Spy of Richmond

by Jocelyn Green

  “Why, I’m innocent. Just like the rest of you.” This time, no one laughed. Harrison’s gaze skittered across the crowd. Several pairs of eyes burned through the fog and bore into his.

  “You’re not a soldier, are you?” Milo blathered on, right on Harrison’s heels as he walked away. Would his questions never cease? Sweat prickled beneath Harrison’s collar as he eyed the guards on the edges of the yard.

  “And neither are you,” he parried. If Milo revealed Harrison’s true identity—“Crying shame deserting one army didn’t ingratiate you with the other.”

  “You’re not a Southerner. You were imprisoned once before, came to Monroe, and yet here you are again. If you’re not a deserter, then—”

  Harrison wheeled on Milo, plowed his fist into his jaw. Milo returned with a hard punch to his gut, igniting the fighting instinct Harrison had tamped down since the impetuous days of his fatherless youth. Harrison raised his fists, and so did Milo. Their breath suspended in clouds between them as they orbited one another. Prisoners gathered round, cheering for some excitement.

  A sly grin snaked across Milo’s face. “What? Don’t want anyone else to know you’re a—”

  Lightning fast, Harrison lashed out against the bridge of his nose, felt it crack beneath his knuckles. Blood streaming into his mouth, Milo doubled over and barreled into Harrison’s middle, knocking him to the thawing ground, flat on his back.

  “Stop!” called a guard, but Harrison only fought harder. If Milo told a guard what he thought he knew, it could be his end.

  Footsteps rattled the platform at the top of the fence as two guards came running toward them. With ice-cold slush soaking through his back, Harrison grabbed Milo’s shirt, yanked him forward and plowed the crown of his head into Milo’s already broken nose. He slumped, and Harrison scrambled out from beneath him—right into the wrenching grip of the guards.

  “What happened?” one of them asked. “Union loyalist couldn’t handle a little teasing from a Union deserter?”

  Light-headed, Harrison braced himself as they escorted him to the bricked section of the prison yard reserved for punishment. Before he understood what was happening, they had lashed his arms beneath his knees, pulled up his shirt from the waist, and were thrashing his bare back with a broad leather strap.

  That night, Harrison Caldwell begged sleep to cover him, engulf him, take him away from this place. Today’s tête-à-tête with Milo had been far too revealing. So much so, he wondered if the wheels had already been set in motion to now charge him with espionage. Certainly Milo would talk with anyone who would listen.

  Doubt stung Harrison as much as the welts on his skin. If they knew he was a spy, would they think to investigate Sophie? Did his presence here actually endanger her more? Weariness ached in his bones as pain throbbed across his back.

  Trapping a groan in his chest, Harrison winced as he rolled to his other side on the floor, his bones poking into the hardwood no matter which way he turned. His clothes had not yet dried out from being soaked, and he imagined they wouldn’t before he caught pneumonia. Lord, he began to pray, but for the first time in memory, he could not find the right words. As his eyes drifted closed, Psalm 31 washed over him: Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me: for thou art my strength. Into thine hand I commit my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth … I will be glad and rejoice in thy mercy: for thou hast considered my trouble; thou hast known my soul in adversities; And hast not shut me up into the hand of the enemy: thou hast set my feet in a large room.

  A loud snore from somewhere in the tightly packed room jerked Harrison, and his lips quirked in a smile at the heavenly thought of a large room. Finally he fell into a fitful sleep with these verses echoing in his spirit: My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me … Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.

  Reluctantly, morning came, and with it, a stern-faced guard. “Shaw.”

  Harrison rubbed his eyes, grateful, at least, that his real name had not yet been discovered. “Yes.”

  “You’re being moved today.”

  Suddenly, he was wide awake. “Have I been acquitted?” Audacious hope. Still, he’d heard that Samuel Ruth had been honorably discharged from Thunder, thanks to habeas corpus Commissioner Sydney Baxter. Harrison had filed Baxter’s reports himself at the War Department! Surely the goodwill Harrison had established with the commissioner—

  “Acquitted?” The guard laughed. “Sentenced, is more like it.”

  Harrison felt the blood drain from his face as a noose loomed in his mind. He swallowed the bile backing up in his throat. So Milo had gotten through after all. “What hour?”

  “Twelve noon.”

  Harrison bowed his head, prayed for the strength to die nobly for his country, and for another to take his place in Sophie’s life to bring her the happiness she deserved.

  “That is, assuming the train is on time.”

  “Train?” Harrison’s thoughts chugged to keep up.

  “We need more space, and you need a lesson in Confederate patriotism. You’re going to the front, soldier. God knows the ranks have room for you there.”

  Richmond and Petersburg Depot, Richmond, Virginia

  Saturday, February 4, 1865

  Above the train station, snow eddied like cotton fluff against a sky of the palest blue silk. Nose and cheeks pinched with cold, Sophie carefully trod across the rutted, ice-enameled yard, hugging two parcels to her deep green velvet cloak.

  “Headed to Petersburg?” she asked the conductor as soon as she reached the platform.

  “That’s a fact. No room for civilians on this train, though.”

  “Oh no, I’m not going. These are for our soldiers there.” Her father in the 21st Virginia, and Joel and Asher Blair in their own regiment. One of the packages was from their mother, who was now abed with a racking cough. “Have you room for these parcels?” The Confederate Post Office below Spotswood was a disaster. The food she and Mrs. Blair packed to supplement the men’s rations would certainly spoil before it reached them if they had chosen that route.

  The conductor nodded, rolling his handlebar mustache between his forefinger and thumb. “That car there, if you’ll just set them inside the door.” He pointed. “It’ll reach them right quick.”

  Sophie nodded her thanks, the ostrich plume of her hat dipping into her view, and threaded through a crowd of women who were hoping for news from the front. Snowflakes flecked their shabby hats and tattered hems. Should we evacuate? Do they need more food? Are our boys in want? I’ve not got much food left but I’ll look for more jewelry to give the Treasury if it will help … Everyone suffered now, soldiers and civilians. They were starving for food and hope and assurance that the slain had not fallen in vain. Famine and suspense were shadows over Richmond that even the sun could not chase away.

  After feeding the boxes to the yawning boxcar, Sophie turned—and froze. For there, working his way through the snow-spotted women, was Harrison, a guard at his elbow. A pulpy, purple bruise swallowed his right eye, and his cheekbones pushed against his pale skin. But it was him—alive, and free of Castle Thunder.

  The guard addressed the conductor, pointing to Harrison, then to the train, and Sophie slowly walked toward them, the thin layer of snow muting her steps until she was close enough to touch him if she would but reach out. She didn’t.

  He raised his gaze to meet hers, and his hard brown eyes instantly flashed with recognition, betraying his shock at her presence. The guard and conductor raised their voices in a debate Sophie could not register, providing a covering for precious few whispered words.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked. His words, so casual. His eyes, deadly intent.

  Sophie shook her head. “Sending a parcel to Daddy, at the front.”

  Harrison cocked his eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll see him there.”

  “You’re not—going—to fight
?”

  “So to speak.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes as their conversation from months ago washed over her with crushing force. I’ll not fire against my own country, he’d said. They won’t hesitate to shoot at you! Her own words resurrected. She buried them in her throat. They had only seconds left, surely.

  “Listen.” He turned his body, so they were shoulder to shoulder, as mere strangers in the crowd. “You have business with Samuel Ruth. He waits for your call at his office.”

  Sophie understood. The railroad superintendent was free again, and ready to pass on valuable intelligence. Through Sophie. So many others in the network were still imprisoned, or in hiding.

  “Do not hesitate,” Harrison muttered, barely moving his lips. “No matter what.” He glanced at her, and his meaning thudded to the bottom of her stomach like a boulder. Their intelligence of Rebel movements, plans, and troop strength would no longer just endanger Lee’s army. It would put Harrison’s life in peril too, even more so than her father’s and Mrs. Blair’s sons. Native Virginians had no trouble defending themselves against the Union. Harrison, however, was caught on the wrong side of the line.

  Sophie’s breath shortened. How could she continue the work?

  “You must carry on. Follow your convictions, no matter the cost.”

  “Promise you’ll come back to me,” she whispered desperately.

  The ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. “I promise I’ll try.”

  She shook her head. “Say you’ll return.” Please, I beg you.

  “I don’t know if it’s true. I will not lie to you.” Without looking at her, he entwined his cool fingers with hers, their hands hidden in the velvet folds of her skirts. “Our times are in His hands, Sophie. Courage.”

  Soon, the train hissed and shrieked toward war with Harrison aboard. The snow thickened in the widening space between them, blotting him from view.

  By mid-March, courage was a rare commodity in all of Richmond. Sherman had captured and burned Columbia, South Carolina, and days after Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated for his second term, Sheridan scattered the remainder of General Early’s army in Virginia, cutting off the remaining source of food for the hundred thousand hungry in Richmond.

  Red flags fluttered outside houses along Clay Street, announcing the owners were auctioneering their furniture, or renting to the highest bidder. The price of flour spiked to $1200 a barrel. Confederate currency plummeted to $107 Confederate dollars for a single dollar in gold. Boxes and machinery were steadily dispatched down the Danville railroad. Tredegar shut down, and sent unfinished munitions via the James River canal toward Lynchburg. Lee was so desperate for men that the Confederate Congress finally passed a resolution allowing black men to take up arms for the South, a move that alienated many Southerners even further from the government. All of this, the Union military wanted to know. All of this Sophie told them, through Bella, her scribe and conduit to Elizabeth Van Lew. None of it gave Sophie pause. She had no reason to wonder if the intelligence would bring harm to the two men she loved.

  And then, one bright, wind-whipped day, she did.

  “Fort Stedman, you said?” Sophie sat across from the desk of Samuel Ruth in his office on Eighth Street and Broad. Outside, beneath a snapping Rebel flag, the Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac train screeched to a halt on its Broad Street tracks.

  “I’m sure of it.” Mr. Ruth’s deep voice rumbled. “It’s a Union-held fort along the siege line just outside of Petersburg. Gordon means to storm it as soon as the roads dry out.”

  Gordon. The 21st Virginia was under his command. Her father would be in that fight. Sophie closed her eyes against threatening tears.

  “If Fort Stedman falls to the Rebels, they could break the siege,” Mr. Ruth predicted. “The Union must be warned, post haste. Miss Kent.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “We could win. Petersburg is the key to Richmond. If it falls, so will Richmond, and thus, the entire Confederacy. The war could end, soon. But not if we lose Fort Stedman.”

  Do not hesitate. No matter the cost.

  Sophie nodded, both to Mr. Ruth, and to Harrison’s haunting voice. “I understand.” But would the cost of her convictions be her father?

  Capitol Square, Richmond, Virginia

  Wednesday, March 22, 1865

  The faint scent of a coming spring feathered Bella’s face as her heart beat in time with the fife and drum. The lawns of Capitol Square churned to mud beneath the feet of thousands who had come to watch this historic event. Just nine days after Congress approved enlisting black soldiers, the first three companies proudly paraded here in their new uniforms.

  Bella scanned the faces around her, and did not find much pride among them. Curiosity, perhaps. In some cases, disgust.

  “Ridiculous affair,” a voice near Bella said. “Arming Negroes as soldiers elevates them above slavery. The government undermines the very foundation of the country. Besides, it’s too late for these men to do any good for Lee anyhow.” Bella prayed the woman was right.

  “They’re as good as free now,” a Negro woman on Bella’s other side murmured. “As soon as they do their duty, they’ll be free.”

  And if the North wins, you’ll all be free. Bella watched the colored troops strutting through the square, and visions of Abraham in his crisp blue uniform swam in her mind. She had no idea what had become of him. Surely he could have sent a message somehow, couldn’t he? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something had happened to him—or maybe he’d escaped to West Virginia, leaving her in Richmond alone. After I came here for him more than a year ago! Wildly, her emotions swung and struggled, until she could not determine which was uppermost. Fear? Dismay? Resentment? She closed her eyes, and saw his face again. Longing. Yes, that was it. She ached for her husband, no matter what kept them apart.

  Bella’s eyes popped open, and she refocused on what was in front of her. Wishing never did anybody any good anyhow. She would put one foot in front of the other, just like those marching troops stomping in time to their martial music. God would forgive her if she did not match their springing steps. Fatigue and uncertainty shackled her. She was so weary. Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee. Unshed tears ached in her throat. The verses that bloomed in her spirit now were the same words that had bolstered her in Gettysburg during and after that battle. Lord, she prayed. Abraham may be gone, but You’re right here beside me. And “who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?” No. We are more than conquerors through him that loved us.

  As the troops filed out of the square, the crowd dispersed. Bella headed east, toward home.

  About a block outside of Capitol Square, Bella was surprised to see Susan Kent among those strolling along the sidewalk not ten yards in front of her. She was even more surprised when Susan veered from the path toward home, and toward the city’s densest concentration of brothels.

  She wouldn’t. But the girl’s scars were obviously more than skin-deep. Would she? Bella pursed her lips. Prostitution was not the answer. Quietly, she followed Susan until they were in an alley three blocks east of Capitol Square, where the ground was littered with scattered hay and horse manure from nearby livery stables, and women bared themselves shamelessly in picture windows, enticing a steady stream of customers.

  Susan paused, her veiled gaze turned toward a bawdy house, and Bella’s skin crawled as though vermin already crept over it. She could keep silent no longer.

  “Miss Kent.”

  Susan startled, then turned, eyes wide behind the netting draped from the brim of her hat. “Daphne?”

  Bella closed the distance between them. “Miss Kent, whatever problem you’re chewing on, this here isn’t going to wash it away.” She jerked her head toward the prostitutes in the window. “This is no solution for you.”

  “And how would you know
that?”

  “You’ve got an emptiness inside you, I can see that. But this will only make the hole grow bigger, Miss Kent. What you’re craving won’t be fulfilled this way. It’s wrong.”

  Susan smiled. “Haven’t you noticed? ‘Wrong’ seems to be my specialty. At least according to my father.”

  “Don’t prove him right, now. You go down this road, you may never come back. You’ll die empty, alone, and young. You won’t last five years before disease will riddle you and take your life.”

  “Riddled.” Susan snorted. “I’ve already been riddled with disease, you fool. Can you not see the bullet holes in my skin?”

  “You still have a life to live.”

  Susan shook her head defiantly. “What life? The only life I ever wanted to live is dead. If it wasn’t ruined with my own scandal, it was buried along with this sorry Confederacy. No man will have me. My own father hates me.”

  “But do you hate yourself? That’s the only reason I can think of that would have you throwing yourself away like this.”

  Susan hated being invisible. She wanted to belong to someone, even if only for a few moments. She was desperate to feel wanted, on any level, since she could never be loved the way her ex-husband loved his Caitlin, and the way Oliver Shaw loved Sophie. But even beyond that, she needed an income. Susan couldn’t—she wouldn’t—stay at her father’s house forever. She just needed a little something to help her get started somewhere else …

  Daphne was still talking. “You have a roof over your head, and as much food as anyone else in this starving town. You don’t need to do this to survive.”

  Susan narrowed her eyes at her sister’s maidservant. Never in her life had a slave spoken to her in this manner. Her chin was up, her gaze meeting Susan’s directly. Why, she even used proper English grammar! Worse, she spoke to Susan as though she were her equal. But she wasn’t. Where on earth did she get these airs? This slave was preaching to Susan with as much boldness as Mrs. Blair had so many months ago, and a few times since—and with as much success. None.