Spy of Richmond

by Jocelyn Green

  “Tomorrow.”

  Rocketts Landing, Richmond, Virginia

  Sunday, March 13, 1864

  The crush of the crowd pressed Sophie against Lawrence as they fought their way down to the docks. The Armory Band filled the air with boisterous patriotic music, and Sophie felt every drumbeat in her chest. Mere moments ago at St. John’s Church, the reverend announced that for the first time since last year, Rebel prisoners of war were coming home. Six hundred, to be exact. They waved from two over-packed truce boats now approaching the wharf. It seemed as though half of Richmond had come to Rocketts straight from their church services to greet them.

  Shock and nervous hope buzzed through Sophie’s veins as she considered that perhaps she was about to reunite with her father. Would she recognize him? Would he, her? How drastically the war had altered each of them!

  “He may not be here, you know,” Lawrence warned, rationally. Six hundred was nothing compared to the thousands still captive in the North.

  She nodded, rather than compete with the noise of the cheering throng. Then, the Armory Band faded, but strains of music still carried on the water.

  “They’re singing!” a woman shouted, pointing at the decks bristled with soldiers.

  Then Sophie heard it, too. Hurrah, hurrah, for Southern rights, hurrah! The Rebel soldiers were serenading the crowd. Their joy caught in Sophie’s throat. Around her, Richmonders thrust their handkerchiefs and hats in the air, waving them madly. “Hip, hip, hurrah!” they shouted. “Hip, hip, hurrah!” The Army Band struck up the tune of “Dixie,” and in one ethereal moment, Sophie was transported to the beginning of the war, when Richmond had been sending their sons to battle, so confident they’d return as victors in less than ninety days. The tears that choked her were bittersweet.

  As the vessels loomed larger, shouts of recognition rang from boat to shore and back again. Then the first boat touched. A hush fell over the crowd as the first soldiers disembarked.

  “Father!” a child cried out, and Sophie was filled with sudden longing for her own. “I see Father!” The crowd opened a lane for them, and the little girl ran into her father’s open arms, clutching a small Confederate flag in one chubby fist.

  One by one, the soldiers filed off the boat, some clearly searching for loved ones they did not see, while others fell into embraces they’d surely dreamed of. They were lean, yes, but not hollow like the Libby prisoners, or emaciated like the men of Belle Isle. The crowd onshore swelled and swirled around Sophie as hundreds debarked at the gangway. When her father was not among them, the tide of disappointment threatened to carry her away.

  She tugged on Lawrence’s arm. “I don’t see him,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  His arm around her waist, Lawrence guided her to the fringes of the crowd.

  A broad hand grasped her arm. Her heart nearly stopped as she turned. “Daddy?” she gasped.

  “Hello, Goldilocks.” He was thinner, with more grey at his temples than before, but his complexion was hale enough, his eyes bright, and as blue as the Virginia sky in spring.

  “Thank God you’re all right!” Of course he was. This was the man she had thought of as Zeus throughout her childhood. Sophie threw her arms around his waist, melting into her father like the small child with her flag. Citizens and soldiers surged around them, parting like river around rocks.

  “And this young man here? Captain Russell, I presume?”

  “A pleasure, and a very great honor, to meet you, sir.” Lawrence pumped his hand heartily.

  “You’ve been keeping an eye on my Sophie, have you? I am indebted.”

  “The pleasure has been mine, I assure you, sir. Refreshments are to be served at Capitol Square by President Davis himself. Would you care to go?”

  Preston shook his head. “Thank you, Captain, but there is no place I’d rather be than home at this moment. It’s not full of boarders, is it?”

  Sophie told him it wasn’t.

  “Good. Then we’ll have room for this one.”

  Sophie’s eyes rounded with confusion. Her gaze skittered from left to right.

  And landed on Harrison Caldwell. His brown eyes sent a jolt down her spine.

  “Shaw?” Lawrence stepped forward. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  “Nice seeing you again, too.” Harrison gave Lawrence an easy grin as he shook his hand. “Decided to cover the prisoner exchange from the perspective of the released. Did you know Rooney, General Lee’s son, was on that boat? Now that’s a story if there ever was one.”

  “You know each other already? Sophie?” Preston asked, looking as delighted as Sophie was aghast.

  Words webbed in her chest.

  “How do you do, Miss Kent?” Harrison took up the silence, bowing to her. Sophie marveled at the difference a month of freedom had made in his physique. “We met in November, I believe it was, and I swung around last month but I’ve been away, otherwise. Chasing leads, and all of that business.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” Preston said. “When I was your age, I did the same. And I had a family at home,” he added, as if to justify Harrison’s vagabond reporter’s lifestyle.

  “I do apologize for interrupting such a poignant moment in your family. Russell, how are things at the Ordnance Bureau?” He pulled Lawrence aside, giving Preston and Sophie space to talk.

  “Tredegar is desperate for skilled laborers …” Lawrence’s voice faded as they stepped away.

  “I—you—met him on the boat?” Sophie grasped to make sense of it all.

  “I did. He’s a reporter without a paper.” Preston shook his head. “Tough place to be. I told him he could stay with us as long as he’s in Richmond. Lodging was impossible to get in Richmond when I left with the army in ’62. I imagine it’s only gotten worse. But enough of Mr. Shaw! Let me look at my little girl.”

  Preston’s smile wilted as the significance of Sophie’s black dress registered in his eyes. It was easier to deny his wife’s death when he was away, Sophie guessed. Now he’d have to face home and hearth without Eleanor. He rubbed his hand over his face, and seemed to age ten more years. “Oh, Sophie. You have endured so much. Come, daughter. Let’s go home.”

  Harrison waved them along. “I’m going to Capitol Square with Russell, here. I’ll be along later, after you’ve had some time together.”

  Sophie took Preston’s proffered arm, still barely able to believe he was home at all. Let alone with his new friend and boarder, Oliver Shaw.

  Lawrence Russell eyed Oliver Shaw as they strolled through Capitol Square, chagrined that even though he’d met Sophie’s father at the docks, this Marylander was already ahead of him in the first impressions department. Perhaps it wouldn’t have bothered him so much if Sophie had not looked so spellbound to see him again. Unfair, he chided himself. She was in shock at seeing her father with almost no warning whatever. Truthfully, Lawrence was quite surprised himself. He’d begun to wonder if she had a father at Fort Delaware at all, or if that was only a convenient smokescreen. Like me.

  “Forgive me, Shaw, but just how did you manage to secure a place in Mr. Kent’s home before you even got off the boat?” Lawrence was careful to smile as he asked the question.

  “Oh yes, isn’t that fortunate?” Shaw chuckled. Lawrence didn’t. “At the start of the trip I noticed him having trouble reading the fine print of a newspaper, so I simply offered to read it for him. Being a reporter myself, I couldn’t help but make commentary on the editorial, and he pegged me as a journalist right away and introduced himself simply as Preston. I went about the ship, interviewing other soldiers. After I’d spoken with several of them, Preston asked me more about myself, and I told him I work independently, hoping to sell my stories. When he heard that, he insisted I stay at his home while in Richmond. He even said he would help me get a staff position at one of the papers if at all possible. As I said. Fortunate.”

  “Quite. Well. How very satisfactory for you. And for Miss Kent.”

&nbs
p; “How’s that?”

  “She has her father back, of course.” His eyes narrowed into slits.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, would you excuse me?”

  Lawrence watched as Shaw approached Jefferson Davis and introduced himself.

  “Well, Mr. Davis, how does it feel to have six hundred soldiers back at long last?” he asked.

  “I promised to get them back in the field at once, and that is what I intend to do.” The president’s response belied his previous role as the U.S. Secretary of War.

  “Do you suppose, Mr. President, that they really want to return to hard service after being so long in prison already?”

  Davis pointed to three small boys playing on the granite pedestal of the Washington statue, around the knees of Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, and George Mason. “It may seem hard, but even those young lads will have their turn.”

  “Indeed, sir. And how will you feed the army? I hear it can barely be done.”

  Lawrence leaned in, eager to hear the answer himself. Davis straightened to regal heights before responding. “I don’t see why rats, if fat, are not as good as squirrels. Our boys did eat mule meat at Vicksburg, and nowadays that would be considered a great luxury.”

  Rats, indeed. Lawrence turned away in disgust.

  “Rats?” It was Graham, clerk in the Commissary Department, at Lawrence’s side.

  “Afraid so. Tell me, now, would this despicable predicament be in spite of or because of Commissary General Northrop?”

  Graham scowled, shook his head. “Hard to say. If the cure for our ailing government were pointing fingers, we’d be hearty and hale long ere this day, that much is sure.”

  “Speaking of—is Hayes still laid out with the grippe?”

  “He is. He’s got awful aim, too. Revolting.” Graham shuddered, jowls quivering. “Say, who’s that fellow talking with Davis now? Looks familiar, somehow.”

  “Oliver Shaw.”

  Graham frowned. “Not the reporter from Maryland.”

  “The same.”

  “Splendid! Think we’ll see more of him? He’s a great storyteller, that one.”

  “Quite.” Lawrence shaded his eyes as he measured him. He wasn’t entirely convinced Shaw’s stories were confined to the news. Baseless. His head ached with paranoia, had ever since that raid two weeks ago. The timing, if not the size of the Union forces, had been so well-suited, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that the Federals had been tipped off from someone inside Richmond. Orders found on the dead Union colonel’s body detailed the plan to set all the prisoners free, kill Davis and the cabinet members, and set fire to the city. Completely outside the bounds of civilized warfare. No Union general admitted to giving the orders. The Northern press said they were forged by the Confederacy, but Lawrence didn’t believe that. No Southerner did.

  At least, no loyal Southerner. The elusive Richmond Underground was growing bigger, stronger, more dangerous all the time. Lawrence scanned the jubilant crowd teeming in Capitol Square. Any one of them could be disloyal. Any one of them could be a spy. His gaze settled on Oliver Shaw only to find that the reporter’s assessing gaze was already fastened upon Lawrence.

  “Just a moment, Daddy. Let me go ask Pearl to make you as fine a feast as we can.” And warn Bella and Abraham to stay out of sight! Sophie’s warm drawl held no hint of the urgency scuttling through her.

  “Where’s Fischer?” Preston cocked his head, as if listening for the footsteps of his combination steward, butler, manservant.

  “Oh! Let me help you.” She unfastened the top button of his cloak.

  “It’s Fischer’s job. Where is he? Taking Sunday off? You haven’t gotten lax with the staff in my absence, have you?”

  Sophie slid the coat off his shoulders and hung it on the hall stand. “I’ll tell you about that just as soon as I set Pearl to cooking, all right?” She offered a half smile, then turned to walk away.

  “Sophia Virginia. You’ll tell me now, young lady.” He stalked into the parlor, swiped a finger on the mantel, checking for dust, then sat on the settee. “Sit.”

  With only a small marble-topped table between them, she lowered herself onto the crimson armchair, her pleated black skirts billowing around her. A brisk breeze swept through the open window, clearing her senses. “I had to dismiss him.”

  “You what?”

  “Dismissed him.”

  “Whatever for?” His voice boomed, and she glanced at the open windows and imagined the neighbors rushing to theirs.

  “He defied my authority.” Her words were even and cool, though her neck itched beneath her collar. “He questioned my choices.”

  “What choices?” Preston spread his hands. “Otto Fischer has been a proven, loyal servant. He knows how I like things done. If he questioned you, is it not possible you needed to reconsider your decisions?”

  Sophie bristled. “Daddy. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s that we do not abide rebellion in our help and that’s exactly what Fischer displayed. I did not imagine that he was immune to that rule. Does it apply only to the slaves, then? Or does absolute authority belong only to you?”

  Preston sat back, eyebrows arched high in his brow. She had stunned him, she could tell. But she wasn’t finished. “That was not the only reason, either. Times are hard, Daddy. Flour is at two hundred twenty dollars a barrel, and meal is sixteen dollars a bushel. A pair of secondhand shoes costs almost twenty dollars at auction—more than a month’s pay! And this is only the beginning of our basic needs. Dismissing Fischer eased our financial strain, at least in part.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Furrows bracketed his mouth. “Two hundred twenty? Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Prices soar higher every week.”

  “Where is Fischer now?”

  “I don’t know. He’s no longer my concern. Or yours. Things are not the way you left them.”

  His gaze slid to her hands, and she realized she had balled her handkerchief in her fist again. Just like her mother.

  “You’ve been forced to grow up in my absence, Sophie. I do not mean to criticize.”

  Thoughts of Eleanor hung in the air between them, so thickly Sophie felt she would choke on them. Her mourning gown, which she had worn for six months already, a chafing reminder of her death. Would he not even say her mother’s name?

  “You left us when we needed you most. You left me.” Tears bit her eyes, but she blinked them back. “You left Mother.”

  He tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I doubt she even knew I was gone.”

  A brittle laugh broke from Sophie’s lips. “On the contrary. She asked for you every day. Every hour, some days. I defended you, over and over and over again. I used words like honor and duty, sacrifice and service. I made her believe that you loved her right up until the end, though you were never here when she wanted you.”

  Preston kneaded the back of his neck, stared at the fraying seams of his shoes. “Well. It’s in the past now. And she died well, you said, which is the most important thing.”

  “I lied.” The words were blades, and she thrust them from her.

  Preston flinched. Good. She wanted him to feel something of the agony she had borne on his behalf, and hers.

  “Yes, I wanted to spare you additional pain while you were in prison, rotting and in despair, for all I knew. But now you’re home, and whole, when I had to amputate a piece of my heart to survive.” She beat her fist to her chest. “It doesn’t grow back.” Exhilaration flooded her senses as she unleashed the truth upon him. Some secrets were too toxic to bear alone.

  And yet he did not ask for details. Did not plead to know her last words, or the expression on her face in death’s slumber. Coward. “Don’t you want to know how it really ended, Daddy? The truth?”

  The rims of his eyes grew red. “I do not.”

  “She was mad. Not just forgetful or prone to headaches and crying spells, but completely, utterly, violently insane, until I feared I woul
d follow her into distraction myself.” The words spilled over each other recklessly, like boulders down a mountainside, heedless of their damage, wanting only to find rest at the bottom.

  “Stop.” His voice was hoarse, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, obey.

  “Daphne and I took turns not just as nursemaid, but guard, so she would not harm herself or others.”

  “I beg of you, stop!”

  “She should have been in the sanitarium. If you hadn’t been so proud about the family name, maybe they could have helped her. Maybe she’d still be alive. But as it was, I was so desperate for it all to end, and so was Mother.” Sophie held out her arm and tugged up her sleeve, exposing the thin white line slashed across her wrist. “She—”

  “Enough!” Her father’s rage sliced the explanation from her lips. He lunged from his seat, grabbed Sophie’s shoulders and shook her.

  Her words retreated in the face of the wildness staring her down. There was a savage element in Preston’s gaze she’d seen only once before, right before Susan disappeared. But he’d never touched Sophie in anger before. Now he raised his hand in readiness to strike her.

  “No!” Sophie shouted.

  Unable to ignore the sound of Sophie’s cry, Abraham crossed the yard from the kitchen house and burst through the back door to search for her attacker. She had harbored both him and Bella for weeks, months. Surely his vow not to enter the main house, as a safeguard for himself, should be broken in order to protect her.

  Urged on by masculine instinct, Abraham charged into the parlor, and found himself face-to-face with a white man who was turning redder by the moment.

  Sophie lunged for the man’s hand, pulling him back, away from Abraham, abject fear written on her face. “D-Daddy, it’s a-all-all right.” The stammer proved it wasn’t. If this was Sophie’s father and he had just been released from prison, Abraham could well imagine his state of mind. Finding a strange colored man in his home was surely a shock, especially given what Sophie had told him about his past.