn his new duties. For the next week, the young man worked very hard, always first at his desk in the morning and last to leave at night. The company’s bills and ledgers were in a mess, and he was able to bring order out of the chaos, which pleased his busy employer. Aylesworth was so impressed with Mayberry that he even allowed him to handle an important sale—a big consignment of blankets—to a nearby army post. Riding on the wagon next to the driver, Mayberry worried that someone at the Union camp would recognize him and give the game away. But he needn’t have fretted; with his fine mustache, dark civilian suit, and round bowler hat, he had no trouble passing. He left the shipment at the quartermaster depot, arranged for payments and receipts, then returned to Louisville.

  After this success, Aylesworth began to rely heavily on him; he had a free run of the shop and stockrooms as well as the account books. Watching the people come and go, Charles also learned what he’d suspected: Aylesworth & Company was a clearinghouse for undercover rebel activities. He still couldn’t put his finger on any hard evidence, but felt he was on the right track.

  Aylesworth had one special friend—a tall, lanky, sour-looking man named Hall. He and the merchant had secret dealings; they would often closet themselves in the office with the door carefully closed and locked. Mayberry was anxious to eavesdrop on these little meetings, but knew it would be too risky to try.

  Meanwhile time was passing. At night, lying awake on the lumpy, boardinghouse bed, Emma plagued herself with questions. Who was the gloomy Mr. Hall? Was he the man she was after? How could she find out? Where would she get the evidence she needed? Emma liked to make decisions and act on them. She hated the idea of personal failure, but she couldn’t seem to break through the shell of secrecy.

  Another frustrating week went by with no results. Then she came up with a wild plan. It was unusual—daring and dangerous—but it just might bring matters to a head.

  It might also, if something went wrong, cost Charles Mayberry his life.

  14

  March 10, 1863

  The next morning, Charles waited until the shop was quiet and there were no
customers to attend to. He tapped gently on Aylesworth’s door, popped his head in, and asked for a word in private.

  Curious, the man waved him to a chair. “What can I do for you, Mayberry?”

  The young man cleared his throat nervously. “I’ve . . . uh . . . come to a big decision, sir,” he said in a low voice. “The . . . um . . . fact is, well, I’ve decided to join the Confederate army.”

  Aylesworth’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Bless my soul. Are you sure about this?”

  Mayberry nodded. “Yes, sir. It . . . it was no hasty decision—I’ve been thinking about it a long time. You know that my sympathies have always been with the South; now I really want to do my part for the cause.”

  The merchant frowned. “War is no lark, boy. You realize you could be killed?”

  Mayberry shook his head. “I’m prepared, Mr. Aylesworth. This is something I . . . I just have to do. I thought it out and have no choice, but I know it isn’t easy to manage. I . . . uh . . . hoped, sir, maybe you’d be able to help me in some way.”

  Aylesworth lit a cigar, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. “This comes as a surprise, Mayberry. We’ll miss you in the shop. But I understand the need—yes, indeed.” He went to the door and peeped out to make sure nobody was listening. Then he returned to the desk and lowered his voice. “If you’re serious, I can help you. Tomorrow, leave the shop at your customary time. Come back shortly before nine o’clock. You’ll find two horses out back, saddled and ready.”

  “Will you be my guide, sir?” Charles asked.

  Aylesworth shook his head. “I believe you know my friend Mr. Hall? Well, he . . . uh . . . has certain dealings with the Confederacy. Has some, let us say, important documents to deliver. You can ride along with him. Hall has a secret route. From Louisville, you’ll head south toward Garnettsville, and at one point a barge will ferry you across the river to the Southern lines.” He patted Mayberry on the shoulder. “I admire your spirit, lad. Good luck with your plan—and not a word to anyone.”