July 12, 1864
Carrol Prison,
Washington, D.C.
“What’s all the excitement?” Annie stood looking out the window onto the Capitol grounds. A huge mass of bluecoat soldiers were rushing into ranks.
“Well, my dear,” Mrs. Jackson said, drawing her near, “Old Jubilee has liberated parts of the Shenandoah Valley and moved into Maryland. He’s firing on Fort Stevens, just north of Washington. Rumor has it that Lincoln himself went out to watch and now is trapped there. The Feds are massing everyone they can to march out and resist.” Her eyes were shining. “We may have our long-awaited invasion of the capital yet. Wouldn’t it make our incarceration worth it, if we were here to watch the city of Washington and Lincoln fall?”
Annie felt no thrill at all. She knew a little about General Jubal Early because Mosby had often spoken ill of him. Early was yet another West Pointer who disapproved of Mosby’s methods. Robert E. Lee had called him “my bad old man,” this cantankerous Virginia lawyer, who’d once battled Indians for the U.S. army. Annie sighed. He’d keep the fighting going until every single soul was dead.
There was a knock on the door. Two guards stood there. Annie and Mrs. Jackson exchanged nervous glances, worrying they’d overhead Mrs. Jackson gloating.
“Ann Sinclair?”
Annie nodded.
“You’re wanted downstairs.”
Had her hearing finally come, then? “What for?” she asked.
“Ain’t been told that. Please come with us, miss.”
She was shown into an anteroom off the large receiving room. Waiting there were a judge from the Bureau of Military Affairs, the superintendent of the prison, the very detective who had delivered her to Carrol, the same odious clerk who’d recorded her conversations, Cousin Francis, and—Annie began to tremble—Thomas Walker.
He seemed taller, thinner, and even graver than the last time she’d seen him. There was a new, nasty, red, barely healed scar running along the side of his handsome face and his neck, disappearing into his blue uniform’s stiff collar. She looked to him to speak, but all he did was smile slightly. She couldn’t read his dark, intense eyes. “Stand tall,” they seemed to say, but that’s foolishness, she told herself. He’s probably been called in to give testimony against me.
“I wish some information from you,” the superintendent said harshly.
Annie clasped her hands together in front of her skirt, a stance she’d taken a thousand times as a dutiful schoolgirl. But what came out of her mouth was still saucy: “I will gladly give you information that I honestly know.”
Cousin Francis rolled his eyes. “Be polite,” he mouthed at her.
“There is fighting just outside the city. You probably are privy to that information?” the superintendent continued.
Don’t answer that, Annie. You could compromise Mrs. Jackson. She waited.
The flabby-faced superintendent eyed her. “Well, there is. Jubal Early has invaded Maryland and threatens the capital. Does that make you happy?”
Again, Annie said nothing.
Cousin Francis interrupted: “I believe this line of questioning is off the subject and badgering Miss Sinclair. If I hear that she has been questioned in this manner before, I will protest it as well as this.”
Her interrogator scowled. He continued, “Mosby has ridden into Maryland, presumably to join forces. The Union commander of the defense of Washington wishes to know his number and who there among the citizens would help him.”
Surprised, Annie answered truthfully, “I would not know, sir. I think that Major Walker and the Union cavalry could better answer that.”
“Surely you would know who his informants are.”
“No, sir, I would not.”
“Perhaps, you simply don’t know those located in Maryland.”
Yet another potential trap. “No, sir, I would not know any informants of his anywhere.”
“But you know that informants exist then?” The bulbous superintendent sat up as if he had caught her in something.
Was this to be another endless cat-and-mouse game of words? Annie felt a twinge of fury and said obstinately, “Only because you have told me so and I assume an officer of the United States government to be nothing other than honest and knowledgeable.”
She heard Thomas cough and saw a smile twitch across his face briefly before he suppressed it.
The superintendent rattled his papers. “I suggest you adopt an air of cooperation, Miss Sinclair. How you answer may determine what charges we bring against you. We know that you have alerted both Mosby and Stuart of our troop movements, twice that we can prove with witnesses. That constitutes spying. We know from our own operatives in Warrenton that Stuart was quite impressed by your loyalty and espionage abilities and communicated with you frequently.”
Cousin Francis stepped in again. “There has been no proof of that. You have thoroughly searched Miss Sinclair’s home and found absolutely nothing to support your egregious insinuations.”
Thank you, God, for little Will. Annie hadn’t known what had happened about those poems. She had heard nothing further from Charlotte. Either Will had hidden them completely or Charlotte had told Laurence to destroy them. Oh, she hoped Charlotte had found her compassion and married Laurence, too. She longed to know.
Her questioner noticed the change in Annie’s face. “You needn’t look so relieved, Miss Sinclair. We also know that you shot a picket. You are lucky that the soldier lived—otherwise we might see fit to charge you with murder.”
Annie couldn’t help herself. A wave of joy overcame her. “He lived? He did? Oh, praise God!”
“Annie,” shushed Francis.
“Aha!” The superintendent said triumphantly. He slapped his papers onto his desk and wrote furiously.
Annie didn’t care. The boy had lived. She hadn’t killed him. She knew she had shot in self-defense, but oh, the guilt of thinking she had taken another life had imprisoned her as surely as the walls of Carrol Prison had. Now she was free of it. She felt life flood through her. Beaming, she looked over at Thomas. He was watching her so carefully; she felt that his eyes burned through to her soul. She looked at Cousin Francis, who had lowered his head and was shaking it back and forth, his bald scalp shining. There was no sound save for the scribbling of prison officials.
Annie laughed out loud, clapped her hands together, and repeated happily: “He lived!” She wanted to dance!
Suddenly Thomas burst out laughing as well. “God help me, Annie,” he said, “I just knew it had to be an accident. I just knew you couldn’t have planned to do it.”
“Major Walker,” Cousin Francis fairly shouted.
“You’re making things worse.”
Thomas sobered quickly. “No. I’m going to fix them.”
He stepped forward, pulling a letter from his breast pocket. “I have a letter here that was delivered under a flag of truce from Colonel Mosby.”
The superintendent’s head shot up.
A letter from Mosby? wondered Annie, still too pleased by the news of the picket’s survival to grasp her peril—that this military tribunal was aiming to prosecute, try, and sentence her all at once.
“And how did you come by a communiqué from Mosby?” the superintendent sneered.
“Through proper channels of war,” replied Thomas. “Colonel Mosby is a lawyer; he knows the law. And he writes:
“Miss Ann Sinclair comes from a family of Southern patriots, serving their country with bravery. Her brother James is an enlisted member of the Confederate cavalry, assigned to my command, the 43rd battalion of Virginia. Upon occasion our soldiers have been billeted at the Sinclair home, which is in accordance with the practice of lawful warfare. Miss Sinclair has never engaged in subterfuge, coercion, stealing of information, crossing borders illegally, carrying of official Confederate documents, or deceit. Her shooting of the Union picket, who had fired upon her and her companions from the cover of bushes, was entirely in self-defense. As such, she should be acquitted of all charges immediately. Lieutenant Colonel John S. Mosby, Esquire.”
Thomas pulled another letter out of his pocket and held it up high for emphasis. “This is a letter I have written but not yet delivered to Mrs. Lincoln at the White House. It is well known that she is a devoted abolitionist. I’m sure if she is informed of the purpose of Miss Sinclair’s ride out into the night, in which Miss Sinclair fired in self-defense, the first lady would surely persuade her husband to grant her clemency. Miss Sinclair was out to defend the life and freedom of a freed slave, her servant, her friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if President Lincoln didn’t decide to oust you, given the length of Miss Sinclair’s imprisonment and oft-improper denial of visitors and food. I know that he plans to commute the sentence of Private Trammel from death to ten years of hard labor. President Lincoln wishes to show clemency once this war is over. He wants the country reunited. Persecution of persons such as Miss Sinclair will only prolong the hatred between North and South.”
He lowered the letter and stood in a kind of spread-legged swagger she’d seen Laurence adopt sometimes, a king-of-the-hill kind of posture. “In fact, I suggest you release Miss Sinclair today, before a heap of trouble befalls you.”
The superintendent had been gaping at Thomas all this time. He blinked his froglike eyes. “Are you daft?”
“No, quite sane. You’ve jailed her long enough.”
The superintendent sputtered. “The only way I would release this woman would be if she swore allegiance to the United States by taking the loyalty oath, and even then I would have serious doubts that she would hold to it.”
“How dare you, man.” Thomas stepped closer, his chest heaving. “This lady has done nothing but act with integrity and the deepest of loyalty to humanity. She and her mother nursed Union wounded at Manassas even as our troops trampled their crops and stole—oh, excuse me—appropriated their horses. She risked her life to save the freedom and well-being of her servant. If she signs an oath of loyalty to the United States, she will keep it, probably more strongly than any man.”
Thomas’ words rang in Annie’s ears. They were the most heartfelt words of love and admiration he’d ever spoken, even though he had not said the specific word.
Cousin Francis broke into her thoughts: “Will you sign an oath of loyalty, Annie? If you do, they will release you. This very day.”
Would they? Today? Annie’s heart raced at the thought of being free. Still, she couldn’t sign those papers. She would be betraying all she’d fought for, suffered for, if she did.
Slowly, Annie shook her head. “I do not plan to ever engage in this war again. I will pray for it to end soon. No matter the outcome. But, no, I cannot sign a paper to be loyal to a government that seems obsessed with degrading my people, or to a country to which I no longer belong.”
The superintendent smirked. “So much for your speech, Walker. I am going to see that you are written up for insubordination and consorting with the enemy and…”
Thomas held up his hand to stop the superintendent’s prattle. He was so unafraid, Annie marveled. Thomas approached her and took her hand. His smile radiated confidence and entreaties both. “Could you promise loyalty to your husband’s country?”
Annie caught her breath. What a place for a marriage proposal! If she accepted, would it later feel she had done so simply as a way out? How could she give up so many things for this man—her homeland, her family, some would say her honor—after fighting so hard to save them? He was the enemy. And yet, he was all she had ever wanted to have in a husband, a true soul mate.
Thomas saw her wavering and whispered fervently, “Come read me a poem, Annie, a poem of your choice, and lend it the beauty of your voice.”
Oh, it was so tempting. Flustered, Annie looked at the floor to think. If she kept his gaze, that passionate, imploring gaze, she’d say yes automatically, completely beguiled. What should she do? Annie felt complete with him, protected and challenged at the same moment, coveted for the right reasons—her mind and her heart. Now she knew what love felt like—not some breathless infatuation based on unfulfilled hints, but a heart-pounding trust and respect and desire to be with someone, no matter how different the two people were.
Still, Annie lingered in confusion. Then, quietly, magically, Miriam’s gentle voice came to her, steady and reassuring as in life, repeating something she’d said as she died: “Remember that it doesn’t matter where someone comes from, but where that person is going.”
Did it matter where either of them had come from, as long as they moved forward together? But it had to be a new world of their combined voice. Annie looked up and saw fear on Thomas’ face. Tenderly, she reached out to the jagged welt that ran along his face. Their own voice.
Her answer came. “Yes, Thomas, I could, if you could promise never again to raise arms against my homeland.”
Now Thomas hesitated.
Annie knew what she asked him to sacrifice: a distinguished military career he had worked for since his youth. Thomas was an honorable soldier, one who believed in the Union he fought to preserve. If he said yes, they would both be emigrants, cut off from all past alliances, roots, beliefs, and dreams. But they’d have each other.
She waited.
It took Thomas only a moment. “Done,” he said. “I’ll resign my commission from the army. We will make our own peace treaty between us.”
“Done,” said Annie.
And so it was.