TWENTY-FOUR

THE CLATTER OF A WAGON on the road outside his house awoke Henry Gentry. He struck a match and peered at the clock. It was 4:00 A.M. An odd time for anyone to be riding around Hunter County. He lay awake in the humid darkness, brooding on the stalemated war, reports of draft resistance in a half-dozen nearby towns, and the probable defection of Major Paul Stapleton to the enemy. Not even Lincoln’s clemency for the deserter Garner had seemed to impress him. A week or ten days on the way to Richmond back with Janet Todd would very likely turn him into every intelligence director’s nightmare, a double agent. Gentry could see Paul telling him in his best duty, honor, country style the wrong date for the Sons of Liberty uprising.

Uhhhhhhhhhhh. A sound not unlike the autumn wind in the branches of the beeches on the lawn puzzled Gentry. There was not a breath of wind stirring. Uhhhhhhhhhh . There it was again. It seemed to be coming from the veranda, directly below his bedroom. Uhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Gentry shrugged into his night robe and lit a candle. Downstairs the sound was louder. It was definitely coming from the veranda. He opened the door and gazed in stupefaction at Lucy. She was lying on her side, wearing her usual calico dress. The back of the dress was soaked a dark red. Flesh hung in ribbons off her bare arms, where the lash had curled around them as it struck her back. On her breast was pinned a note: HEREBY CONSIGNED TO YOUR INFAMOUS CARE: ONE TREACHEROUS LYING NIGGER.

“Lucy—what happened?” Gentry gasped.

“They whupped me, Colonel. They whupped me bad. I tole’m everything but Master whupped me anyhow.”

She shuddered and seemed to go into a convulsion. “Lemmy die, Colonel,” she said. “Miz Janet hates me and I wants t’die.”

Gentry rushed upstairs and awoke Captain Otis. He in turn awoke two of the black troopers in their tents beyond the barn. Together they carried Lucy upstairs to Major Stapleton’s bedroom. She was breathing in slow spasmodic gasps. Otis volunteered to ride into town and fetch Dr. Yancey. With the blacks’ help, Gentry forced some brandy down Lucy’s throat.

Yancey arrived as dawn was breaking. With Otis’s help he stripped off Lucy’s dress. “My God,” he said, gazing at the mass of deep welts on her back. “This will putrefy if we don’t do something immediately.”

“What do you recommend?”

“I remember reading that in the eighteenth-century navy after a man was lashed they washed his back in brine. Can you spare a pound of salt?”

“Of course,” Gentry said.

In the kitchen, Minnie, his aging cook, was beginning breakfast. Gentry asked her to stop everything and prepare the brine. As Minnie concocted this potion, Millicent Todd Gentry loomed in the kitchen doorway. “Henry, what in the world is happening?” she asked.

“We have a medical problem, Mother. Lucy, Janet Todd’s slave, has been badly beaten.”

“By whom?”

“I’m not sure. I fear it was by your nephew, Gabriel Todd.”

“Todds don’t beat their slaves. Where is she?”

“In Major Stapleton’s bedroom.”

“You’ve put a nigger in one of my beds? A nigger who’s probably a bleeding mess?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Take her to the servants’ quarters immediately.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mother.”

“Henry, I’m ordering you to do it.”

“Mother—I have news for you. I own this house. It’s my property. It was left to me in Father’s will, along with the rest of the estate.”

“That was a mere legalism!”

“I don’t care what you call it. That poor girl stays in that bed.”

Millicent Todd Gentry whirled and stormed upstairs to the bedroom. By the time Gentry got there, she was standing over Lucy’s bed, demanding to know who had whipped her.

“Master,” Lucy said. “I deserved it, Miz Todd. I never should’ve had nothin’ to do with Colonel Gentry—”

Dr. Yancey was busy soaking cloths in the brine. But he was listening to this byplay. Gentry saw his cover as an intelligence officer vanishing. “Mother,” he said. “Will you please get the hell out of here?”

“How dare you speak to me that way?” Millicent Todd Gentry cried.

Something very akin to pleasure coursed through Henry Gentry’s flesh. “I’m in charge here, Mother. Go or I’ll have Captain Otis drag you out.”

Millicent Todd Gentry departed, wailing, and Dr. Yancey proceeded to drench Lucy’s back in brine. It was hellish work. She screamed with every application and begged them to let her die. When Yancey pronounced himself satisfied, he ordered Lucy to remain in bed, without a nightgown or dress, until the wounds started to heal. A liquid diet of whiskey and water was also prescribed.

“How’d she get here, Henry?” Yancey asked. “I can’t imagine anyone that badly beaten swimming the Ohio—or even rowing herself in a boat.”

“I have no idea,” Gentry said. “I found her on my porch.”

“So someone dropped her there. Someone who wanted to send you some sort of message, it would seem.”

“So it would seem. But I can’t imagine why,” Gentry said.

Yancey put on his coat, a knowing smile on his face. He had figured things out; Gentry was sure of it. “I know you’re not a neutral in this war, Walter. But I hope you’ll keep quiet about this,” he said.

“I don’t discuss my patients, Henry,” Yancey replied.

“I hope that extends to their circle of—acquaintances.”

“Absolutely, Henry. Is she pregnant?”

For a moment Gentry was too astonished to say anything. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Shame on you, Henry. I know you must be hard up. But if you told me, I could have imported Steamboat Lil or one of our other old friends from Louisville.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Walter. As a friend I hope you’ll say absolutely nothing.”

“Absolutely,” Yancey said, complacently certain that Gentry had told him the truth. It proved his cynical view of human nature was still on the mark.

Retreating to his cellar office to escape his mother’s wrath, Gentry tried to think intelligently about his situation. His cover was unquestionably blown across the river in Kentucky. He could be sure that Gabriel Todd would tell Rogers Jameson about Lucy and arouse that behemoth to a new. pitch of fury. But there was not much Jameson could do, as long as Colonel Gentry had a hundred armed men on his farm.

He told himself not to worry about his own skin but about the clandestine war he was fighting. He had no difficulty getting the message that was delivered with Lucy’s bleeding body. What could he or should he do about it? Think, Henry, he told himself. Think like a soldier. You have spent four months listening to Major Paul Stapleton discuss the war from the point of view of an intelligent West Pointer and aide to several generals. What have you learned about military science?

The most important word in Major Stapleton’s vocabulary was initiative. The general who retained the initiative, forcing his enemy to fight where he chose, was the man who won the battles and wars. How could he apply that idea here? The Sons of Liberty retained the initiative as long as no one knew the date of their insurrection. That was why they could arrogantly dump Lucy on his veranda, in effect telling him that they were still in control of their piece of the war.

He could not do much about the Sons. If he arrested leaders such as Rogers Jameson and Gabriel Todd, other men, harder to track, would replace them—and the disaffection of their Democratic followers would be confirmed. Their resolution to sink the Lincoln ship of state would only harden, making them even more difficult to defeat if it came to shooting.

But there was one part of the Sons’ plan that was not only visible—it was vulnerable. Adam Jameson’s cavalry, waiting up there on the mountainous border between Virginia and Kentucky, was essential to the insurrection. Could he persuade the Union Army in Kentucky to attack it? A successful assault would cripple the Sons of Liberty. The news would spread through Kentucky and Indiana, taking the steam out of the proto-rebellion.

Henry Gentry decided to begin at the top. He composed a long coded telegram to Abraham Lincoln, explaining the urgency of his request. Thanks to the telegraph’s lightning communication, he had reason to hope that the assault could be organized quickly—if he persuaded the president. For a clincher he suggested that the expedition be described as an attempt to destroy the Confederate saltworks in the town of Saltville, near Jameson’s camp. There would be no need to reveal any knowledge of the existence of the Sons of Liberty.

As twilight descended, a messenger arrived from the telegraph office. Gentry pinned the envelope under an encyclopedia on his desk and cut it open with a scissors. It was one of the many little maneuvers a one-armed man learned to do without thinking about it.

YOUR MESSAGE RECEIVED. I THINK IT MAKES EMINENT SENSE AND HAVE ORDERED GENERAL BURBRIDGE TO TAKE AS MANY MEN AS HE CAN SPARE WITHOUT LOSING CONTROL OF KENTUCKY AND LAUNCH THE ATTACK ON JAMESON AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I HAVE ADVISED HIM THAT YOU WILL JOIN HIM TO FURTHER INFORM HIM OF THE PURPOSES AND IMPORTANCE OF THE ASSAULT. I SUGGEST YOU LEAVE FOR LOUISVILLE IMMEDIATELY SINCE TIME IS OBVIOUSLY OF THE ESSENCE IN THIS THING. GOOD LUCK. A. LINCOLN

For a moment Gentry felt dazed. He was getting back into the fighting war. Almost immediately he started to worry about General Burbridge. Everything Gentry had heard about the military commander of Kentucky made him think he was as bad as Indiana’s General Carrington, or worse. Maybe Lincoln was obliquely telling him what he had painfully learned in the last three years: once a war begins, you have to work with whatever turns up, including generals.

Gentry had other worries—notably his favorite spy, Lucy. Minnie told him she was refusing to take any nourishment—not even the whiskey and water Dr. Yancey had prescribed to prevent fever. His mother was immured in her room, refusing to speak, much less eat, with her order-giving son. Gentry sought out his house-guest, Dorothy Schreiber, in the music room. At the grand piano that he had tormented for a few youthful years she was playing the most popular song of 1864, “Weeping Sad and Lonely, or When This Cruel War Is Over.”

“Weeping sad and lonely
Hopes and fears how vain!
When this cruel war is over
Praying that we meet again.”

Tears streamed down Dorothy’s pretty face. Gentry asked her why she was so upset.

“I’ve just come from a visit to that poor boy, Garner. He expects to be shot tomorrow or the next day. He doesn’t believe President Lincoln will pardon him. Nor do I. Why should he worry about one life more or less?”

“I’m sure Mr. Lincoln will pardon him,” Gentry said. “He worries about individuals whenever he gets a chance. Most of the time he’s overwhelmed by the war. We’re the ones who have to apply his principles to individual lives.”

Dorothy’s sixteen-year-old mind struggled to absorb this thought. “Have you heard what’s happened to Lucy, Janet Todd’s slave?” he asked.

“I heard she was whipped almost to death for doing something bad. Why did they send her over here?”

“She was whipped for doing something good, Dorothy. She was trying to help us win the war by telling me secrets that she’d learned in Kentucky.”

“Secrets about what?”

“I can’t tell you. I can only tell you she’s a heroine and needs your help. She needs to feel someone cares about her.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just sit and talk to her for a while each day. Get her to eat and take her medicine.”

Dorothy wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

Gentry did not blame Dorothy for her reluctance. She was the granddaughter of a Democratic congressman. Her mother had been an ardent Democrat, who had opposed her husband’s decision to volunteer for the army. Eight years ago, Dorothy had watched her older sisters march in a Keyport Democratic parade during the election of 1856, carrying placards: SAVE US FROM MARRYING NIGGERS. Negrophobia was very strong in the Indiana Democratic Party.

“Ask her what she wants to do now that she’s free. Suggest things. Read her stories from the Bible or some other book.”

“Maybe I’ll read her Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Dorothy said, a nasty light in her eyes. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel was not a favorite among Democrats. Dorothy seemed to be hoping Lucy would say the book was nonsense.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting to find out what she thinks about it?”

“I guess it might,” Dorothy said.

“I want you to do it, Dorothy,” Gentry said. “Even if my mother says not to, I want you to do it anyway. Think of it as your contribution to the war. Maybe it will bring your father home faster.”

Upstairs they found Lucy lying facedown in the big four-poster bed like a corpse on a battlefield. She was staring at the pillow, tears trickling down her face.

“Lucy,” Gentry said. “Dorothy came to me and said she felt so sorry for you, she wants to visit you and help you get over your whipping. She wants to be your friend.”

Lucy’s eyes roved to Dorothy’s blank startled face. Did she see the evidence of Colonel Gentry’s fat lie there? “I sure could use a friend,” Lucy said.

“She’ll be as much of a friend as Miss Janet was, I promise you,” Gentry said. “But you won’t have to wait on her. You’re a free woman now, Lucy. You can be friends without being a servant.”

Lucy’s disbelief was almost visible. “Is this because you knows I’m goin’ to die, Colonel?”

“You’re not going to die!” Gentry said.

“There’s someone I’d like to see. Sergeant Moses Washington.”

Gentry saw no point in telling her that Washington was no longer a sergeant and would be in jail for another ten days, dining on bread and water. “He’s—he isn’t here, Lucy. He’s on detached duty.”

“Then I’d like to send him a letter. Maybe Miz Dorothy could write it for me,” Lucy said.

“She’ll be delighted.”

Gentry left Dorothy sitting beside the bed, taking down the letter, and rushed to his room to pack for his trip to Louisville. When he came downstairs a half hour later, Dorothy was at the piano again, weeping violently.

“Now what’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s so sad, Colonel Gentry,” she said. “That poor little thing’s in love. I never knew a nigger could fall in love. She loves Sergeant Washington and told him she was going to heaven, where she’d pray for him and protect him from Confederate bullets. It’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard. It beats anything in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

Gentry asked her for the letter. “Tell her I’ll personally deliver it to Sergeant Washington,” he said, slipping it into his pocket.

Gentry led Dorothy to a chair by the window and wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. “I hope you’ll keep visiting Lucy. This is your chance to grow up, Dorothy, to become a woman instead of a girl. You don’t know how much kindness can do for a human being. When I lost my arm, I thought about dying too. I thought about killing myself. But I didn’t do it, because Abe Lincoln proved he was still my friend. With the whole war and the presidency on his back he found time to write me a long letter telling me how bad he felt when he heard what had happened to me. He told me he wanted me to keep working for him. He made me realize he still cared.”

Dorothy looked as if she thought this tear-choked one-armed man sitting opposite her was about to go berserk. She nodded violently and said, “I’ll try, Colonel Gentry. I’ll try to help her.”

Outside, Gentry asked one of the black troopers to drive him into Keyport in his buggy. At the courthouse he hurried into the wing that included the jail. Sheriff Monroe Cantwell greeted him with a cordial nod. Monroe may have lost his enthusiasm for the war but they were still friends.

“How’s our bread-and-water prisoner doing?” Gentry asked.

“He ain’t complainin’ if that’s what you’re hopin’ to hear. He just takes what we give him and puts it down his gullet. He’s one tough nigger.”

“I’d like to see him.”

Cantwell led Gentry to a cell in the rear of the jail. It was so small, Moses Washington seemed to fill two-thirds of it. Gentry handed him Lucy’s letter and told him what had happened to her.

Washington ripped open the letter and read it in a single swift glance. “She says she’s dyin’. Is that right?”

“She might be, Moses. I’m hoping you’ll answer her.”

“Ain’t I got enough trouble, Major? You want me to start playin’ nurse to some poor little pickaninny who ’magines I love her?”

“Think it over, Moses. It may turn out she’s done more to help us win this war than a whole brigade of infantry. She’s got guts—and she really loves you. I don’t know why. That’s your business.”

“I’ll think about it,” Washington said.

“While you’re at it, think about this. I’m suspending your sentence and restoring your rank. I want you to get back to your men and make sure they’re ready to march on an hour’s notice. We’re going to war, Sergeant—against real soldiers.”

In a half hour, Moses Washington was out of jail and on his way back to The Grange in Gentry’s sulky. A half hour later, Gentry was on a steamboat heading down the Ohio to Louisville to explain to General Stephen Burbridge the importance of attacking Adam Jameson and seizing the initiative from the Sons of Liberty. He saw Lucy as the centerpiece of his argument: Let’s make sure they’ve lashed their last slave.

If Gentry stopped to think about it, he might have heard Lincoln saying, Whoa there, Henry. You have a tendency to get carried away. But Colonel Gentry was not in the mood to listen to that shrewd cautious voice.