THE SMALL BOAT pitched and rocked upon the water. The air hung heavy, pressing in on Molly as if it were a blanket. Small ice crystals formed with every breath. It hurt when she breathed deep. The Potomac River ran swift here, and the boat caught the current as soon as they put out. Only in the small waves could she find the water. It flowed with an inky blackness under an equally dark sky as the wind cut through her coat and her dress.
She sat by herself in the back of the boat. Webster helped the boatman pull at a pair of giant oars in the middle of the small craft. With two men at the oars, they hoped to beat the coming storm, which already battered the canvas of the small sail. Two children huddled against an older woman at the front. She was the wife of a Confederate officer who needed a guide into Richmond. It seemed a small miracle that the children—one boy and one girl—tolerated the cold without complaint.
Webster looked different somehow, though it was hard to place. A sadness possessed him. At once she had recognized him, but his cold manner made her feel small—not how he met her before, in the brothel. Mrs. Warne must have felt it, too. As she saw them off, she wished Molly luck, with a tone that conveyed she understood the challenge. Mrs. Warne had pried her way into the Pinkerton agency and tirelessly built her reputation. Molly had to do the same.
In some manner that was lucky—exactly the reason Mrs. Warne wanted Molly in Richmond. Men talked around women, because they felt confident women could not be spies. They had not the intelligence, or the forethought, or the care of the business of men. So went the logic. Yet women heard everything and were privy to the deepest secrets. Around the sewing circles and sitting rooms they traded these secrets. They exchanged nuggets of information as they did patches of material. The key to some of the greatest men in the Confederacy came through their wives.
Webster strained at the oars. The travel weighed upon him. Molly had thought of him often over the past year. Even though Mrs. Warne had been the one to take her from the brothel, she still held in him the image of liberator. She hoped his energy waned because the war drew on—not that her presence was so distasteful to his sense of purpose. He had built his reputation as a trustworthy Confederate courier—a man who could smuggle messages north. The messages made it to their intended readers. But not before Pinkerton steamed open, read, and then resealed each one.
She yearned for more conversation with him, as their first meeting had been so curious. He remained the only man she had met who could hold a topic and make it worthy of discussion. But there would be no talking upon the boat. They kept quiet, hoping the Union patrols huddled somewhere warm and would not hear them from the shoreline. If discovered, the soldiers would fire upon them. Anyone crossing the Potomac was either a spy, or smuggled contraband. Both were capital offenses, dealt with in the field by troops who longed to break winter boredom with any action. As the wind picked up, their fear of being overheard faded. The weather had decidedly turned.
“Storm’s a coming!” the boatman shouted. “Get low and cover up!”
Rain started the assault. It showed no mercy, blinding with small particles of ice embedded in each drop. Molly leaned forward and huddled into her shawl. She hoped the boat held—she hated swimming. The men weathered the wind without shelter, afraid to let go of the oars. To do so would leave them at the mercy of the wind, free to blow them however it desired.
Molly willed the minutes to pass. Each breath came as agony. She lost feeling in her hands and it took all her strength to hold her shawl against the wind. As she counted her breaths, grateful that each one came in the open air and not struggling upon the water, the wind shifted. It tugged the boat faster toward the opposite shore. It also pulled them along the river. The men fought at the oars, desperate to push back against the wind. It did no good. With a grinding, the boat came to a stop—grounded along shallow water as they approached the far shore. They were still hundreds of feet from land.
Webster leapt up with astounding dexterity in the face of the wind and cold.
“Lower the sail!” he commanded.
He waded to the front of the boat and grabbed hold of a lead rope. The water was only knee deep, but the keel of the boat had become wedged upon rocks. He used all his strength upon the rope to no avail.
Surveying the far side, he called into the boat. “We must wade ashore. Gather all that is necessary!”
Molly could barely gain her balance in the wind. She stepped over the side and plunged deep to her waist. The water was ice. She fought to breathe. Webster held out a hand and pulled her toward the front of the boat.
“I’ll take Mrs. Horvath. You grab the little girl.”
Molly helped Mrs. Horvath over the side of the boat. As the woman made it into the water, a small bundle slipped from her dress and landed back inside the boat. Molly managed to reach it with her fingertips, before she scooped up the little girl. The wind howled too loud to get Mrs. Horvath’s attention. So Molly gripped the girl tight and placed the packet into her handbag.
The boatman was also upon the water and had reached into the vessel to take hold of the boy. As a group, they waded through the current. At times Molly fell waist deep. The girl clutched upon her neck, holding ever tighter the closer they came to shore. With her legs ready to give out, and no feeling in her arms, Molly stepped onto the far bank. She let the girl down, prying her free before setting her on the bank. Then Molly climbed up. She slipped twice, muddying her dress and tearing the hem.
Webster and the boatman arrived behind her. The boatman handed off his charge, then headed back out. As they sat upon the shore they saw him free the boat, jump into the vessel, and raise the sail. It disappeared downriver.
“My bag was in the boat,” Molly said.
“We’ll buy you new clothes,” Webster responded. He sounded upset, like this had happened on her account. “I know of a smugglers cabin upriver along Monroe’s Creek—near where we should have landed. Should have wood stacked and dry cots.”
They headed in the direction Webster pointed. The land was soggy and the going slow. Molly’s shoes dug deep with each step, forcing her to pull straight up. It sapped her strength. She still carried the girl. The boy walked beside Webster, holding his hand, while Mrs. Horvath followed behind. After a time, Webster slowed. He gave directions from behind the group, but he struggled to keep up. Molly hung back to talk with him.
He shook his head, but coughed—his voice raspy. “It’s my rheumatism. The cold makes it all the worse. I need to get to the cabin.”
With her free hand she grabbed his. Even through her gloves, the ice of his fingers made her shiver. She held fast and pulled him along, ensuring he stayed with the others and led them in the correct direction. Molly tired between holding the girl and pulling Webster. When they finally caught sight of the little cabin, hidden in the woods back from the riverbank, she gave a prayer of relief under her breath.
Molly rammed the door open with her shoulder. Inside, the air stood stale. No one had been there for some time. She deposited Webster by the hearth, placing a heavy blanket over him. His body shook uncontrollably. The cabin contained a second room, with another fireplace. She helped Mrs. Horvath light a fire, and then the woman went about stripping and warming her children. Molly pulled the door closed behind her as she stepped out of the room. She managed to start a fire in the first fireplace and pulled a chair near Webster. He rocked upon the floor. There was little to do other than stoke the fire.
When the other room fell silent, Molly dared removed the package Mrs. Horvath had dropped in the boat. A red ribbon bound the package in oilcloth. Inside, she found a stack of correspondence to Mr. Benjamin—the Confederate Secretary of War. It appeared Mrs. Horvath had the same courier job as Webster.
Before she violated the seal upon the first envelope, she crept to the door leading to the next room. Nothing other than a deep snore emanated from the room beyond. Only the snapping of a roaring fire punctuated the night. She made her way back to Webster and sat down. His shaking had eased and his breathing deepened. Sleep had found him.
She turned the first envelope over in her hand, and then ran her small finger under the flap. It popped open. Taking the letter out, she paused. Still nothing from the other door. She unfolded the paper and read.
One by one Molly passed the hours with the other letters. By the end she cared not how she tore the envelopes. These would never go back to Mrs. Horvath. The author remained anonymous—but the penmanship bespoke of one man. He documented the defenses of Washington, down to the last sentry. There were maps in one letter, illustrating the location of the heavy guns and artillery. Others gave near exact counts of troop strength. Some even contained General McClellan’s personal assessments. The letters contained a blueprint on how to attack Washington. Only a few people could have known these details.
The flames danced while she enjoyed the irony. A woman had tried to deliver these damning messages. The information they contained could end the Union with one well-planned assault. And another woman had found them—foiled their delivery. This transcended the war. It wasn’t about north and south. It was about her place in the world, and Mrs. Warne’s place—even Mrs. Horvath’s place.
Women were in the great game, and Molly would stake her claim to it.