THE DETAILS OF the ride back to the Van Lew estate escaped Molly’s memory. She sat in a fog. Robert and Miss Lizzie managed to drag her inside. At some point, Mary Jane drew a warm bath. Molly remembered sitting in the water until it became tepid, and then changing into a nightgown. Mary Jane showed her to a spare room, turned down the bed, and left Molly alone.
She may have slept, but she didn’t know. She didn’t care. She wanted to scream, and cry, and fight, and rip her clothes and her hair—all at once. The conflict raged within her. Nothing came out. Instead, the numbness gave way to something serene. The ceiling above her was a blank canvas.
Outside her door, Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane spoke in hushed tones. They were scared. Molly couldn’t blame them. If Captain McCubbin came to the estate, Molly would be a liability. Or when Captain McCubbin came to the estate. Molly focused on the words between the two women. They planned to get her out of Richmond the next day, maybe even at daybreak. Robert would bundle her up and take her to the farm. Her mind went back to the irons at Webster’s wrists. If she left, he would be doomed. So many people had died on her account. She had hurt so many.
And with that thought calmness descended like a warm blanket, enveloping her and vanquishing the fear and doubt. The answer was so clear.
She waited until the house quieted. The last chime from the hall clock felt like ages ago. She had not bothered to keep the count in her head. She figured it to be well past midnight. Outside, the wind raged, as if the conflict inside her had been excised past the pane of glass. She lifted the blanket and swung her feet until they reached the floor.
At the bottom of her bed she found her dress. She put it on, careful not to make any noise. Miss Lizzie believed every room should be well stocked with pen and paper. Molly sat at the small desk and rummaged for what she needed. She had no way to light the oil lamp, but she needn’t have worried. Enough moonlight fell through the window.
She opened the inkbottle by feel, careful not to spill. Then she applied enough to the pen before she scratched her note upon the paper. It was fine stationary, and her hand flowed over the words.
Miss Lizzie—
Please accept my sincerest regards for all you have done on my behalf. I am grateful that fate put me upon your path. I fear I may have caused you more trouble than I intended. I will be forever indebted to you for your kindness. If there is one favor you might still do for me, please look out for Jeanine as we discussed. I hope someday that I will see you again. Please send my apologies to Mary Jane for not bidding her goodbye in person.
I think my mother would be happy that we met again.
—M. Ferguson
She closed the inkbottle, and then laid the note upon the desk to dry. Without wasting time, she reached into her handbag and produced the letters. She left them next to the note. Finally, she removed Webster’s pistol. It felt so heavy and awkward. A crude weapon—the tools of men, Mrs. Warne would say. Manipulating the weapon, she eased the hammer back until it locked in the cocked position. Then she eased it forward, pulling the trigger to release the mechanism. She could work this gun.
There was no need for the handbag. She had no need for anything else. She found her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders. Then she grabbed her boots but did not put them on. The floor would creak and wake Mary Jane or Miss Lizzie. She made her way down the stairs, only stopping once she reached the basement and the servants’ entrance. She pulled her boots on, tied the laces, and then unlocked the door.
The same pale moonlight bathed everything. It soothed her. The calmness persisted. She crept along the side of the house. Not even the cold or the wind could penetrate her peace of mind.
Richmond lay before her. She had a twenty-minute walk. Even though it was well past curfew, the patrols of soldiers rarely came through this part of Richmond. Most of the patrols scoured the city below Church Hill, in the underbelly of Richmond. She pressed into the shadows and hurried her pace.
She found the estate without trouble, stopping to observe it from afar. She stepped out of the shadows of the nearest gas lamp, casting its pale light past the sidewalk and onto the cobblestone street. Staring at the building, a rustling at the top of the lamp drew her attention. She spun to face a large black crow perched upon the light. It looked right into her eyes. They stared at one another for a few moments. The bird stretched its large wings, and with a sudden jump lofted into the night sky. It soared past Molly and toward the house, disappearing into the dark.
She watched the bird fade into the night, then stared at the estate. Despite the hour, a light shone in the front parlor. The rest of the house lay dark. She stepped past the gas lamp and made her way to the front gate. The staircase consisted only of a few steps. She did not have to do more than stand upon her tiptoes to see into the great window. The glow of the gas lamp reflected in his spectacles. She mounted the few stairs, and without hesitation, knocked softly at the door.
It took a moment. Her thumb rode the hammer of the pistol, pulling it back until it locked in place. Then her finger pressed into the trigger, taking all slack out of the mechanism. She would not hesitate.
A sliver of light fell upon the stairs as the door opened. The man holding the light peered out. When he saw the familiar face, he swung the door wide open.
“Why, Mrs. Webster. Whatever are you doing out this late?”
Jonathon hadn’t said anything.
“I’ve come with an urgent matter to discuss,” Molly answered. “One which cannot wait until tomorrow. I do hope you have a few moments for me, Mr. Cheeney.”
Then she lifted the pistol until the weapon gleamed in the lamplight. The barrel pointed directly at Mason Cheeney’s chest.
He staggered backward. She stepped toward him, crossing through the doorway.
“What’s this about?”
His voice held panic. He fought to suppress it, but it leaked in. His eyes never left the gun.
“There are so many things this could be about. But tonight I am happy to limit the discussion to one. I need your help with my husband.”
Molly took another step inside. Mason Cheeney stepped back, focused upon the pistol. Molly closed the front door behind her.
“Why don’t we move to your parlor? But slow.”
Cheeney nodded. “Yes, yes.”
He backed away, leading them into the parlor.
“Sit in the chair in front of the desk,” Molly ordered. “And it would be most convenient if you placed the lamp upon the desk and left your hands in your lap.”
Cheeney obeyed. He placed the lamp in a position where the soft light filled the room.
“I heard General Winder had your husband arrested.”
“And that is where you will help me.”
“Help you?” he asked.
His eyes moved between the barrel of the pistol and Molly’s face, then back again. Her focus turned to his body language—for any sign he might try to get up.
“Cross your feet,” Molly said.
“What now?”
“Cross your feet,” Molly ordered.
If he was off-balance, it would buy her time to pull the trigger—if she had the need. He followed her instruction, though he did it slowly, conveying his reluctance.
“What do you think I can do for your husband?”
“You will go to General Winder and vouch for him. Your reputation has grown considerably with your successes. You will see him set free.”
“And if I do not?” Cheeney asked.
He had recovered slightly. A bit of bravado crept into his voice.
“Then I will expose your letters.”
“My letters? What letters?”
“The ones you wrote offering to sell your ship to the Union,” Molly answered.
Mr. Cheeney stared. A smile broke out across his face. He began to laugh.
“Are you mad? Sell my plans to the Union?”
“I have the letters, Mr. Cheeney. They are safe. You get my husband free, and I’ll return your correspondence.”
“I never wrote anything of the sort! Never would I betray the South!”
Molly studied his face. She hadn’t expected this. He should have crumbled, understanding her leverage.
“So it’s true. Webster is with the Union?” he asked. “Who are you?”
At first Molly said nothing. Then she took a step closer, raising the gun until the front sight covered his forehead. With such little pressure the trigger would break—the bullet would split his head open.
“You don’t remember me?”
He shook his head.
“I remember you. I remember how you torched my house. I remember how you put the rope around my father’s neck, then let the horse drag him. I remember how your men slashed Isabelle’s throat. I remember the blood mixed with the mud. I remember the flames, how you killed Big John. I remember it all.”
He stared. Fear returned to him. As he leaned forward, Molly raised the gun again. He eased back in the chair.
“Ferguson?”
His voice came as a whisper.
Molly nodded. “Molly Ferguson. And I remember the brothel in Baltimore. You will get Mr. Webster out, or I will send those letters to General Winder. You’ll have the cell next to my husband.”
“How?”
He stared at her.
“I dyed my hair. I changed my clothes. I covered the freckles upon my face. And I’m older. I was raped night after night. That’ll change anyone.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You don’t have to understand. For now, we want you alive. First thing in the morning, you go to General Winder. If you do not, I will tear your life down starting with those letters.”
Molly thrust the pistol toward him. It gleamed in the light. She kept the pressure upon the trigger. If not for Webster, she would kill this man where he sat. She no longer doubted that she could do it. He shook his head and raised his hands.
“I never wrote such letters.”
“Lying comes easy to men like you. Like how you won my father’s estate in a game of poker.”
“I was ordered to do that. It wasn’t personal.”
“Ordered?” she asked. “Ordered to burn my house and kill my family?”
“Yes!” His voice rose, filled with excitement. “Your father was a British agent. He worked for Lord Lyons. I work for the French.”
Her calmness began to fade. None of this had turned out how she expected.
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not,” Cheeney pleaded. “Did you never wonder how an Irish immigrant found the money to purchase a large Louisiana plantation? Did you ever ask?”
Molly shook her head—nothing she had ever thought upon. Her father came from Ireland, her mother from Richmond. She never knew more, and she never asked. Studying Cheeney, truth and fiction were impossible to separate. His face appeared sincere, and his voice did not waiver.
“We had to stop him,” Cheeney argued. “I was told to stop him.”
“Why?”
Her confidence drained. But it mattered little. She needed this man to go to General Winder. The rest was history that would not save Webster.
“Your father found a way to make the plantation work—without slaves. Slavery was always the objection of the Crown. They would buy more Southern cotton if it were not harvested by slaves.”
“Why do you care?”
“I am against anything England does.”
Molly studied his face. None of this made sense.
“Why? Why do you care so much about Europe?”
“I don’t,” Cheeney answered. His tone turned cold. “I don’t care about Europe. I hate the British. They killed my father in the Battle of New Orleans. I was a boy when he died.”
“So you killed my parents and burnt Salvation Acres because your father died?”
“No!” he yelled. “I did it to save the South. If your father’s plan had worked, then there would be no Confederate States. We would be slaves to Northern industrialists.”
He argued in circles. Her anger rose until her finger tensed upon the trigger.
“But you promote the same plan now. I heard you!”
“Because it is the only way to win this war. Think about it. We use your father’s plan but do it right! He didn’t free anyone. He fooled them. That’s all he did. Put the gun down and you can help. I am not a secessionist. I am a revolutionary!”
“No!” Molly yelled back. “He gave them papers. I saw! They could leave whenever they wanted.”
“Could they? He paid them so little they could never leave. They weren’t free. They only thought they were. And your father was no saint. He kept a Negro mistress!”
The door to the parlor opened behind Molly. She spun to see who joined them. Even through the dark, as he stood in the door partially bathed in the light, she recognized him.
“Molly?” Jonathon called out.
She had no answer. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw the movement. Mason Cheeney lunged forward. Her finger pulled down upon the trigger. The flash from the barrel bathed the room in an instant of light.
“Father, no!” Jonathon yelled.
He gave no sign the bullet had struck him. Her thumb fought for the hammer again, but it came too late. The older man ripped the pistol from her hand. Cheeney threw her to the ground and pressed his fat body upon her. She stiffened. It was the brothel all over again. She fought, pushing him off. But he was too strong—too heavy. She struggled to breathe, but the air in the gap next to his chest grew stale with perspiration. She gasped at it as her world grew dim.