17 FEBRUARY 1861, MONTREAL, QUEBEC
MOLLY PRESSED HER pace. Not even the biting northern cold could slow her mission. The city looked the same. The sound of French made the adventure exotic. She didn’t dread the place, as she feared. In fairness, she pushed the old memories from her mind. Instead, she focused on what needed her attention—finding William Norris.
The trip to the border had taken longer than expected—a whole day longer. But that offered unique relief from her dilemma. She slept most of the way to Rouses Point. Once she woke, she found that deep snow delayed the trains to the north. They needed a special engine with a plow to clear the path. A particularly harsh blizzard had dumped feet of the frozen powder along the iron rails. She used the time well, first sending another telegraph to Mrs. Warne. Then she went in search of winter clothes. Mrs. Warne had left her with considerable money, and for the first time, she actually counted the amount. She had more than enough to find a heavy dress and coat and make it back south with plenty to spare.
Still, she worried. Had she made the right decision? Her face ached, and one eye had almost swollen shut. If she did not touch it, the throbbing subsided until she forgot and disturbed the bruising again. Perhaps she should have returned to Baltimore and sought out Mrs. Warne. But her answer came in the form of a telegraph, though it created more questions than it answered. It felt like a positive sign. They trusted her.
Use discretion. Make haste to Philadelphia after finished.
Find E.J. Allen at Continental Hotel.
She didn’t know an E.J. Allen, and she hadn’t been through Philadelphia for many years. But the relief the telegraph brought highlighted her worst fear—finding herself abandoned. She held the paper in her hands, rereading the words. They wanted her—she was not alone. She should have torn the message to bits. But she convinced herself there was no harm in holding it until she reached Montreal.
The men from Albany were her second greatest fear. They had her letter from Booth. He had foolishly written it in plain language. His friend, Mr. Sanders, understood the value in writing an innocuous letter. Anyone who found it would miss the true intent—an introduction between Confederate agents. Booth was either too stupid or too arrogant to mask his involvement. Molly assumed it was the latter—always the ultimate showman.
The railway finished plowing the rails to Montreal in the early hours of the morning. She had not woken in time to board the first train of the day. But once they started, they made good time upon the cleared track. The train deposited her at the southern end of the city. The timing left her with dying daylight in which to find the address Booth had left so unguarded in his note.
As she hurried upon the near barren streets, she ignored her anger at Booth. Her gloved hand felt the telegram in the pocket at the front of her outer skirt. Holding it, touching the paper, eased her mood. Keep walking—keep walking.
She kept her pace as fast as she dared. Though patches of ice formed where the snow packed firm upon the cobblestones, the citizens here were particular about their cleared streets and sidewalks. They beat the snow back, pushing it into white mounds that resembled mountains. Molly walked in the direction of Mount Royal, the mountain that stood as the backdrop for the city. Her feet led her north through the business district, toward the university. She had a vague idea where she headed. It was not in the same area of the city where her father had taken her—small virtues.
She found Pine Avenue without trouble. Her dress beat back the cold, even when the wind tried its best to press through the thick wool. Heading east, the numbers on the sides of a few buildings moved in the right direction. They were one- or two-story brick houses, with smoke exiting soot-stained chimneys. The smell of burned coal lingered amongst the bite of the air.
Even this late into winter, Montreal was a city in motion. It had become the epicenter of British North America. Though pockets of French existed in the conversations of the people Molly passed, the city had turned Anglophile with the British takeover of Quebec. But there were those who kept their French heritage. Molly liked the sound of it.
As she approached the address Booth provided, the neighborhood felt empty. Smoke rose from the chimneys, but no one walked upon the street. She walked past the address—on purpose. The lack of pedestrians wore at her nerves. She dared not look at the building but hurried her pace. From the side of her vision, all appeared normal—or at least quiet. Curtains were drawn, and the chimney told of a well-stoked fire. Someone was inside.
She turned the corner past the building, hoping to circle around the block. If questioned, she could pretend she lost her way. From the corner, an alley disappeared behind the building. It likely led across the block. A way to cut through? Behind her, a large wagon passed. A team of four horses pulled it along the rough street. In the back of the wagon, two ordered rows of soldiers sat upon the side benches. They wore scarlet jackets with dark pants, each holding a musket. The last man, a boy really, stared at her. He looked so young, not old enough to be away from home. He might have said the same about her. Their eyes locked. The wagon rolled out of sight and turned at the next intersection.
Buildings loomed on either side of the alley, blocking the wind. It came as a welcome relief. The alley itself was narrow, likely too small for a wagon or carriage to make its way through. It jogged in the middle, where the buildings on one side jutted into the space. It left no way to see if the path reached the opposite street. Surely it must. Perhaps the building she sought had a back door. That would work better—out of sight. But the quiet, and the soldiers in the wagon, felt wrong. She steadied her breathing and glanced down the alley. There was no turning back. She had come too far and too much hinged on what she might discover.
After several steps, she stopped. A small pile of bricks and broken bits of masonry lay piled at the base of one of the buildings. She knelt and selected one that fit into her handbag. If Mrs. Warne would not let her have a pistol, she would find another means to stay safe.
Only a small amount of sun filtered between the buildings. It passed the narrow point between the roofs making the last of the daylight appear bleak. Pressing further into the alley she shifted her weight to keep her heel falls from echoing. As she approached the jog in the alley, she pressed her body against the brick wall to peer around the corner. A man stood at a back door—exactly the door she hoped to find. She cursed her luck. He paced back and forth, shaking his hands while he smoked. Easing back along the alley, she slid her back along the wall to keep herself out of sight. She hoped he had not noticed. He could be a lookout, or worse. She would use the front door and take her chances—a better option than a strange man in an alley.
But as she turned to leave, her grip on her handbag slipped. Her new gloves were not yet worn, and they made holding onto the handle a tricky affair. The weight of the brick only made it worse. The bag hit the ground. She froze, holding her breath.
The moments passed like an eternity. She forced herself off the wall and stooped to recover her bag. As she stood, someone grabbed her arm—the man from Albany. When he breathed, the smell of smoke fell heavy about her face.
“I rather thought you would use the front door,” he said.
He grabbed her face. She winced and fought hard to not lose her grip upon her handbag. He pinned her arm to her body, so there was little room to swing it. Struggling, she tried to create the space she needed.
“Stop fighting!”
He gripped her face harder and then shoved her head back into the wall.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find the letter? That we wouldn’t follow? You took your time getting here—the train arrived almost an hour ago. But I appreciate the time. I have a squad of Royal Marines set around the corner.”
Molly said nothing. The man held her head against the building. She stood upon her toes. He dragged her off the wall and down the alley, toward the back door.
“We were waiting for you to show,” he continued, “to arrest you all at once. You can watch me give the signal, and your friends dragged into the street. I’ll make certain you have a cold cell.”
He pulled back his coat and produced a pistol. Cocking the hammer, he raised the weapon, intending to fire into the air. But with it, he gave her the space she needed. She swung with all her strength. As the bag hit his head, Molly slipped and fell backwards. The man crumpled, dropping his pistol, which skidded across the stone of the alley. Molly rushed to recover the weapon.
She gripped the pistol awkwardly. But the man lay upon the alley—facedown. A pool of blood collected near his head. She sat a moment, then scrambled to her feet. No one came down the alley—in either direction. With nowhere to turn, she rushed to the door.
She pounded with her fists against the wood, but dared not scream unless she alert the soldiers. They must have been the ones in the wagon and couldn’t be far away. She drove her fists into the door. It echoed beyond. Then there were voices, muffled through the thick door. A moment later the latch caught, and the door pushed open, nearly knocking Molly over. A man stood and stared at her.
“Please,” she said. “Please help me. I need to see Mr. Norris. The soldiers are coming.”
The man stared at her, dumbfounded. Then he looked to her hand. She still gripped the pistol. He took a step back.
“No, no …” Molly said. “It’s his. He attacked me. He was going to call the soldiers.”
The man peered around the corner. His fear of Molly turned to shock. He saw the blood pooling in the alley.
“Get in,” he said.
His accent was Southern. Despite the shock and the cold, it brought her comfort. As he reached to give Molly a hand, he took the pistol from her. He called inside for help, and another man met them down a long hallway.
“There’s a man in the alley; we need to get him inside before someone sees. And get her to the study. She’s here for Colonel Norris.”
The two men rushed outside and picked up the injured man. They dragged his limp body inside and deposited him upon the hall floor. Then, after checking outside, the man closed the door.
She didn’t have a choice. He grabbed the top portion of her arm and thrust her down the hall. He walked her into a sitting room where a man sat by the fireplace. He rose as they entered.
“What’s this about?” the man asked.
He was impeccably dressed with a full head of dark hair. His mustache lay upon his beard like an ornate roof. And his accent came from the Deep South.
“Sorry to disturb you, Colonel, but she came to the back door, and …” the man began speaking, but the colonel held up his hand.
“Who are you?” he asked Molly.
“My name is Hattie Lawton. Mr. John Wilkes Booth sent me,” Molly answered.
The colonel nodded. “Mr. Booth sent a telegram. We’ve been expecting you.”
“You don’t have much time,” Molly said. Her voice strained as she fought the panic rising like the tide within her. “Soldiers are coming to arrest us all.”
“What soldiers?” the colonel asked. He looked to the man with Molly.
“We found her with this, sir.” He handed the colonel the pistol Molly had recovered from her fight in the alley. “And there was a man out back clubbed about the head.”
“He followed me,” Molly explained, “from Albany. He beat me and took the letter of introduction from Mr. Booth. Mr. Booth wrote the letter plain, and it had your name and address upon it. The man out back said he staged soldiers nearby to take us all into custody. He went to signal them with the pistol. That’s when I struck him.”
The colonel shook his head, annoyed. “Where is this injured man?” he asked Molly’s escort.
“And he’s the one who did this to you?” the colonel asked.
He stepped forward and reached for Molly’s face with one hand. His thumb streaked down her cheek. When he pulled it back, it had stained red. Instinctively, Molly reached for her face. Blood had splattered across it.
“Go search him,” the colonel ordered his guard, nodding toward the hall.
The guard left Molly alone with the colonel. Blood covered her hand—not her blood.
“I am William Norris,” he said. “Mr. Booth said he gave you something, something you could show me.”
Molly nodded, still staring at her hand. Slowly she reached around her neck to pull out her chain. Her hand shook. She held up the locket without taking it from around her neck.
“Very well,” the colonel said. “Tell me about these soldiers. British soldiers?”
Before Molly could answer, the guard came back. He held papers in his hand.
“Colonel Norris, I found these on the man from out back. He’s dead.”
Dead? Molly felt sick.
The colonel took them and read. He skimmed the first, and handed the letter to Molly. It was Booth’s letter. Then he read the second paper.
“These are diplomatic papers, signed by Lord Lyons—the British emissary in Washington. How do you know this man?”
“He’s dead?” Molly asked. Her world dimmed. The room became fuzzy at the edges of her vision. “I didn’t …”
The colonel caught her arms, propping her up. He shook her and forced her to look into his eyes.
It took Molly a moment. Numbness overtook her. Her breathing was shallow, and she feared she might be sick.
“What soldiers?” the colonel asked again. He strengthened the grip upon her arms, and his voice became more pressing.
Molly snapped back. “They’re coming. I saw them in a wagon on my way here. They had red coats and rifles.”
The colonel eased his grip. He turned to his guards.
“Get my coat and burn the papers. I’ll take Miss Lawton to the apartment. Hurry.”
The colonel walked Molly out the back, toward the alley. They stepped over the man she had clubbed, who lay faceup in the hall. Her knees became weak when she saw his lifeless face. The colonel lifted and pushed her along at the same time.
“Stay with me,” he said. “We’re going outside. The cold will do you good.”
They pushed into the cold air. Night descended upon them, making their flight harder to detect. The colonel wrapped an arm around Molly and kept her moving forward. Molly played the sound of her handbag hitting the dead man in the head over in her mind. As they reached the jog in the alley, she doubled over and vomited. The colonel paused only for a moment. He pulled her upright and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief.
He led them across the street, back where Molly had seen the soldiers. They headed down a different alley, through a maze of alleyways, arriving at a door. The light faded fast, especially in the narrow places between the buildings. The colonel took a key from his pocket and let them both in. He secured the door behind them.
Once inside, he led down a small hallway and into a large sitting room. He eased Molly onto a couch, standing and stretching his back after she let her weight down.
“We have a guest staying with us,” the colonel said. “But for now we can use this place. It will be safe. The Crown does not know we rent this apartment. But I will have to leave immediately to see the governor about this. He guaranteed our protection.”
The flooring creaked behind them—another man appeared in the doorway. Her head spun. She held a hand over her mouth, trying to hold her stomach together.
This couldn’t be happening.
He was older than when Molly last saw him. Gray filled his beard, and his hair had thinned. He looked at her as if he might recognize her. Her vision filled with the sight of Salvation Acres on fire—her mother screaming, and her father dragged off with the noose around his neck. And Isabelle.
Mason Cheeney stood in the doorway.