The outer door opened once again. Ross, followed by several guards and a Confederate officer, confronted the unusual assortment of people crowding his domain. A fiendish sneer spread across his face.
“Good afternoon again, ladies and gentlemen. I trust that our Northern guests have given you sufficient amusement for the day.” He stepped aside and held the door open, allowing the cold wind to blow in.
“Please be so kind as to leave us to our duties now,” Ross continued, ushering the crowd out to the muddy street. As one woman passed him, he said in a loud stage whisper. “I do hope that you are not taking too many of our lice with you. We need to keep as many as possible for our prisoners.”
He grinned with satisfaction when the women screamed and the men swore. Once the room cleared of the visitors, Ross turned to the officer who had accompanied him. “Sorry about that intrusion, sir. The local population do enjoy their visits here, and General Winder insists that we accommodate them as best we can.”
“No apology necessary,” said the officer whose back was to Rob and Julia. “I imagine that you are well compensated for your inconvenience.”
The two men laughed. Beside her, Julia heard Rob suck in his breath. His body grew taut.
“Major Claypole!” he raged, glaring at the visitor. “Damn your white-livered soul!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sheer, blind panic swept through Scott Claypole at the sound of that all-too-familiar voice. He broke into a cold sweat. He could hear his future crumble down around him like a house of cards. His ears rang as the word “traitor” screamed in his mind.
He was a dead man. Unless—
Ross pounced on the situation like a cat on a mouse. A pensive look rose in his cold eyes, making Claypole uneasy. “Do you have the pleasure of knowing our Major Montgomery, General?” the wily clerk asked.
“General!” Rob exploded. “That weasel is nothing but a lickspittle major in the Federal army.”
Ross’s lips thinned in an evil smile. “Oh, then you have made each other’s acquaintance before, I see.” He addressed Montgomery. “General Clayton here has been the greatest help with our prison facilities. Unfortunately, your Sanitation Commission sends so many boxes of supplies for the prisoners that we cannot possibly store them all,” he explained in a soft, singsong voice as if he were speaking to a child.
“Indeed, we were hard pressed to know what to do with all those hams, canned peaches, condensed milk, butter, cakes, jams and other assorted luxuries that we consider to be far too rich for our prisoners’ diets. Only this morning, we received a thousand perfectly good wool blankets. How can we possibly find room for them in our warehouse? Several years ago, General Clayton presented me with the most marvelous and beneficial plan, whereby these Yankee dainties are sold to our good city’s hotels and restaurants—at even more inflated prices than usual. But that is the cost of doing business during wartime, is it not, General?”
While Ross outlined Claypole’s lucrative black market operation in excruciating detail, the major tried to formulate a plan. Should he acknowledge his identity or pretend that Montgomery was mistaken?
“General?” Ross prompted him.
Claypole pivoted slowly around to face his accuser. To his relief, he saw that two guards now restrained Rob. His eyes widened when he spied Miss Chandler standing next to him. The major made a snap decision.
He swept off his gold braided kepi. “Good afternoon, Miss Chandler. I am most surprised to see you in this den of iniquity.”
The beauty stepped backward toward the bench. “I do not believe that I know you, sir.” Her jade eyes turned a deeper shade of green.
“You don’t want to,” Montgomery snarled. “He’s the devil himself.”
If looks could kill, Claypole would have been a dead man. Fortunately, Montgomery could do nothing, though his rebuke in front of the delectable Miss Chandler stung Claypole’s ego.
Summoning all his arrogance, he said to Ross. “I am surprised to see Major Montgomery in your tender mercies, Erasmus, but I suspect that you do not fully know whom you are harboring. Our good, upright and honest major here is one of the senior operatives in the service of the United States Office of Military Intelligence.” To Miss Chandler, he added, “That means spying, my dear. Your sweetheart lies, cheats and steals for a living. I would take anything he says to you with a grain of salt.”
She turned a little pale. “Oh!” she murmured.
Montgomery spoke over his shoulder to her, “Do not believe everything you hear about me, Julia. What is between us is true.”
She said nothing, but looked like a moth mesmerized by a flame. Claypole licked his lips. Perhaps he should offer to console her over a lavish dinner in one of Main Street’s restaurants. Miss Chandler looked a little pinched and in need of sustenance—and other delights.
Claypole returned his attention to Montgomery. To save his own life, the major must die. “You will notice that the Yankee does not deny my accusation, Erasmus. I think that you should confine this prisoner to the solitary cells. Put him on half rations and let him rot there.” To Rob, he added, “It is unfortunate that there is no evidence to hang you for spying, Montgomery, but I will look into that matter.”
Montgomery lunged against his guards. “You will not get away with this, Claypole. I swear that I will bring you down.”
He found the threat laughable. “That would be amusing to see, Rob, though I will not hold my breath in anticipation.”
Ross narrowed his eyes, then snapped his fingers to the guards. “Put him in the basement.” He shook his head at the prisoner. “Tut, tut, Major, I am most disappointed in you. I thought I told you to behave.”
Montgomery did not look at either man, but at Miss Chandler. “Please believe in me, Julia. I am true to you.”
Though she looked near tears, she gave him a tremulous smile. “And I love you, Rob,” she whispered.
Her sentiment galled Claypole, and disturbed him as well. He wondered if she knew anything about his true identity, and if she was still loyal to the South. As the guards dragged Montgomery away, Claypole sidled over to her and touched his cap’s brim. “I can see that this distasteful affair has been quite a shock for you, Miss Chandler. Allow me to escort you from this place and take you to dinner? A little decent food will help restore your good spirits, I’m sure.”
She had the audacity to turn up her nose at him. Then she stepped around him, lifting her hem as if contact with him might foul her. Addressing Ross, she asked, “Please do see that my basket is given to the poor men upstairs? Miss Lizzie would be much annoyed if she thought that you mistreated her little gifts for the prisoners, Mr. Ross.”
Once again she detected that strange gleam of kindness in the depths of this hard man’s eyes. He nodded. “Please tell Miss Lizzie that I will do all I can for her. Understand me? You will tell her that?”
Before Miss Chandler could reply, a large black man pushed himself away from the far wall. “If she forgets, I will,” he rumbled. Then he spoke to the lady. “Come along now, Miss Julia. I think you have been here long enough for one day.”
She glanced at Scott, then Ross. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Wilson,” she replied.
Scott had no further chance to press his offer. The big black man whisked her out the door.
“I will inform Colonel Turner of this new twist, General,” Ross said, pointing to the closed door that led to the office of Libby’s notorious commandant. “I am sure that he will want to express his gratitude to you later this evening at supper. Where are you staying?”
Claypole buttoned his greatcoat, then flicked a bit of dust off the elaborate gold lace that wound up his sleeve. “At the Exchange Hotel. Room 314. Tell Colonel Turner that I will await his company with pleasure.” He adjusted his kepi on his head. With his hand on the doorknob, he added, “And mind you, Erasmus, keep that Yankee under close guard. He may be one-armed, but that makes him all the more cunning.”
Ross nodded. “Have no worry on that score, General Clayton. I will make Major Montgomery my special ward.”
Claypole stepped outside where he was greeted with smirks, winks and choice remarks by the nymphes du monde across the road. Normally, he would have returned their attentions with pleasure, but today his mind was weighed down with fears for his future.
One particular question nagged at him above all others. What the hell was Montgomery doing in Libby Prison?
When Lizzie Van Lew heard the story of the morning’s encounter from Wilson, she put Julia to bed with a hot water bottle and a large bowl of chicken soup. She sat by the girl’s bedside while she ate.
“And you are quite certain that your major made no mistake about this general?” she asked, skewering Julia with a penetrating stare.
Julia swallowed a spoonful of the nourishing soup before she replied. “Quite. I could tell Rob was incensed to see him. Called him a traitor.”
Lizzie made a note in her small ivory-backed memorandum book. “And you say that Rob called the man by a different name?”
Julia nodded. “I distinctly heard him say Claypole, while Mr. Ross called him General Clayton. I wondered at the difference. I noticed that the general didn’t deny anything that Rob said. It was a very heated exchange.” She shuddered.
Lizzie jotted down that information. Then she sucked on the end of her pencil while she considered her next step. Of course, she would immediately send Wilson off to the family’s farm in Henrico County with an urgent message hidden inside Wilson’s boot heel for her “dear uncle,” Union General Benjamin Butler. “Uncle” could forward it on to the proper authorities in Military Intelligence.
Whomever this Clayton/Claypole really was, Lizzie smelled him for a rat. If Julia’s sweetheart called him a traitor, then he probably was one. In the meantime, she herself would visit Libby before Ross conducted the prisoner roll call at four. For the sake of the upcoming breakout, Montgomery must not languish long in one of those wretched dens.
“Miss Lizzie?” Julia interrupted her thoughts. “What is going on?”
Pulling herself together, she smiled at the girl. “You have had a shock today. Everything will be straightened out eventually—”
Shaking her head, Julia put her soup bowl on the bedside table. “No, I can tell that you are planning to do something. What is it?”
Lizzie eyed her with misgiving. Julia was a bright young thing who had spent a great deal of time investigating the contents of Lizzie’s late father’s library. Perhaps she was even sharper than her hostess had anticipated. “Whatever do you mean, child?”
Julia enumerated on her fingers as she stared steadily at her hostess. “For one thing, you had Christopher and Wilson tack up dark blankets over the windows in the back parlor—a room that is on the shady side of the house. You write a lot of letters, yet your inkwell is always full. I know that there is a hidden bedroom on the third floor under the eaves.”
Lizzie gripped her notebook. “Have you been snooping around my house, young lady?”
“No, ma’am.” Julia looked a little hurt by the suggestion. “I heard something crash hard on the floor one morning when you were out. I thought your mother had fallen from her bed, so I rushed upstairs to help her. I saw a little door open at the end of the hall and a man inside. Naturally, I was frightened.”
Lizzie could well imagine. “And curious.”
Julia nodded slowly. “Exactly. I think I scared that poor young private as much as he scared me. We stared at each other for a breathless moment. He put his finger to his lips and then he…he…” She lowered her head with a shy grin.
“He what?” Lizzie expected all her “midnight visitors” to behave themselves while recuperating in her home. As she recalled, that boy from Ohio had been particularly lively despite his severe case of frostbite. “Just what did my nephew do?”
“Nephew?” Julia laughed. “He winked at me before he closed the door.” Her expression grew more serious. “And yes, I did notice that he wore a very ragged Federal uniform and that his feet were bandaged. I suspect that you are a Unionist, Miss Lizzie. That’s why some of your neighbors call you a witch. And I also think that you do a lot more activities than just send books and cookies to Libby Prison.”
“And will you denounce me to the provost marshal?”
Julia sighed. “If you had asked me that question a year ago, I would have said yes, but that was before I fled my sheltered life. Now I have seen the face of war for myself, and I hate what it has done to all of us.”
“You met your major from New York,” Lizzie remarked dryly. “That would have never happened except for the war.”
Julia smiled with a secret sparkle in her eyes. “I cannot think of Rob as my enemy, even if he is a spy like that man said he was. To me, Rob has behaved only with gallantry, kindness and a great deal of understanding.” She giggled. “Can you keep a secret?”
Lizzie nodded. If Julia only knew the secrets that she kept! “Of course!”
“The very first time I ever met Rob, I asked him to…to…ruin me.”
Lizzie gaped at the young woman. “My word! You are full of surprises, Julia. Please tell me everything. And afterward, I think I had better tell you a few facts about young men.”
Payton Norwood swirled the amber brandy in the bottom of his snifter, then drank it down in one gulp. Thus fortified, he returned to the financial mess in front of him. His string of racehorses were eating their heads off. Their feed bill was two years in arrears and the price of corn and hay had doubled since December. Also, his grocer in Richmond sent a message informing him that there would be no more credit for Belmont until the current debt had been resolved. Payton balled up that obnoxious note and threw it into the low hearth fire that took off the chill of this dreary February day.
His debts could have been resolved by now if he were married to that wayward cousin of his. Cursing Julia under his breath, he poured more of his dwindling stock of brandy. Someone tapped on his study door.
“Who is it?” he growled. If it was that lazy housekeeper of his with yet another complaint, he’d have her whipped.
Barlow stuck his greasy head around the door. Payton motioned him inside. “Did you find her?”
Silas Barlow, a man of low means and no principles, had spent the past few weeks trolling the high spots and foul dens of Richmond in search of Julia. Payton used his services on the occasions when he required nefarious help of one kind or another.
Without offering the man a seat or a drink, he snarled, “Well?”
Barlow sucked on his teeth before replying. “Yep, she’s a pretty little thing. She keeps herself to herself and never goes abroad alone.”
Payton knew better than to hurry the man. Barlow turned downright nasty when irritated. “So you’ve seen her? You’re sure it’s Miss Chandler?”
Barlow sucked some more, then said. “Yep. Found she had checked into the Spotswood couple of weeks ago.”
“Spotswood,” Payton repeated. Unfortunately, a very public and respectable place. It would be difficult to drag Julia out of there kicking and screaming.
“But she checked out after one night,” Barlow drawled.
Payton frowned. “Where did she go from there?” He drummed his fingers on the desktop.
Barlow stared at the brandy decanter. “Talking sure do give a man a thirst,” he observed.
Payton swallowed his ire, and poured a small splash into one of his late father’s crystal glasses. Without a word, he pushed it across the desk.
Barlow took a long time savoring his liquor. Payton figured he was planning to ask for more money, and tried to calculate how much ready cash he had on hand.
After draining the last drop, Barlow continued. “She dropped out of sight. For a week I couldn’t find her. Even paid a visit to Miss Livy’s crib on Locust Alley to see if she had taken on a new girl. She had.”
Payton sat up in his chair. Julia in a house of prostitution?
�
�But it weren’t her. Nice-looking gal though. Same color of hair, but not her. But Miss Livy did say something about seeing another redhead visiting down at Libby. She and some of her gals go down there to aggravate those incarcerated Yankees.”
Payton sat back, slightly disappointed. Libby Prison—he should have thought of that, since that blasted Yankee major was probably kept there. He just didn’t expect that Julia would stoop so low as to visit a prison.
“So you saw her at Libby?”
“Nope, but I did some talking with a couple of the sentries and they sure had seen her. They were most impressed by her, though she had only been there twice.”
Payton’s fingers drummed faster. “So where is she now?”
“I’m coming to that part, but another drop of that fire-water would sure help with the telling.” Barlow’s eyes glinted in the firelight, giving him an uncomfortably feral look.
Payton poured a bit more brandy into the emptied glass, then put the decanter down on the floor behind the desk.
“Please go on,” he said. He clenched his teeth to keep himself from hurling invective at his minion.
Barlow sniffed the brandy and hummed under his breath. Then he sipped it for an extraordinarily long time, considering the small amount. Finally, he returned the glass to the desk. “She’s staying with Crazy Bet.”
Payton racked his memory. An eccentric elderly spinster. “What’s her real name?”
Barlow scratched his head. “Can’t rightly say, but she lives in a big old house up on Grace Street opposite Saint John’s Church. You couldn’t miss it even at midnight. I’d like my money now, if you please.”
“Not yet.” Payton pulled at his nose while he mulled over the information. “How many servants live there?”
Barlow shifted his weight. “Don’t know exactly. I’ve seen a couple of men go in and out. Big fellows, look like they know how to handle themselves in a fight. There’s a cook, but she never goes past the backyard. Then there are some other folk—not servants. Mostly young men with their hats pulled low. They come and go.”
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