March 1863
Tessie had just served breakfast in my room later that morning when Mr. St. John arrived at my front door. At the sound of the knock, Robert dove beneath the covers again, and I quickly composed myself and tried to walk calmly down the stairs to greet him. Mr. St. John’s disheveled appearance told me that he had also been robbed of a full night’s sleep. His angry face told me that he hadn’t come as my protector and friend.
“Won’t you come in?” I asked. “Esther just made breakfast if you would like some.”
“No, thank you.” He stepped inside the door so that Gilbert could close it against the March chill, but he would come no farther than the foyer. Nor would he allow Gilbert to take his coat and hat.
“I’ll come right to the point,” he said. “It pains me to have to ask you this, Caroline, but I must.Were you involved in last night’s prison break?”
I chose my words cautiously, careful not to lie. “I was home asleep in my bed at the time. I had no idea they planned to escape last night. I admit that I continued to visit my cousin after you asked me not to, and I admit that he sometimes talked of escaping— but doesn’t every prisoner?”
“Did you show him where to dig the tunnel?”
I recalled how Eli had pushed me aside so he could draw the diagram for Robert, and I thanked God for his wisdom in doing so. “No,” I answered honestly. “I didn’t show Robert where to dig.”
“They’ve recaptured some twenty men—”
“Was Robert one of them?”
“No. But the major says one of those he recaptured confessed that a woman was involved.”
“Major Turner is lying. If he has evidence against me, why doesn’t he arrest me?”
“Because I won’t allow it. Turner is convinced you were involved. Some of the sentries reported that you were snooping around the Towing Company last winter.”
“I inquired about having my furniture shipped to safety. Is that against the law?”
Mr. St. John bristled at my sharp tongue and I immediately regretted my outspokenness. He raised his finger and shook it at me. “I’d be careful how I spoke if I were you, Caroline. You are in a very dangerous position right now.”
“I’m sorry. Look, they searched my house thoroughly and didn’t find any trace of Robert. Don’t you think I’ve been harassed enough? If Charles knew how I was being treated, he would—”
“You wouldn’t be a suspect if you had heeded my warnings and stayed away from the prison.”
“I’m starting to think you believe Major Turner. You have your doubts about me and my loyalties, don’t you? Would you like to search my house, too?”
“Charles has a right to know if you were involved. As his father, so do I. If you loved him and respected his family’s name, you would have stayed well away from Libby.”
“My love for Charles has nothing to do with this. I would be happy to let you read the letter he wrote me. He said he admired me for doing what I felt was right and visiting the prison. I mean no disrespect, Mr. St. John, but it’s up to Charles, not you, to decide if I’ve acted appropriately. It’s his place to question me and to decide my guilt or innocence when he gets home. Now, I’ve answered your questions, and you obviously don’t believe me. I don’t know what more I can do.”
He studied me for a long moment, and I feared that I had made him angry again. But the expression on his face was one of confusion and bewilderment, not anger. I saw Mr. St. John for what he was—an aging, unwell man, not my enemy. He was as sick of this war and the hard choices it forced him to make as I was.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he said. He turned and walked out the door, limping down the path to his carriage.
Robert may have been freed from Libby Prison but he was still a virtual prisoner in my house. With an intense search for the escapees going on in Richmond and the surrounding countryside, it was much too dangerous for him to risk leaving. Fearing another surprise search by Major Turner, Tessie and I decided to sleep in Mother’s room for the next few days so we could continue to hide Robert in my bedroom.
After Mr. St. John left that morning, we hauled buckets of hot water upstairs, filling the copper bathtub so Robert could bathe. Luella doused his shaggy hair with turpentine and wrapped it in rags to kill the lice, then Gilbert trimmed it short after it had been scrubbed clean. Robert’s long beard and mustache also had to go because of the vermin. Gilbert, who had barbered Daddy countless times, was given the job of shaving him, too.
Meanwhile, Tessie and Ruby worked to let out all the seams and hems in one of Daddy’s old suits and altered one of his shirts so they would fit Robert. I burned his Federal uniform in the library’s fireplace. The only things we couldn’t replace were Robert’s shoes—the worn-out pair the Confederate soldier had left behind when he’d stolen Robert’s army boots. Daddy’s shoes were too small, Eli’s too large. Gilbert’s shoes fit him the best, but then Gilbert would need a new pair, and shoes in Richmond cost a small fortune these days. Robert would have to go without shoes until his leg healed.
When the transformation was complete, I hardly recognized Robert. He was much thinner and lankier than he’d ever been when we lived up north, and he was very pale from the lack of sunlight for the past year and a half. But his bearing and demeanor were what had changed the most since our days in Philadelphia.
There was an austere strength in his face from all that he’d endured, a rugged tilt to his jaw that made him look fierce for the first time in his life. The sadness in his gray poet’s eyes was gone, replaced by a hard glint like bayonet steel. Clean-shaven and dressed in Daddy’s clothes, Robert looked surprisingly handsome.
Within two weeks his leg was healing nicely—and forty-eight of the escaped prisoners had been recaptured. Two had drowned in the canal, but fifty-nine, including Robert, remained at large. “It’s time for me to go,” he repeated as he paced my bedroom floor to exercise his leg. I sat in a chair beside the fireplace, watching him.
“You can’t just walk out the door,” I told him. “For one thing, I think my house is still being watched. For another, every healthy young man your age is in the army. You’d stick out like a sore thumb. Besides, as soon as you open your mouth they’ll be able to tell you’re a Yankee. You need a plan.”
“I’ll leave at night.”
I shook my head. “That’s when they recaptured forty-eight of your fellow escapees. Listen, we still have Jonathan’s army jacket from when he was wounded. Esther has been using it for a rag and it’s in terrible shape, but we could try to patch it—”
“A Confederate uniform? I wouldn’t be caught dead in one, even to escape.”
I thought of how proud Charles was to wear his Confederate uniform and I lost my temper. “Don’t be an idiot, Robert. You might be both—caught and dead.”
He lifted his chin stubbornly. “Think of something else.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. “They’ll have all the roads blocked. And the last time I traveled outside of Richmond I needed a permit. I don’t know if that’s still true or not. I’d draw too much attention to myself if I started inquiring about it. Jonathan kept the permit from when we went to his brother’s funeral. But I think I still have the travel permit Aunt Anne and I used when we went out to Hilltop. Maybe we could alter it or forge a new one.”
“Let me see it.”
I kept it in a hatbox in the bottom of my wardrobe with all of Charles’ letters. Robert crossed the room to stand behind me, peering over my shoulder as I searched among the envelopes.
“Are all those letters from him?” he asked.
“He has a name,” I said quietly. “It’s Charles. And yes, these letters are from Charles.”
“Did you save all of my letters, too?”
I hated to hurt Robert, but he needed to face the truth. I shook my head. “I’m engaged to Charles. It didn’t seem right to keep letters from another man. . . . Here, I found the travel permit.”
Robert took it from me and paced across the room, studying it. “This would be much too hard to forge—unless you have talents I don’t know about. If we altered it, we would have to change the date and erase all the names . . . it’s made out for three people.”
“Three of us could use it.”
“Out of the question. I won’t involve you.”
“You keep saying that, Robert . . . and then you keep involving me. You asked me to help you deliver the Bible, to help you escape, to try to gather information from people in my social circles. You hid in my stable and in my bed. I’m already involved.” I yanked the travel permit away from him.
“I’m sorry—”
“Listen, I think I know a way we can use this with less risk. It’s written for two women and their slave. If you dressed as a woman, the only thing we’d have to change is the date.” I saw Robert recoil at the idea, and I lost my patience. “I suppose playing a woman is worse than wearing Rebel gray? You’re running out of options, Robert. If you go waltzing out of Richmond in civilian clothes they’ll assume you’re a Yankee or a deserter. Either way, they’ll shoot you dead. Make up your mind.”
I stalked out of the room, giving him time to consider his narrowing options. In the meantime, Tessie, Ruby and I hunted down every piece of black material we could find in the house and started sewing a mourning dress big enough to fit Robert. Ruby sewed a black veil to one of Mother’s old hats so his face and hair would be covered. I gave Gilbert the travel permit and he carefully sanded off the date without ripping the paper so I could write in a new one. The hardest part would be borrowing another horse to help the mare pull all three of us in the carriage. “You leave that to me,” Eli said. By the time we finished, Robert had little choice but to submit to our plan.
Winter had lasted a long time that year, leaving many of the roads muddy and impassable. “All we need now is for the roads to finish drying,” I told Robert on a sunny morning midway through March. “Everything else is in place.”
“A diversion would help, too,” Robert said. “Something to distract the Home Guards’ attention for a couple of days.”
A very unfortunate distraction was provided for us a day later. Robert and I were reading the morning newspaper in my room when a low, rumbling sound like a powerful explosion shook the house. It came from the direction of the river.
“What was that?” he asked, looking up in alarm. “Gun ships?”
“I don’t know . . . it didn’t sound like cannon. But it was very close. Too close.” I ran down the hallway to Daddy’s room and went out onto his balcony, which overlooked the river. A column of thick, dark smoke plumed into the sky to the west, near Shockoe Slip.
“Stay here,” I told Robert. “I’ll try to find out what’s going on.” I put on my coat and hat and headed out to the carriage house to find Eli. Gilbert stopped me along the way.
“Eli ain’t home, Missy. The fish is running in the James River and he go on down to catch us some perch for dinner.”
“Did you hear that explosion, Gilbert?”
“Sure did, Missy. Don’t know what it’s all about, though.”
“Get the buggy ready, please. I think we’d better find out what’s happening.”
But before Gilbert had time to get the mare harnessed and ready to go, Eli came running up the hill from the river, out of breath. “Don’t go down there, Missy Caroline. It’s a terrible, terrible sight. That factory on Brown’s Island where they make all them ammunitions just blowed up. I saw it from where I sitting along the river. The roof went straight up in the air with a boom, then all the walls fell in . . . smoke and flames . . . Oh, Lord, have mercy!”
Esther, who had hurried outside when she spotted her husband, wrapped her arms around his waist to console him as he struggled with his emotions. “They mostly all poor women and little girls who work in there,” he said. “I seen them crawling out, trying to jump in the river cause they all on fire. Children . . . they just little children . . . I tried to go help but everybody in the city down there helping. They sent me home.”
Later, the newspapers would give the details of the disaster at the Confederate States Laboratory on Brown’s Island. Nearly half of the forty-five people who died were younger than sixteen years of age, the youngest little girl only nine. But for now, if what Eli said was true and everyone in Richmond had gone down to help, this could be Robert’s chance to escape from the city.
“Go borrow that horse, Eli, and get the carriage ready. It’s time for Robert to leave.”
Gilbert bent down and removed his shoes and socks, presenting them to me like a gift. “He gonna be doing a lot of walking, he gonna need these,” Gilbert said. I had tears in my eyes as he padded off to the carriage house, barefoot, to help Eli.
Ruby and Tessie dressed Robert in his disguise. We’d made the gown large enough so he could wear his shirt and trousers beneath it. With the hat and mourning veil covering his face, he looked like so many other women on the streets of Richmond, swathed in black from head to toe.
“For goodness’ sake, keep your feet tucked under your skirts,” Tessie warned. “Ain’t no lady in the world has feet that big or shoes that ugly.”
Esther packed Robert’s suit coat and some food in a small satchel. We were ready to leave less than an hour later.
“I don’t know how to thank all of you,” Robert said as the servants came out to the carriage house to see him off.
“Go win this war,” Tessie said. “That’s how you can thank us. Then maybe I get my boy back.”
No one said much as Eli drove the three of us north to the Mechanicsville Turnpike, each of us lost in his own private thoughts. We were stopped only once at the picket lines near the perimeter of the city, but the soldiers seemed more interested in hearing the news of the munitions explosion than in us. They never asked for our travel permit. We skirted around Hilltop, then stopped in a wooded place near a creek about a half-hour’s drive beyond the plantation. It was as far as we dared travel if we hoped to make it home before dark.
Robert quickly took off the hat and skirt, and I helped him out of the bodice before we climbed down from the carriage. “Guess you on your own from here,” Eli said as Robert shook hands with him. “God bless you.”
“Thank you, Eli.” It was all Robert could say as his voice choked with emotion.
Eli led the horses down to the creek, leaving Robert and me alone beside the road. As we studied each other, I felt my own emotions welling inside me. “I’m going to miss you,” I told him. The discovery stunned me. He had been part of my life for the last ten months.
“I’ll miss you, too.” His eyes turned soft, the steel in them gone as the poet’s sadness returned.
“Do you know which way to go from here? I never asked you about your plans.”
“I’ll just keep heading north, cross a couple of rivers. Once I get across the Potomac I’ll be in Federal territory.” He finally looked away. “Someone will contact you, Caroline. We have agents in Richmond. Any information you can give us will help— what the Rebels are thinking, what they’re planning, how many troops they have, artillery, gun emplacements, troop movements. Even if it doesn’t seem like much, it will help.”
“I’ll try, Robert. That’s all I can promise.” I knew that with Mr. St. John angry with me, Major Turner suspicious of me, and Helen Taylor spreading rumors about me, I wasn’t likely to be invited into the Confederates’ social circles.
“I’ll never be able to thank you for all you’ve done for me,” he said. Then, before I could reply, Robert suddenly pulled me into his arms. He held me tightly, yet tenderly. I could hear his heart beating, feel his breath in my hair.
“I’ve longed to hold you like this since the first day you walked into the prison,” he whispered. “I love you, Caroline. I always will.”
He bent and kissed my cheek. Then, as suddenly as he had reached for me, Robert let me go. He turned and jogged off into the woods beside the road, his footsteps muffled by the soft spring earth.
While Robert had been digging his tunnel throughout the month of February, Charles and Jonathan and one-quarter of the Army of Northern Virginia had crossed the James River with General Longstreet and marched to the south and east of Richmond, camping near Suffolk. Part of their mission was to besiege Suffolk and discourage the Yankees from marching inland. But their greater task was to forage for food for their starving army.
Eli’s son, Josiah, has been most helpful in this regard, Charles wrote in his letter later that March. He and Jonathan have returned to the days of their boyhood, it seems—roaming the woods for game and fishing in the river. Not being much of a hunter myself, I’ve been detailed to gather sassafras buds and pokeweed greens, since many of the men have contracted scurvy from our meager winter diet. I’m willing to do what I can, but I’d much rather be fighting. Now that winter is over and the mud is drying, we can finally get back to the war. Let’s hope we can finish it for good this year.
My father has written to me about the prison break. I must be honest with you and admit that for your safety’s sake, I’m glad you’re not going to the prison anymore. I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you. But Father also told me that the commandant insists you were involved in the escape. I made it very clear to Father that since you deny any involvement, he must put an end to the rumors and allegations. I know you to be an honest, God-fearing woman whose word can be trusted. If you swear you were not involved, then you weren’t.
I’m so sorry that you’re being put through this ordeal—especially since my own father is questioning your integrity. Believe me, I’m doing every-thing in my power to get a furlough so I can come home and straighten things out. In the meantime, please try to be patient with him. He’s under a great deal of strain right now, and he isn’t well.
The realization that I hadn’t been completely honest, and that Charles still upheld my integrity, devastated me. I didn’t know how I would live with what I’d done, nor how I would ever face Charles when he returned. He trusted me, defended me—and I was guilty.
“What am I going to do?” I asked Eli.
We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. The aroma of fish, baking in a cast-iron roasting oven, filled the room.
“Sometime, probably when this war is over, you gonna have to tell Massa Charles the truth,” Eli said. “Tell him what you done. And why. But it ain’t fair for him or anyone else to judge the right and wrong of things until we get to the end of the matter.”
“Are you saying the end justifies the means?”
“No, I’m saying right now you’re trying to obey God—and God ain’t finished with this whole mess yet. Maybe by the time the war is over, God gonna explain it all to Massa Charles, and he’ll be able to understand the truth when you finally tell him.”
A log shifted and fell in a flurry of sparks as Esther poked the fire.
“And what if Charles doesn’t understand? What if he can’t forgive me?”
Eli sighed. “All I know is, you can trust God. When Massa sell my son, Josiah, to Hilltop, I didn’t see any good coming from that. But I know I can trust God. Even when bad things happen, He can use them for good.”
On the first day of April, Gilbert opened the front door—and there was Daddy. “I’m home, Sugar,” he called. As I ran into the foyer to greet him, I thanked God that Robert was already gone.
Daddy had traveled overland by train, and the wagon he’d hired at the train station was heaped with presents—crates and barrels and boxes of presents. The servants and I followed him out to the curb where the wagon was parked, and Daddy ordered Gilbert to open one of the crates and show me what was inside. There was a new bonnet from Europe, a bolt of cloth for a new dress, bags of coffee and tea—and a large sack of sugar for Esther. She cried when she saw it, then hefted it to her shoulder and carried it around back to the kitchen to start baking Daddy a pie.
“Where did all these things come from?” I asked. “I know what the prices of these goods are here in Richmond . . . all this must have cost a fortune.”
“We have a fortune, Caroline. We’re quite rich.”
He paid the wagon driver, adding a generous tip. “Bring this box and this box into my library,” he told Gilbert, pointing them out. Then he went back into the house and left Gilbert and Eli to finish unloading.
I felt uneasy as I followed my father inside. I’d heard people cursing the speculators who had gotten rich by buying goods from blockade-runners, then raising the prices to exorbitant amounts— while needy people were starving.
“What’s wrong, Sugar? Why the long face?” he asked as he sank into his favorite armchair. I had followed him into the library, but I didn’t sit.
“Times have been hard while you were gone, Daddy. People resent the speculators who’ve gotten rich—”
“I’m not a speculator,” he said, frowning. “I made my money on the high seas, raiding commercial ships that were trading with our enemies. I’ve given my required ten percent to the Confederacy— in fact, I’ve given much more than that. One of the ships I stopped was carrying medicine, and I donated the entire cargo to our soldiers.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. It’s just that speculators aren’t very popular around town.”
“You needn’t worry about my popularity. I have a lot of friends in top government positions now. They’re well aware of the work I’m doing for the Confederacy.”
A shiver went through me at his words. With my father’s political connections, it might be easier than I thought to gather the kind of information Robert had asked for. But could I do it? Could I exploit my own father in order to aid his enemies?
Gilbert walked into the library just then, carrying one of my father’s boxes. Sweat rolled down his forehead and formed dark crescents beneath his armpits. “Where you want this, Massa Fletcher?” he asked.
“Right over there by the bookshelf. And pry off the cover for me, would you?”
As I watched Gilbert work, I remembered why I had entangled myself in this confusing business of betrayal and deceit—it was for him and for Eli and Tessie and the millions of other slaves who had the right to be free men and women.
The crate opened with a hideous, creaking sound of bending nails and splintering wood. My father sent Gilbert back for the second box.
“Daddy . . . have you ever thought about giving Gilbert and the others their freedom?” I asked.
“Heavens, no! Why on earth would I do that?” He walked over to the open crate and began removing books from it, piling them on the floor.
“Well . . . they’ve worked so hard for us. They’ve been so faithful while you were gone . . . and so good to me.”
“That’s because it’s expected of them. Listen, you may not like hearing this, but the truth is, they are children. They’ve been dependent on us all their lives. They wouldn’t know how to handle their freedom if I did give it to them. Believe me, they’re better off in our care.”
The books appeared to be a set, bound in dark leather covers and tooled in gold. Daddy removed them one by one, scanning the titles as if searching for a particular one. When he found it, he motioned to me.
“Come over here, Sugar. I want to show you something. . . . Open it,” he said. He handed me the book. It was surprisingly light.
I lifted the cover and saw that the book was hollow inside. Daddy reached into the inner pocket of his coat and removed a bulging drawstring bag. He poured the contents of it into the hollowed-out space. It was filled with gold coins.
“If anything happens to me, I want you to know where to find this money. You can live the rest of your life on this gold. And it’s legal tender in any state—north or south.” He removed a brass cigar box and a Chinese vase from one of the shelves and began arranging the books in their place, beginning with the phony, gold-filled one.
“I can do that for you, Massa Fletcher,” Gilbert said as he returned with the second box.
“Very good. But open the box you’re carrying first.” Daddy dusted off his hands and returned to his chair, watching as Gilbert pried open the second box. A dozen bottles, filled with ambercolored liquid, nestled beneath layers of wood shavings. “Ah . . . I see they all made it safely,” Daddy said. “Uncork one of them, Gilbert, and pour me a glass.”
As I watched Gilbert scurry around the room waiting on Daddy, I realized that my father would never change. He couldn’t change. His attitudes toward Negroes had been born and bred into him, hardening and solidifying year after year until they had turned to stone. He would carry them to his grave. So many of the people he lived with and worked with carried the same attitudes that no one even questioned them anymore. If the South won the war, nothing would change for the Negroes. Slavery would continue the way it had for centuries. And if Tessie and Josiah gave birth to another child, Daddy wouldn’t even think twice about selling him, just as he’d sold Grady.
Many people would say I was wrong to think about deceiving my father, taking advantage of his friendship with Confederate leaders in order to help his enemies. They would say I was wrong to mislead Charles and his father about what I did at Libby Prison. But those who’ve been through a war will understand how right and wrong, truth and lies, can sometimes get confused in the smoke and mayhem of conflict. They certainly were no longer clear to me. What was clear, though, was that in God’s eyes, my father was wrong to own people as his slaves.
“Are you home to stay this time?” I asked him.
“For a few months, anyway.”
“I think we should throw a welcome-home party for you. We can invite all your friends, share some of these treats you’ve brought.”
“That’s a good idea, Sugar. I’m glad you thought of it. Thank you, Gilbert,” he said as the servant finally handed him his drink. Then Daddy happened to glance down and notice Robert’s old shoes on Gilbert’s feet. “Good heavens! Why are you wearing such a disgraceful pair of shoes in my house?”
“They all I got, Massa Fletcher.”
“Well, what on earth have you done to wear them out that way—walk to Texas and back?”
“They were probably poorly made to begin with,” I said. “I couldn’t afford to buy him new ones. Shoes are very expensive these days.”
My father fished another gold piece out of his pants pocket and tossed it to me. “Here . . . catch. Take him downtown tomorrow and buy him a new pair. Buy yourself a new pair, too, if you’d like.”
Gilbert and I didn’t notice anything unusual the next morning as we headed downtown to a store on Main Street to buy his shoes. We caused enough of a stir all by ourselves, outfitting a slave with new shoes costing twenty-five dollars a pair. Slaves usually wore their master’s castoffs, whether they fit him or not.
Had we driven past the capitol, we might have noticed the huge crowd of people milling in the square, armed with knives and axes and pistols. But we drove down Main Street, not Franklin, and we had no idea of the danger we were in until the mob poured down the hill into the commercial shopping district, clamoring for food. As they streamed past the window of the store we were in, shouting for bread to feed their starving families, the alarm bell in the square started to ring. I saw that the mob was mostly women—poor and ragged, some as thin as skeletons. Many carried ragamuffin children in their arms. The woman at the head of them was as tall as a man, wearing a hat with a long white feather in it and armed with a six-shooter. The women surged into bakeries and grocery stores, grabbing food off the shelves.
“What’s going on?” one of the other customers asked as we crowded near the store window to watch.
The proprietor quickly locked the door. “I think you’d better stay inside where it’s safe, ladies. Those people look like rabble . . . and they’re out of control.”
I watched in astonishment as the crowd flooded through the shopping district, looting the stores, grabbing bread and hams, loading their arms with butter and bacon and sacks of cornmeal. More people came running from their homes to join the band of women, including dozens of men who didn’t look half-starved at all. They began plundering more than food, stealing shoes and tools and bolts of cloth.
I stood frozen in front of the window, watching as the rioters rushed toward the store where Gilbert and I had taken refuge. When they discovered that the door was locked, they picked up bricks and homemade bats to smash the window. Gilbert perceived their intentions a moment before I did, and he grabbed me around the waist, whirling me away from the window, shielding me with his own body as the window shattered in a hail of shards. The proprietor was struck by a brick, several of the others cut by flying glass, but thanks to Gilbert, I was unharmed. Then he stood in front of me, brandishing a cobbler’s mallet as looters poured into the store through the broken window, snatching all the merchandise they could carry.
Outside, firemen turned their hoses on the rioters, but that only seemed to make them more violent, and they turned their weapons against the volunteers. Then the Home Guard came running to the scene, alerted by the ringing alarm bell, armed with rifles and bayonets.
“Better look away, Miss Caroline, in case this get ugly,” Gilbert warned. I stepped back from the window a few more paces, but I didn’t want to believe that the guards would actually use their bayonets or open fire on civilian women and children.
There was a louder shout above the chaos, and the crowd parted right outside our store to let Governor Letcher pass through. “What is the governor saying?” someone asked the store owner. He had stepped cautiously toward the window to listen, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his head.
“He says he’s giving them five minutes to disperse or the guard will open fire. Nobody is leaving, though. The looting has stopped, but even with bayonets pointed in their faces, no one is leaving.”
The tension was as sharp and brittle as the fragments of glass beneath our feet. But before the five minutes were up and the guard would be forced to fire, President Jefferson Davis arrived. Gilbert and I edged toward the window to watch as Davis climbed onto a wagon that had been turned sideways across the street.
“Go home,” he shouted to the crowd. “The Yankees are the enemy, not one another.”
“We’re hungry!” someone called. “We can’t afford to feed ourselves or our children.”
“But if you steal,” the president replied, “then farmers won’t bring any food at all into the city. We’ll starve for certain.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out all of his change, flinging money into the street. “Here . . . take it. It’s all I have. I don’t want anyone injured, but this lawlessness must stop. You have five minutes to disperse or you will be fired upon.”
Davis took out his pocket watch and held it in his palm, waiting. The first three or four minutes seemed to pass very slowly as no one moved. Then the crowd gradually began to drift away, leaving only the Home Guard and a very relieved president and governor when the five minutes were up. I sagged onto the nearest chair, feeling weak.
“Those thieves didn’t steal your new shoes, did they, Gilbert?” I asked shakily.
“No, Missy, they right here on my feet.”
“Good.” I remembered how Gilbert had pulled me away from the flying glass, how he’d protected me from the looters, and I vowed I would repay him someday. I would help win his freedom.
“I believe we’ve done enough shopping for one day,” I told him when my strength finally returned. “Let’s go home.”
More than a month after I said good-bye to Robert, I sat in the drawing room one evening, reading one of my father’s new books, when Gilbert tiptoed into the room and whispered in my ear.
“There’s someone outside who needs to talk to you, Missy. Says he knows your friend Robert.”
Daddy, who’d had more than one after-dinner drink, was snoring loudly in a chair beside me, his book falling closed on his lap. I followed Gilbert out to the backyard.
The middle-aged man waiting for me in the shadows by the carriage house was beefy and florid-faced, with reddish hair and beard. He wore suspenders and a shopkeeper’s apron and smelled very strongly of fish.
“My name’s Ferguson,” he said, lifting his hat. “A Lieutenant Robert Hoffman sent me a message saying I should contact you.”
“Where is Robert? Does this mean he made it home safely?”
“I have no idea. I never met the gentleman. And the less you and I know about each other, the better. My contact in Washington said to tell you he spoke to the lieutenant. Said maybe you’d be willing to supply us with some information that would be useful to our cause.”
I suddenly felt as though a million eyes and ears were watching us, listening to us. “I don’t have any information at the moment, Mr. Ferguson. But if I did . . . how would I get it to you?”
“I sell fish at a booth in the farmers’ market on Eighteenth and Main. Know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“Fold the information inside a bank note and hand it to me when you pay for your fish.”
I glanced around nervously and saw Gilbert standing at a respectful distance, guarding me. I noticed that Ferguson had left the backyard gate open, as if prepared to flee in a hurry if he had to. I was embarking on a dangerous course.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“If either of us is caught, we’re gonna swear on our grandmother’s graves we never met.”
He tipped his hat again and hurried off into the shadows. When the gate closed quietly behind him I knew I had just opened a door through which I could never return.