Spy of Richmond

by Jocelyn Green

  Out on the porch, the half-moon was so bright she turned off the lamp and enjoyed the view in shades of blue and grey. Cool air feathered her face as she rocked. Inhaling the sweet scent of her wild roses, she relaxed to a chorus of bullfrogs and chirping crickets.

  And Daisy.

  Daisy? The horse never made a sound, unless she were angry. Or afraid.

  Senses suddenly sharpened, Libbie picked up the lamp once more and circled the house, the ground like a sponge chilling the bottoms of her bare feet. She edged along the outside of the summer kitchen, crept around its corner until she could see the barn. A light shone fitfully between the wooden slats of the building.

  In a flash, her neighbor’s story from earlier today came back to her. A ragged set of Confederate cavalry had taken the town and were looking to take with them whatever they could get.

  One impulse told her to run toward the barn for Daisy, another told her to dash back to the house and lock herself inside. While her mind played tug of war over the decision, her chest heaved with uncertain breath, her body stayed rooted to the ground.

  Until she was lifted off her feet, with a dirty hand clamped over her mouth from behind. A scream trapped in her throat, her stomach roiled with the smell and taste of tobacco.

  “Wade! Jud! See what I found sneaking around!” His fingers dug into her cheeks, the other hand pressed hard against her corsetless middle. Disgust curdled the milk in her stomach.

  Two figures emerged from the barn, the taller of them leading Daisy, who was tossing her mane and twitching her tail. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like we both got ourselves a feisty little filly, Amos!” He came closer and raked over Libbie’s body with his gaze. “Only problem I can tell is which one to ride first.”

  Liberty’s stomach threatened to reject its contents. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to retain control.

  A drunken laugh gurgled out of Amos’s belly, bringing with it a belch of whiskey. “I got use for her yet. Now listen here, girlie girl. I ain’t never seen a summer kitchen so bare as this one here. Do you mean to tell me you got nothing else to give?” He removed his hand from her face. “Answer sweet.”

  Libbie rubbed her aching cheeks. “I have nothing else to give.” Her voice shook. The taste of bile was thick in her mouth.

  “The devil you don’t. Get in there.” Eyes suddenly flashing fire, Amos shoved her through the door and followed her in. “Jud, stay outside with the horse.” He called over his shoulder to a boy who looked to be no more than fifteen years old, while Wade stumbled into the summer kitchen, too. The walls seemed to close in around Libbie as the lamp threw light and shadows in sharp angles all over the room. Broken shards of her ceramic mixing bowls were strewn about the floor, along with pots and pans. A drawer full of cooking utensils had been overturned. “You’ve already been here,” Liberty began again, louder this time, “I have noth—”

  A hard slap across her face and the metallic taste of blood from her lip silenced her.

  Wade yanked and twisted her arms behind her back before she knew what was happening.

  “Now you listen to me.” Amos’s voice was low, his breath rotten. The blade of a penknife glinted in the lamplight inches next to her face. “We here are hungry. And you know what’s worse? Our women are too. Maybe you heard about the bread riots down South? How do you think it makes a man feel to know his womenfolk are in tatters, breaking into a bakery and fighting over a loaf of bread like common beggars?” His cracked lips quivered. “FEED US!” He pulled a revolver from his waistband, and Libbie jerked, squeezed her eyes shut.

  A gunshot split the air and shattered the glass from the window behind her. Smoke floated from the barrel of Amos’s gun, swirling in the air and choking Libbie.

  “All right!” she said between sobs. “Just let—me—go.” Preserving her supply of provisions wasn’t worth whatever harm these desperate men were willing to inflict upon her. She had no idea how she’d recoup her losses. Right now, she didn’t care.

  Wade released her slowly. Pulling the work table away from the fireplace, Liberty knelt to remove the loose bricks, fear and anger throbbing in her veins. A box of baking soda was the first to come out. The men tore it open and poured the white powder into their mouths while Libbie watched in wonder. The soldiers’ appetites flared into a raging desire, and they shoved her out of the way to dig out the rest of her stores themselves. In seconds, the dirt floor was littered with flour, oats, preserves, tomatoes. As they stuffed their faces and their haversacks, Liberty sat on her heels and felt her face grow wet with tears. I hate the Rebels! I hate them!

  “Put it back.”

  All heads turned to the doorway. No one had heard him enter, but there he stood in the edge of the lamp’s amber glow.

  “Where’d you come from?” With two grimy fingers, Wade scooped blueberry preserves into his mouth.

  “I followed you when you snuck off from the railroad bridge at Rock Creek. You made it easy, too, leaving a scent trail of whiskey so thick it could make a man drunk just to smell it.” He stepped around the food and knelt down in front of Liberty.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, green eyes penetrating hers. “Some folks just don’t know how to treat a lady.”

  Libbie sucked in her breath. The stranger who came for bread this morning! “What? Who—? Do you know these men? But—but—” Her gaze darted between the soldiers eating flour off the floor and the man kneeling in front of her. “You don’t look like a Rebel!”

  And you don’t look like a widow. Silas’s heart lurched at the sight of her tear-stained face. The girl—no, woman—didn’t deserve such hard knocks in her young life. Smelling of apples and cinnamon, her dark hair hung in a loose, glossy braid over her shoulder. Memory surged in Silas, and he saw her as the orphan he’d found crying here before. I burned the bread, she’d explained without looking up. Aunt Helen says I’m worthless, and I should stop trying to help before I ruin anything else. All he could do at the time was eat the loaf’s blackened heel and assure her it was still good. This time, he could do more.

  Resisting the urge to push a strand of hair off Liberty’s forehead, he scanned her face. Was it anger he read in her expression? Or just confusion? Or—“They hurt you?”

  Blue eyes glittering, she touched a finger to her split, swollen lip. A red handprint on her cheek sent a blade of heat slicing through his chest. He stood and rounded on the men crouched on their haunches, surrounded by their own mess.

  “Stand up.” Anger steeled his voice.

  They frowned but stumbled to their feet, still chewing.

  Undisciplined, drunken fools. Sorry excuses for soldiers if I ever saw any. “How dare you touch this unarmed woman!” Silas’s hands clenched into rock-hard weapons. But he would not fight, no matter how tempting. Words, not fists, he said to himself, and uncurled his fingers. He had to be careful. He had to control himself.

  “She’s a Yank!”

  “She is a private citizen, and a lady!” Silas took a deep breath and grit his teeth, alarmed at the fire burning in his belly. He hadn’t felt like this since—but that was in the past. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe … Words, not fists. He lowered his tone. “You do realize, gentlemen, that you are defying two orders right now? No drinking. And no harassing civilians. General Early is acquiring what we need by purchasing—not looting—supplies from the town merchants. You need not, and must not, raid private property.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Tomato juice dribbled into Wade’s patchy beard as he spoke. “The town don’t have enough goods to share! So you see, it’s up to us to get the food we need, hats and shoes, too.”

  “It is not up to you.” Silas stepped closer, straightened to his full height, and looked down at them. “We’ll get more supplies from York tomorrow. You are to leave the civilians alone.”

  “Says who?”

  “General Robert E. Lee, Order Number 73. Flyers were printed up and passed out to everyone—didn’t you get it?”

>   Wade shrugged. “Gettin’ it and readin’ it is two different things, now ain’t they?”

  Silas pulled a paper from his pants pocket and held it out to them. “Read it.”

  Neither one took it.

  “Chicken scratches,” Amos finally said, and Silas understood. They can’t read. He should have guessed as much. One out of every three soldiers he met in Lee’s army was illiterate.

  “Then allow me,” said Silas, and Liberty rose to stand next to him, her lamplight falling upon the paper. “‘The commanding general considers that no greater disgrace could befall the army, and through it our whole people, than the perpetration of the barbarous outrages upon the unarmed, and defenceless, and the wanton destruction of private property that have marked the course of the enemy in our own county.’”

  Silas glanced at the two soldiers’ faces. They looked down at their splayed open shoes.

  “‘It must be remembered that we make war only upon armed men,’” Silas continued, “‘and that we cannot take vengeance for the wrongs our people have suffered without lowering ourselves in the eyes of all whose abhorrence has been excited by the atrocities of our enemies, and offending against Him to whom vengeance belongeth, without whose favor and support our efforts must all prove in vain. The commanding general enjoins upon all officers to arrest and bring to summary punishment all who shall in any way offend against the orders on this subject.’” Silas tucked the paper back into his pocket.

  “Bunch of big word balderdash, if you ask me.” Wade licked his fingers as he flicked his gaze to Amos, who nodded. “Made no sense at all.”

  Silas sighed. “I’ll make it simple for you. First, you are not to repay evil for evil. Let God do that. Second—” He pulled from his coat two pairs of handcuffs the provost guard let him borrow. “You are under arrest.”

  “You can’t do that, you ain’t got no rank!”

  “Order Number 73 says I can.” Actually, it said officers could do the arresting. But Silas could restrain and bring them to their superiors, who had their hands full burning the railroad bridge at the moment. And the two were drunk enough they didn’t have enough wits about them to put up much of a fight, either mental or physical.

  Handcuffs securely in place on both men, Silas surveyed the wreckage of the room before turning to Liberty. “I can fix this.”

  “Please just go. I’ll clean it up myself.” But her shaking voice betrayed her.

  “I’m sorry—”

  She shook her head, cheapening his apology, and a ringlet of hair slipped from her braid and bobbed next her face. “What about my horse?”

  “Can’t have her.” Amos spat on the ground. “Contraband of war, and you know it.”

  “Horses of the Union army are contraband. You take the horse of a private citizen, that’s just plain stealing.” He turned back to her. “The horse is yours.”

  She flattened her full lips into a thin line. “I don’t know if I should thank you or tell you to get off my property, Mr …” She looked at him expectantly.

  Silas Ford, man of the Lord …

  Wade grunted. “Hey Johnny, I’m about to need a privy, so …”

  Billy Yank on the inside, Johnny Reb on the outside. It was as good a name as any, and a whole lot better than Silas Ford. “Just call me Johnny.” Somehow, he managed a smile. “For your sake, I hope we never meet again. Now let’s get your horse from Jud and leave you in peace.”

  But when they stepped back into the night, Jud and the horse were gone. He’d been proven a liar. Again.

  Libbie awoke with a start and a crick in her neck. Peeling herself off her windowsill, she struggled to remember why she would have been sleeping, fully clothed, on a chair beside the window in her bedroom. Her mind still felt murky from exhaustion. Then she remembered. The Rebel raiders. The man named Johnny.

  He knew the movements of Lee’s army. He had a copy of Lee’s order in his pocket! He had to be one of them. Didn’t he? She should hate him, the way she hated the others. She should not warm at the memory of how he looked at her. Defended her. She shuddered to imagine what could have happened if he hadn’t come when he did.

  Stiffly, she rose from her chair. After splashing some water on her face at the washstand, she sat at the vanity, unplaited her braid and gave it one hundred strokes with the horsehair brush, trying to wipe the stranger’s face from her mind with every pull before taming her curls into a thick knot at the nape of her neck. He did say he hopes we never meet again.

  With that thought firmly in her mind, she went downstairs and let the screen door bang behind her as she and Major crossed the dew-kissed ground to the barn.

  Just as she suspected, it was empty. Daisy was still gone. In all probability, she was now the mount of a Confederate cavalryman, thanks to Jud sneaking off with her. The few chickens and the rooster Libbie kept for eggs lay silently on the sweet-smelling hay, their necks wrung. Jud must have forgotten to take them when he left with Daisy. No horse, no chickens, no eggs. The barn was a mere shell, with nothing left to shelter.

  Numb, Liberty sank to the ground and stared absently at the dust mites dancing in the sunbeams streaming down through the hayloft. Major sat down next to her, sniffing the air. She wrapped her arm around the big dog’s neck, and he leaned into her, the motion of his wagging tail gently rippling through his body and into hers.

  She should get up. She should check the garden and the springhouse, with its crocks of butter and bottles of milk staying cool in the waters of Willoughby Run.

  Sitting in a heap won’t bring anything back, that’s sure. Time to get busy. Libbie rose, brushed the dirt and hay from her skirt, and checked the rest of her outbuildings, Major ever at her heels. The summer kitchen was even more of a mess in the glaring light of day than it had been under the cover of semidarkness.

  Major stayed in the summer kitchen lapping up the food on the ground while Liberty stalked back to the farmhouse to put on her apron, frustration churning in her gut. It was time to clean up.

  Suddenly, footsteps whispered from somewhere inside the house. Alarm rang in her ears. Not again! She bounded up the stairs to the back door. Locked!

  Heart pounding, she hiked up a fistful of skirts and dashed back to the summer kitchen, snatched up the first thing she could reach—a washboard—and rushed around to the front of the house.

  Noiselessly, she slipped through the door, sidled along the front hall and peeked around the corner, palms sweating into the weathered wood frame of the metal washboard. I should have grabbed the iron skillet. How much damage can a washboard do?

  “Liberty?”

  The washboard fell from her hand and clattered to the floor as she wheeled around. There stood a woman draped in black, complete with a weeping veil covering her face. Liberty’s body froze, her mind reeled. But not a single idea gained traction.

  “It’s me. Amelia Sanger. Your mother-in-law? I’m so sorry I startled you.”

  Liberty’s breath seized as Amelia removed her veil. “But what—what are you doing here?”

  “Please, call me Mama. We are family, aren’t we?” In an embrace that smelled too thickly of lavender, Amelia pressed Liberty to herself before holding her at arm’s length.

  “I don’t understand.” Libbie’s voice sounded more like a child’s than a woman’s, and she hated herself for it.

  “I must say, Liberty, I don’t either.” Her eyes took her in from the top of her head to the red petticoat peeping out from beneath her blue floral calico. Just last week, she and the rest of the Ladies Union Relief Society had stripped all their white petticoats into bandages and sent them away, where they could be useful. “Have you forgotten my son so soon?”

  She gaped, embarrassed at first. But hadn’t she fought this battle already, over and over, to be free from Levi’s death? Tasting anger, she found her voice: “The fact that I no longer wear the color black does not mean I have forgotten Levi, Mrs. Sanger.” She would not call her Mama. She was not her mother. They wer
e not family—not anymore.

  The woman sighed. “You must forgive me. And if you won’t call me Mama, at least call me Amelia.” Her face looked pinched and pale. Snood-covered pecan brown hair was dusted with grey at the temples, reminding Libbie that Levi had been her miracle child, come later in life. “You can have no idea what I’ve been through to get here.”

  “Please, tell me why you’ve come, but sit first.” She followed her to the front parlor where they sat at a marble-topped table. “You’ve chosen a fine time to travel. Don’t you know Lee’s army is here? Rebels raided the place last night. I thought you were one of them.”

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” Amelia’s eyes went round. “When I arrived and didn’t find you at home, I began to fear all was not well.”

  All is not well. But, “I’m fine. They took my mare, killed the chickens, wreaked havoc in the summer kitchen, and helped themselves to the springhouse. But I am unhurt.” She hoped her face bore no trace of Amos’s slap.

  Amelia nodded, and her eyes glazed. “I did not choose the time for our journey. Hiram—my husband—has just died, you see—”

  “I’m so sorry,” Liberty whispered, but Amelia waved the condolence away.

  “We knew his time was near, and so did he. He made it very clear that he wanted our family to be buried together. ‘Parted in life, but not parted in death,’ he told us. Family was always the most important thing to him. To all of us.” She dabbed her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. “We never dreamed that Levi would be the first to be buried, but—well, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. So here we are.”

  Confusion creased Libbie’s brow. “You’ve come to take his body back to Ohio?”

  “No, my dear girl.” Amelia’s voice warbled. “We considered that, but decided against it. Poor Levi has been moved enough, has he not?”

  Liberty closed her eyes. She would not let her mind travel back to the awful trip she made by rail with his coffin.