SOOT AND THE ACRID ODOR of burning coal blew in relentless gusts through the open windows of the Baltimore and Ohio main line train as it rumbled through western Maryland at twenty-five miles an hour. The summer heat made it impossible to close the windows. Beside Janet Todd in the clanking metal box on wheels, a dozing Paul Stapleton had a patina of the ubiquitous grime on his angular face. Through his rumpled blond hair she could see the full dimensions of his head wound—a reddish ridge of scar tissue that ran down the center of his skull from his hairline to the back of his head. It made Janet think of her reaction to his chest wound the night she saw it for the first time.
For a moment she was swept by a terrible sadness. Was she risking the love she had confessed to this damaged man in odoriferous Cincinnati by insisting he join her in this conspiracy? She was forcing him to sacrifice his honor, the only god he worshiped. But it was in the name of another kind of honor, the violated trust that her father and her brothers and the other Democrats of Kentucky had offered the great betrayer, Abraham Lincoln.
Janet saw all too clearly what Paul was trying to do: make their love more important than the success or failure of the western confederacy. During the long uncomfortable night hours on the train, while Paul slept beside her, Janet had decided not to let that happen. She was going to insist on an absolute equality of purpose. One could not succeed without the other.
That meant she would have to diminish, if not eliminate
the ecstatic impulse to surrender that she felt in Paul’s arms. It threatened her control of the situation. She told herself she would regain the ability to experience it later. If she could will it out of existence, she could will it back to life when she chose.
In panels on the ceiling of the railroad car were paintings of great moments in American history: Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin presenting John Hancock with their draft of the Declaration of Independence; George Washington arriving in New York to take the oath of office as first president; Andrew Jackson defeating the British at New Orleans. She had noticed Paul staring up at these memorials to the Union. Was he thinking they would soon become as meaningless as the heroic statuary in the Roman Pantheon, the Greek Acropolis?
Paul had told her that his great-grandfather Hugh Stapleton had stood beside Washington on the balcony at Federal Hall when he took the oath as the first president. Paul’s father had been proud to call Andrew Jackson his friend. Janet replied that the Todds had fought in half the battles of the Revolution and beside Jackson at New Orleans. She insisted that if their mission succeeded and the western confederacy was born, they would still value the history of the original country and use it to inspire their children. Paul agreed halfheartedly, at best semiconvinced.
Paul awoke and brushed mechanically at the layer of soot on his blue suit. He peered out the window at the well-tilled farms and consulted his watch, first wiping off the soot; the stuff even penetrated pockets, not to mention eyes, mouths, lungs. “Nine twenty-five,” he said. “We should be in Baltimore before noon.”
“And Washington by three o’clock if the B and O stays on schedule.”
“The Stapletons are stockholders. If they fail us, I’ll complain to the chairman of the board.”
Janet studied him for a moment. “I don’t think you’re comfortable as a secret agent.”
“I’m a little uneasy about meeting one of my West Point classmates or friends in Washington. Or worse, my brother or one of his staff officers.”
“We shouldn’t be there more than twenty-four hours.”
Janet had made the trip to Richmond several times. She assured Paul that Washington, D.C., was honeycombed with southern sympathizers. There was a well-worked-out system for escorting travelers to the Confederate capital. Her contact was a Maryland woman named Mary Surratt, who ran a boardinghouse on H Street that served as a kind of headquarters for secret communications with Richmond. Mary’s son, John Surratt, was one of the coolest, most dependable couriers.
They rumbled into Baltimore at noon and found the train for Washington, D.C., waiting for them across the platform. By three o’clock they were in the capital’s busy station. The heat was almost unbearable and it was accompanied by a suffocating humidity that made Indiana’s muggy drought seem almost benign.
Janet decided it would be best if they traveled to the boardinghouse on H Street separately. That way, Paul would have no need to explain her presence if he met someone who recognized him. He would simply say he was in Washington to talk to the adjutant general about returning to active duty with one of the Union armies.
In a half hour they were both in Mrs. Surratt’s genteel parlor, sipping iced tea served by the small plain dark-haired owner of the house. She listened eagerly to Janet’s assurance that the Democrats of Kentucky and Indiana were united in their detestation of Mr. Lincoln. “Will they dare to vote?” Mrs. Surratt asked. “In Maryland they feel the same way but most don’t have the courage to go to the polls. It’s a dictatorship, pure and simple.”
“The Democrats of the Midwest are going to express
themselves in a more direct way. They’ve given up on the ballot box,” Janet said.
“The sooner the better,” Mrs. Surratt said. “We badly need a sign of hope.”
John Surratt, a tall fair-haired young man with a short goatee, joined them and greeted Janet warmly. Mrs. Surratt introduced Paul as Robert Nash and said they were bringing good news from the West. Surratt clapped his hands with enthusiasm when Janet reiterated the plan for an uprising. The young man said they could begin the trip to Richmond that night, if they were ready. The journey now took an extra twelve hours because General Grant kept extending his siege lines around the city.
“Why not?” Janet said, although she had slept very little on their two-day trip from Cincinnati. Paul wanted to get out of Washington as soon as possible. Mrs. Surratt suggested they take a nap and she would serve supper at seven o’clock. They could be on their way by nine. She led them upstairs and gave Janet her own bedroom and Paul her son’s room. Janet decided she needed a bath more than she needed sleep and spent most of her naptime soaking in the hall tub and dressing in a clean outfit. At supper she felt light-headed but refreshed and confident. She wore a smart deep blue traveling dress with a pleated skirt that added to her self-assurance. Paul had washed off his grime in a bedroom washbowl and was looking more like his calm steady self.
John Surratt wanted to know if they thought Atlanta could hold out against General Sherman’s army. “I’d say yes, if Jefferson Davis could make a copy of Robert E. Lee and send him out there to take charge,” Paul said.
Mrs. Surratt and her son looked dismayed. “Everything we hear in Kentucky suggests General Sherman’s army may end up trapped and starving before the end of summer,” Janet said. It was a total lie but she did not think these people should be discouraged.
As they finished dinner they were joined by a handsome black-mustached man with a theatrical air. John Surratt introduced John Wilkes Booth and said he was on his way to Richmond. Janet was suitably impressed and Paul too seemed pleased to meet the famous actor. Young Surratt told Booth they were Confederate agents traveling as actors and would appreciate Mr. Booth vouching for them if sentries or federal officials on the road to Richmond raised questions.
“Of course,” Booth said. “Anything I can do to assist our sacred cause will be done be done with pleasure, including, if necessary, this!”
He whipped a small pistol from beneath his coat. “I would love to remove a Yankee abolitionist from the face of the earth,” he said. “But I’d probably shoot some poor kid who’s been drafted into the ranks by our Murderer in Chief.”
“I hope that isn’t loaded,” Paul said, eyeing the pistol, which Booth waved excitedly at them as he talked.
“Fear not, my friend,” Booth replied, putting the gun back in the holster under his coat.
“Have you brought more quinine?” John Surratt asked.
“A hundred pounds,” Booth said. “It’s in my luggage.”
“I’ll put it in the safe place in the carriage,” Surratt said and hurried out of the room.
“This wonderful man has spent thousands of his own dollars to smuggle quinine into Richmond,” Mrs. Surratt said, beaming at Booth. “Heaven knows how many fever-stricken women and children he’s saved. It’s unobtainable in the South, thanks to Mr. Lincoln’s cruel blockade.”
“The swine makes war on infants in the cradle,” Booth said. “Has there ever been a war as vicious as this one? Not even the Mongols under Genghis Khan could match it.”
In an hour they were in John Surratt’s comfortable carriage, their luggage lashed on the roof. Booth’s quinine and some dispatches for the Confederate secret service were in a concealed compartment under their feet. At the Potomac River bridge, they met their first test. Sentries and a junior lieutenant asked to see Surratt’s permit to operate a carriage and demanded proof of the identities of his passengers.
Booth stuck his handsome head out the window and smiled genially. “I trust you don’t have to ask who I am,” he said. “These other two, Bob Nash and Janey Carew, are brother and sister from New York and old colleagues of mine. We’re on our way to Richmond to perform Macbeth and Julius Caesar. Nash will play Caesar. I look forward to assassinating him in thirty-six hours or so.”
“I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Booth,” the awed lieutenant said. “I’m honored to meet you too, Mrs. Carew and Mr. Nash.”
As they rumbled into Virginia, Booth muttered, “There’s only one tyrant I’d like to assassinate. It wouldn’t be as difficult as some people think. Lincoln is incredibly careless. He rides around Washington without a military escort. He goes to the theater without a bodyguard.”
Booth swigged from a bottle of brandy and offered it to them. When they declined, he laughed and said to Paul, “You’d better take at least a swallow. An actor without liquor on his breath is like a Yankee without a Boston accent—unconvincing.”
Paul obliged him and said it was very good brandy. “I always buy the best,” Booth said.
As a reward for his protection, Booth demanded to know why they were going to Richmond. Janet told him about the western confederacy. The actor was enormously excited. He said it was the first hopeful news he had heard since Gettysburg.
At several points along the route they were challenged by federal sentries. Booth vouched for Janet and Paul with ever more extravagant claims for their theatrical talents. Soon they were his dearest friends and famous from Pittsburgh to Chicago to San Francisco. As he downed the brandy he grew more inquisitive about their identities.
“You’re not brother and sister.”
“No,” Janet said.
“Let me guess where you come from. You, Mrs. Carew, are from Kentucky. Mr. Nash is from New Jersey.”
“How can you tell?” Janet asked, amazed.
“Accents are an actor’s stock-in-trade. Almost every state has its own voice.” He advised them to have a plausible story ready if they encountered a federal sentry or secret agent with an ear for accents.
For an hour he entertained them with imitations of New York, Boston, Charleston and Chicago speech patterns. He added Jewish, Irish and English accents. He even threw in some Chinese pidgin and American Indian patois. Finally the brandy took effect and Booth slept. Janet and Paul tried to imitate his example, but it was not easy in the lurching jouncing coach. The roads of Virginia were in atrocious condition after three years of war.
The rising sun struck the carriage with an almost supernatural intensity. Everyone awoke. Booth procured another bottle of brandy from one of his suitcases and began discoursing on what a sad place Richmond had become. “Once the happiest city I’ve ever visited,” he said. “Others may surpass it in architecture but not in the gentility, the gaiety of its people. Now desperation is stamped on every face.”
“What plays are you planning to perform, Mr. Booth?” Janet asked, deliberately changing the subject. The last thing she wanted Paul to hear was Richmond’s desperation.
“Hamlet,” Booth said. “My insufferable older brother, Edwin, is performing it in New York at this very moment, to immense applause. I’m not one of the applauders. It’s a Hamlet of the brain, without belly or bowels or—”
He swigged more brandy. “If Mr. Nash and I were alone, I’d add another anatomical detail that would amuse him, I think.”
A tremendous explosion ended Booth’s jollity. The ground trembled beneath the carriage’s wheels. An invisible force struck the vehicle, sending it lurching to the left. The horses screamed with terror and bolted. “Mr. Nash, Mr. Booth—help me!” John Surratt shouted. Paul climbed out the door onto the box and helped him get the animals under control. The carriage jolted to a stop and Janet leaped out, followed by John Wilkes Booth. They stared in the direction of Richmond as an immense mushroom cloud rose a thousand feet into the air, the stem seemingly composed of fire and the head of black smoke.
“What is it?” Janet asked.
“I have no idea,” Paul said. “I’ve never seen anything like it on a battlefield.”
“It looks like it was created by Satan himself,” John Wilkes Booth said.
“That’s Petersburg under that mushroom cloud,” John Surratt said. “Richmond’s a few miles further north. Grant’s been tryin’ to grab Petersburg for months. It would cut General Lee’s last railroad line.”
As he spoke dozens of cannons crashed in unison, making a noise almost as loud as the original explosion. It was followed by the distant sound of cheering and the staccato stutter of rifle fire. “That sounds like an attack,” Paul said.
They climbed back in the carriage and Surratt took them down back roads in a wide arc around the battle raging in front of Petersburg. It was another hour before
he called out, “Richmond ahead!” They peered from the coach windows at the capital of the Confederate States of America.
Houses and an occasional church spread up and down a wide hilly amphitheater with the majestic pillared capitol, designed by Thomas Jefferson, on the highest hill, dominating the view. White porticoes gleamed through the trees on neighboring hilltops. But the sylvan effect was marred by smoke pouring from the stacks and blast furnaces of the Tredgar Iron Works, visible beyond the capitol.
“There’s a good sign,” Janet said. “Tredgar is still making cannons.”
“Not very good ones, unfortunately,” Paul said.
“Good enough to kill sixty thousand of Grant’s Yankees,” Janet said.
In an hour they were in the center of the city. Everywhere were signs of panic bordering on frenzy; it undoubtedly had something to do with the explosion. Surratt was forced to wait at several cross streets while straining six-mule teams hauled wagon trains of ammunition to the men in the lines. Guns and caissons clanked over the cobblestones behind sweat-caked horses that were mere racks of bones. Regiments of gray-clad soldiers trotted on the double down side streets toward Petersburg.
They said good-bye to John Wilkes Booth at the corner of Twelfth Street. He was staying at Richmond’s best hotel, The Exchange. Janet and Paul trudged up the sloping street to the three-story brick house that was the headquarters of the Kentucky delegation to the Confederate legislature. Although Kentucky had not seceded, after northern troops occupied it southern sympathizers had set up a shadow government and sent delegates to Richmond.
A black servant led them to the house’s sunny rear portico, where John and Elizabeth Hayes were finishing
dinner. He was a former Lexington lawyer in his forties, with curly red hair and a friendly freckled face; she was one of Janet’s Breckinridge cousins, purportedly a look alike of Letitia Todd in her youth, down to the deep wave in her dark hair. There were exclamations of pleasure and the warmest possible welcome.
Janet introduced Paul as Robert Nash, adding that it was not his real name. “Can you tell us what that explosion means? Was it an accident? Did someone touch off an ammunition dump?” Paul asked.
Hayes shook his head angrily. “It was a federal mine,” he said. “It was set off without warning and blew a huge hole in our siege lines. It killed over a thousand men. But we seem to be containing the follow-up attack.”
“They don’t have the courage to fight us in the open.” Elizabeth Hayes said. “They burrow under our soldiers like vicious moles. Has there ever been a more loathsome enemy?”
John Hayes asked Janet why she had come to Richmond. “I can’t tell you much,” she said. “We must see President Davis as soon as possible. Can you get a message to him?”
She handed Hayes a letter she had written on the train to Baltimore. He said he would take it to the Confederate White House, on the corner of Twelfth and Clay Street, immediately. They might catch the president home for dinner. He left them with Elizabeth Hayes, who insisted they eat something while they waited.
Mrs. Hayes apologized for the quality of the food she served them. “It’s impossible to buy a decent piece of meat,” she said. “The most one can hope for is something that won’t poison you.” With the stringy tired meat were side dishes of equally tasteless vegetables and potatoes. While they ate, Mrs. Hayes treated them to a lamentation on life in Richmond.
The price of food was astronomical—ten times what it had cost in 1862, when they arrived. She had sent their four children back to Kentucky to live with their grandparents. The Confederate dollar was rapidly approaching worthlessness. People were selling their furniture and clothes for food. The shops along Main Street were mostly auction houses, where war profiteers—blockade runners mostly—were buying up goods and jewelry at bargain prices.
“But the spirit of the people is what counts. Surely they can tolerate hardship when they consider what’s at stake,” Janet said.
“They’ve tolerated a great deal,” Mrs. Hayes replied. “But lately everyone has begun to lose hope. General Lee killed seventy-five thousand federals in May and June, but Grant’s army is bigger than ever. When we lose a man, he isn’t replaced.”
This was not what Janet wanted Paul to hear. She hastily changed the subject to John Wilkes Booth. Mrs. Hayes’s pretty oval face came aglow. “He’s the most gorgeous male creature I’ve ever seen. I’m so glad to hear he’s in town again. I’ll make John buy tickets, no matter how much they cost.”
Hayes’s footsteps sounded inside the house. “Good news. President Davis says he’ll see you before supper, if the attack on Petersburg fails—as it seems to be doing, catastrophically. General Lee has taken personal command of the situation.”
“Can’t you let us in on your secret?” Elizabeth Hayes asked.
“The Sons of Liberty are about to rise,” Janet said.
The Hayeses exchanged excited smiles. They knew about the conspiracy. John Hayes went off to an afternoon session of the Confederate Congress. Janet was grateful when Elizabeth Hayes suggested they catch a few hours of sleep. The sun was low in the west when her husband returned. Elizabeth Hayes awoke them and
they went downstairs, eager to hear what he had learned about the great explosion.
“The whole thing is almost unbelievable,” Hayes said, his eyes wild with angry excitement. “They say the federals tunneled under two of our forts and exploded at least four tons of gunpowder. It stunned their troops as much as ours. When they recovered, they rushed forward to discover the explosion had made a huge crater, as much as twenty feet deep, in the earth. Our men let them crowd into the thing, then poured in volleys of rifle and cannon fire. It was the most perfect slaughter in the history of warfare. They must have lost five thousand men!”
“Incredible,” Paul said.
A black servant came to the Hayes front door with a message from President Davis. He was ready to see Janet and Paul. The black man led them down Twelfth Street to Clay, where the Confederate White House commanded both streets. It was a wide-fronted mansion of brick that had been plastered over. White marble steps led to a small entrance porch. A sentry box stood on the sidewalk beneath poplar and sycamore trees. Inside, a black servant led them through stately rooms with Carrara marble fireplaces to a wide colonnaded balcony overlooking a garden.
There sat two gray-haired, gray-bearded men, one in a rumpled civilian suit, the other in an immaculate gray uniform, with the stars of a general on his epaulets. “President Davis,” Janet said. “This is so good of you to see us on such short notice. I’m honored to meet you, General Lee.”
Davis’s smile was somewhat bleak; a nerve twitched in his furrowed cheek; he looked weary. He introduced her to Robert E. Lee as the daughter of Colonel Gabriel Todd. The general rose and took her hand and said he remembered her father from the war in Mexico. But even as he spoke he was looking with far greater interest at Paul.
“Is this who I think it is?” Lee asked. “Cadet Private Paul Stapleton of Company A?”
“You have a remarkable memory, General,” Paul said, shaking hands.
“That was his rank in his plebe year at West Point—my last year as superintendent,” Lee explained to Janet with a bemused smile.
“The son of Senator George Stapleton?” Jefferson Davis asked.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Paul said.
“This is a delightful surprise. What brings you into our ranks?”
Paul hesitated. He looked vaguely embarrassed. For a panicky moment Janet thought he was going to apologize. “Perhaps I can speak for Major Stapleton better than he can,” she said. “I’ve been watching him slowly realize he could no longer tolerate the brutality of the Lincoln regime in Indiana and Kentucky.”
Lee frowned, clearly wishing Paul had spoken for himself. “You feel this change of heart supersedes the oath you took to the federal government when you graduated from the military academy?”
“Yes, General,” Paul said.
Lee nodded but Janet sensed he was not entirely satisfied. “He’s taken another oath, to the Sons of Liberty,” she said.
The general glanced at Janet for moment, without turning his head. She sensed this information was unwelcome. He continued to speak to Paul. “You were wounded at Gettysburg, I believe?”
“Yes, General. And at Antietam before that.”
“You were on John Reynolds’s staff?”
“Yes.”
“I was saddened by his death.”
“We all were, General.”
“A great loss,” Jefferson Davis agreed.
Janet was bewildered. They were talking as if they were all members of the same army! She was learning the power of the invisible fraternity of West Point.
“I gather you’ve had a busy day, General,” Paul said.
“An understatement. I’ve just finished reporting the event—if we may call it that—to President Davis. It was a clever idea that might have ended the war. Fortunately for us, General Grant put General Burnside in charge of the enterprise. He managed with his usual skill to turn it into a fiasco.”
Paul nodded. “I saw General Burnside in action at Antietam and Fredericksburg. A more stupid man never wore general’s stars.”
“I consider it the epitome of good fortune to have had him as an opponent,” Lee said. “But I fear his reputation won’t survive the crater.”
“So you’re here to tell us that we can expect good news from the West,” President Davis said.
“We hope so, sir,” Paul said.
“I’m not sure I should even hear about such secret service matters,” Lee said.
“Of course you should. I want your opinion,” Davis said. “Can you give us a succinct summary, Major?”
Paul told them the Sons of Liberty’s plan as he had heard it at Hopemont. He emphasized the importance of Adam Jameson’s cavalry division and the hope of freeing the Confederate prisoners outside Indianapolis and Chicago. He estimated the Sons of Liberty’s numbers at thirty thousand. “They claim to have fifty thousand men on their rolls, but like most militia, they’ll be lucky to turn out two-thirds.”
Janet was appalled. Paul had never mentioned this pessimistic estimate to her. Worse, both Davis and Lee nodded in agreement! They were talking as professional soldiers, acting as if she did not exist.
“Who’ll command the Sons of Liberty?” Lee asked.
“Local colonels. They don’t have an overall commander.”
“I dislike that,” Lee said. “They could easily degenerate into a mob. That’s the last thing we want in defense of our cause.”
“I’ve urged them to appoint a commanding general. So has Colonel Adam Jameson, I might add,” Paul said, giving Janet a brief smile that she thought was almost sly.
“What we need more than a general are decent rifles,” Janet said. “That’s why I’m here. Will you give us the money to buy them immediately? We’ve learned that informers have been reporting on our plans. The sooner we act the better.”
She was speaking to Jefferson Davis. He was no longer a professional soldier; he was a politician who had encouraged the Sons of Liberty with words and money. Davis glanced uneasily at Lee; Janet wondered if he was wishing he had not asked the general to stay and give his opinion on this adventure.
“We’ll have no public link with the insurrection,” Davis said. “Colonel Jameson, if he’s captured, will have orders to say he asked his men to go as volunteers. It’s important not only from the viewpoint of the honor of our cause but also from the politics of the thing. We’ll want people to believe this western confederacy is a spontaneous creation.”
“It will be spontaneous!” Janet said. “People are truly aggrieved and angry! They’re in a revolutionary frame of mind!”
“What about Major Stapleton?” Lee asked. “Can we offer him any protection if he’s captured? He may be considered a traitor and face execution.”
“I don’t intend to be captured, General,” Paul said. “The motto of the Sons of Liberty is victory or death.”
Lee frowned but said nothing. Jefferson Davis’s lips compressed to a harsh line as he reached the decision
that only he could make. “You’ll have the money. It will be waiting for you in New York, along with the names of the men who’ll sell you the guns. Our secret service people will give you the details tomorrow morning. There are some other matters they may want to discuss with you, such as newspaper support.”
Robert E. Lee still said nothing. But his disapproval of the western confederacy pervaded the portico with unmistakable force. It apparently did not meet his lofty standards of honorable warfare.
For a moment Janet almost screamed in his face, Damn you and your honor! Does the federal government care about honor, jailing Democrats without charges in Kentucky and Indiana, perpetrating monstrosities like the crater? But she was a mere woman, disqualified from discussing such subjects. Instead, she asked Davis if they could advance the date of the uprising to the middle of August.
The president shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The people in Chicago want August twenty-ninth. It would be unwise to quarrel with them.”
“So many of our best people will be in Chicago for the Democratic Convention—” Janet said.
“I told your father from the start of this business that the Sons of Liberty army should be independent from its political side,” Davis replied.
Janet heard not a little irritation in his voice. She realized their conspiracy was only one of a hundred problems on this tired man’s mind. Further argument would obviously be futile. They shook hands with President Davis and General Lee and retraced their steps through the stately rooms to the street.
“I’m convinced all over again,” Paul said.
“Of what?”
“That General Lee is the greatest man I’ve ever met. He emanates moral authority.”
In the distance cannons rumbled. The Confederate
sentry in his box stared morosely at them. He was a skinny boy of about seventeen, his uniform was a web of patches. He looked as if he had not eaten a decent meal in months. Janet thought she saw desperation stamped on his face. She wondered if it would soon be stamped on her face.
Never, Janet vowed. She would show these professional soldiers what angry civilians could accomplish with guns in their hands. She would help them revolutionize America’s heartland and ask, Now do you believe me?