January 3, 1864
Carrol Prison,
Washington, D.C.
Annie snuffed out her short candle and watched the smoke drift up to the festoon of thick spiderwebs draping her prison window. Pale moonlight illuminated her. Behind her the prison room was filled with blackness, a fearful place.
“Come away from the window, Annie,” Millie called from the darkness. Millie was another young prisoner, sharing the room. “You’ll catch pneumonia. Come lie down next to me, won’t you? It’s so very cold tonight. We can share the blanket.”
“In a minute,” Annie answered through teeth that were beginning to chatter. She pulled her heavy winter cape closer around her. There was half a pane missing in the dirty window, and only one thick log in their fireplace to heat the room. It did nothing against the wind that poured through the opening as the sea would a break in a dam.
Annie twisted around and craned her head so that she could see the cold crescent moon that glowed in a yet starless night. It was too early to climb into the torture of that bed and her nightmares of the picket she’d shot. Annie blew on her hands to warm them and settled herself in to watch for the stars to come out, one at a time, building the outline of a constellation or two in the small square of sky she could see between the tall walls of the prison yard. She thought longingly of home, where the sky seemed to stretch for the entire universe. Home, where it was easy to see heaven move slowly across the earth’s face, tickling it with its flooring of clouds.
“Please, Annie.” Millie’s voice was small and scared.
Annie sighed. She couldn’t bear the thought of lying down yet on that dirty straw mattress with its bedbugs and smells. The other night a rat had run across her foot as she lay there. She shuddered, remembering.
She knew that’s why Millie wanted her to come. Two against the army of vermin that infested their room made their presence somewhat less terrifying. Of course, poor Millie was terrified by everything—the soldiers, the nightly prisoner checks, the fishlike eye of the guard who peeked through the hole in the door at them, the fitful coughing that echoed through the building all night long, announcing that consumption and typhoid stalked the halls.
Millie was new to it all, brought to Carrol Prison only a few days before. Her crime? Trying to carry vials of quinine out of Washington into Virginia. She’d stolen them from her uncle, who worked in the Federal hospital. She was heading for her Confederate sweetheart in Richmond. When Union soldiers stopped her at a checkpoint, forewarning travelers of an outbreak of smallpox ahead, her skirt gave a telltale clinking sound. She’d sewn the vials into her dress. They arrested her for smuggling.
“How long have you been here?” Millie had asked in a trembling voice when first the guards shoved her into Annie’s room and bolted the door as they left.
“A month,” Annie had answered quietly, wondering if the petite Millie was a Yankee spy sent in to eke some sort of confession out of Annie through friendship. They did that sort of thing, she knew. One of the other prisoners had told her so in a quick, dangerous whisper when passing her in the hall. “Beware others who wish to chat,” the woman had breathed.
A month. The worst month of Annie’s life.
It wasn’t as bad as the dungeons of Chateau d’If in The Count of Monte Cristo, she’d told herself. Carrol Prison was just an old boardinghouse, three stories of dingy brick, right behind the new Capitol building that President Lincoln was completing. Adjacent to it was the Old Capitol prison, another ancient tavern and boardinghouse that had briefly been used by Congress for its sessions after the British burned down the original Capitol building in 1814. That building housed Confederate soldiers, blockade runners, and prisoners of war. Carrol was used for women.
There’s even wallpaper on the wall, Annie had tried to console herself the first night she’d been thrust into the dark, dank room. Of course, it was peeling off, and where it didn’t hang in sheets, there were nasty large grease spots. Dust and cobwebs covered the few pieces of furniture—an iron bedstead, a table with a tin cup and a jug containing water, and a rickety chair.
She’d sunk down in the chair and been crawled over by a startled mouse. That was when Annie had started hoarding the small candles they gave the prisoners each day. The nights were so frightening, she wanted extras to light in case one night she simply couldn’t stave off the nightmares through sheer willpower. By now she’d gathered and hidden in her bonnet a dozen stubs of candles and about five matches. Occasionally, she’d walk over and shake the bonnet to remind herself that they were in there. It wasn’t as if she needed to wear that bonnet to go anywhere anytime soon. She was awaiting trial. And it was clear to Annie that it wasn’t going to occur quickly. She had briefly been housed with a woman who’d been at Carrol for a year with no trial, accused of carrying Confederate messages across the border to Southern sympathizers in Canada.
Annie had been interviewed repeatedly by the prison superintendent and a man from the Bureau of Military Affairs. But his questions were less about Annie and her so-called crimes than about other potential “spies” in Fauquier. Who harbored Mosby rangers? Who supplied them? Who kept informing them of Union supply wagons and whereabouts?
“Major Mosby has his own scouts, sir,” she’d answered, “very effective ones who slip in and out of your lines all the time.”
“It wasn’t scouts. It was spies, like you.”
“I am not a spy,” Annie said firmly.
The superintendent had rattled his papers and scowled at her. “It says here that you warned that pirate Mosby of a raid and caused the death of several Federal soldiers with that information.”
Annie held her head high. Murdock would have told them that, because Jamie would have bragged of it to him.
He shuffled through more papers and squinted at one. “Also, that you were a confidante of General Stuart. We had another young woman here recently who had a commission as an honorary member of his staff. Found lots of letters on her. Perhaps you have some, too.”
Annie forced herself to sit quietly, to reveal nothing beyond: “My brother rode with Stuart’s cavalry. I did know the general, as any family member of his officers would.”
As far as she knew, the Federals had no paper to prove her friendship with Stuart. The night she was arrested, Will, that clever, silent child, had slowly inched his way toward the table in the parlor, where sat that volume of Lord Byron. Annie had noticed him doing it out of the corner of her eye, as Laurence argued and pleaded with the Union cavalry not to arrest her. It was only then she remembered that she’d left Stuart’s two poems stuffed inside. How Will knew, she could only guess, but she was grateful to the boy. The poems didn’t say she did anything in terms of spying or war work, but Stuart’s bold signature was on them, and she knew the kind of insinuations the Federals might make of that. She’d suffered many such off-color remarks already from the guards.
They hadn’t been as wrenching, though, as the look Thomas had given her when Murdock pointed at her and said: “That’s her, Major Walker. That’s the one that shot the picket. That’s the one warned Mosby of the raid in Middleburg so he could set a trap of his own for your boys. Mosby’s been in and out of this house plenty. She’s kept mules and weapons for him, too. Her and her freckle-faced, loud-mouthed brother. I spent a couple weeks here, so I know. There’s a hidey hole right over there. Check it out for yourself.”
Walker nodded at his men, who quickly located Jamie’s hidden cellar.
“Check the rest of the house,” Thomas ordered.
“See if the brother is here.” His voice was hollow. He turned to Annie, those dark beautiful eyes of his anguished. “What can you say to this, Miss Sinclair?”
What could she say? She pursed her lips and said nothing.
Thomas sighed deeply. “You’d best collect some warm clothes. It’s cold out tonight. The rain is hard. You’ll have to ride. I have no other transport.”
“What about him?” a round, red-faced lieutenant asked, talking about Laurence. “We’re supposed to arrest every male we find in these houses.”
Thomas shook his head.
“You can’t leave him, Major. He may be one of them.”
“No,” said Thomas.
“I ain’t gonna get in trouble for not arresting this man,” the lieutenant snapped. “It’s already rumored you’re soft on these cursed Rebels. I hear tell it might even be this very gal got you cowardly.” He jerked his thumb toward Annie.
“That’s enough,” Thomas roared, stepping forward so he towered over the fat subordinate.
The lieutenant sputtered, “I’m gonna report it.”
“Fine. Do so,” snapped Thomas. “Report this, too. I refuse to torch this house or its barns. This man”—he gestured toward Laurence—“fought an honorable fight under the command of General Stuart. He lost his arm at Gettysburg, a bloodbath only the bravest dared enter. Such an adversary is to be respected. He’s done his part. He’s been paroled by our army and discharged by his because of his wound. He’s not to be bothered. Do you understand me?”
The lieutenant blew out his cheeks like a toad, then stalked away.
Thomas turned to Laurence and asked quietly, “Do you have your parole papers?”
Laurence held himself up tall. “Yes, upstairs. Do you wish to see them?”
“No, not I, Captain,” said Thomas. “But make sure you have them available if someone else comes. I am sorry for this…this arrest.”
He turned to Annie and with a husky voice asked, “Why?”
Why? Annie wasn’t sure. Why did Laurence fight a war even after he saw that surely there was no winning it? Because it was their home. He was defending it.
Why had she? At first she’d been smitten with and motivated by Stuart, she had to admit it. She’d wanted to be part of the glory of the brave, part of the songs, part of the ennobling speeches, part of the legend in establishing a new country. She was an idealistic, poetry-loving patriot. But then the fight became more of a stubborn hanging on, a defiance of the armies that plundered her state, her home. It had nothing to do with philosophies and politics she had, in fact, grown to question. Now it was simply about her family, and protecting those who were trying to defend her family. She owed Mosby and his rangers—Jamie—her loyalty and her effort. She’d acted on instinct and on her heart. There was no ideology left in it. Could Thomas ever understand that?
Her heart ached at the look on Thomas’ face, so conflicted, so baffled, so disgusted, so hurt, so guilt ridden for what he must do. Her pain told her that she loved him. It was a surprising, wondrous, and horrible recognition.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth. Stupidly, she smiled at Thomas, the love she now recognized inside her making her forget how desperate her situation was. Thomas stared at her in confusion.
In their gaze, Laurence saw the chance for mercy. “Do you know why she was out in the night?” he asked.
“Don’t believe anything this cripple tells you,” Murdock sneered.
Maimed as he was, Laurence had Murdock pinned against the staircase within seconds, crushing his throat with his good hand.
Three Yankee soldiers pulled their guns on him.
“Oh, Laurence, don’t.” Annie threw herself on him to shield him.
“Hold your fire!” shouted Thomas.
Everyone froze. For a moment all was silenced save the clock, the heavy breathing of the soldiers, and Murdock’s choking.
“Tell them, Murdock, tell them about kidnaping two defenseless women and trying to sell them for slaves, you sack of garbage. Tell them how my little sister and baby brother rode out to stop you. Go on!”
“Captain Sinclair, let go of that man.”
“Laurence, please,” Annie cried, tugging on his arm. “Please don’t do this. Don’t get yourself killed over this snake of a turncoat, after all you’ve survived.”
Laurence hesitated and then threw Murdock from him, releasing his throat with a shove. “You’re the kind of trash who will finish this war up,” Laurence hissed. “You’re nothing but a buzzard feeding on a dying people.”
“Annie.” Thomas began, then corrected himself. “Miss Sinclair, please, explain this to me.”
Annie thought of the first time they had met and he had condemned her and her family for having slaves on the very evening Miriam bandaged his wounds. Would her riding out to save Rachel and Lenah make him understand once and for all that she and Laurence were different from the stereotypes he had expected to find? She had learned that there were good and bad on both sides, kind and cruel on both sides, thieving, lechery, and mercy on both sides, according to the morals and personality of the individual. Had Thomas?
Lonely enemy pickets shared meals together at night, traded tobacco for coffee, asked each other about their homes and families, and then shot at each other the next day of battle. She had felt destined to fall in love with someone like William Farley, one of her own kind, and yet her heart had attached itself to a Yankee, a man who might have killed her brothers in battle. If she and Thomas had faced each other in the dark in that skirmish with the pickets, would they have aimed and fired?
No, there was nothing clear-cut in this war. Not by a long shot.
“This man”—Annie pointed to Murdock—“and his partner were angry about not receiving some money from Major Mosby. They took Rachel and Lenah from their cottage here at Hickory Heights and were carrying them to a slave dealer. Rachel is a free woman. Laurence freed all our people last winter. Her husband, Sam, rides with Laurence and has kept him alive. He’s saved Laurence’s life at least twice. Rachel and I have played together, read together, since we were children. We couldn’t let Murdock take Rachel.”
Thomas started pacing, looking down at the floor, shaking his head. Annie could only guess at his morass of questions and confusion.
“Major, you ain’t going to believe what this—” Murdock began.
“Get this scum out of my sight,” Thomas ordered.
As Murdock was pushed out the door, Thomas straightened himself up. “God help me, Annie. My orders are to arrest you, for spying, shooting at our pickets, and harboring Mosby rangers. I can’t not do it. If I don’t, they’ll simply send someone else. Get your things.” His voice was heavy and thick with anger and frustration.
He looked at Laurence. “I will do everything I can to win her release promptly.” Then he turned back to Annie and said slowly, with overwhelming tenderness and sadness, “You absolutely confound me.”
In her prison room, Annie looked back up through the spiderwebs, blocking her view now of the moon that had traveled part of its nightly orbit. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave / When first we practice to deceive,” Annie muttered. She hadn’t meant to deceive Thomas Walker. Of course, she hadn’t meant to care a fig about what any Yankee thought, either.
Thomas had been kind on that long ride to jail, so kind. Taking off his own oil poncho to protect her from the rain. Stopping frequently to let her rest. At the Union camp, he’d argued with Colonel Lowell. He’d argued with the Federal detective who came to escort her to Washington. There were tears in his eyes as he bade her Godspeed. “I don’t understand you, Annie,” he repeated. But he added in a whisper, so the soldiers standing nearby couldn’t rob them of their privacy, “But I believe I love you even more after this night, Lord help me.”
Lord help you, indeed, thought Annie.
“Annie, please, come lie down,” Millie’s frightened voice wailed again. She was younger than Annie and very childlike sometimes.
Annie finally took pity on her. She stood, wrapped her cloak tight around her like armor, and went to the bed to lie down for the night. She steeled herself to withstand mice crawling over her body and dreams of the boy picket crumpling up from her shot.
“It’s all right, Millie,” she said to reassure herself as much as the other teenager. “Morning will come soon.”