North of Albany, New York
December 1863
John Lane was on the now familiar road from Albany, heading north out of town. He had slept on the floor of John O’Mahony’s office the night before. Not as comfortable as advertised. He’d then retraced his steps to the Chambers Street Rail Station and taken the train to Albany. It was now early evening, and it was growing colder as the sun set. At least it wasn’t snowing, though there was still snow on the ground from the storm earlier in the week.
The meeting with O’Mahony had gone about as he’d expected. The Fenian leader was committed to the plan, but Lane sensed that O’Mahony was leaning on him, expecting him to lead. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? O’Mahony had committed to bringing Meagher into the picture and using his personal influence with the Irish Brigade. That was something. But it was still up to Lane to work with Burgoyne and get things started.
Burgoyne. He would go see him again, tell him that he’d briefed O’Mahony, and ask if there was any news from London, even though he knew it was too soon.
Lane turned off the main road, and in ten minutes, he was at Viola’s front door. She would know where Burgoyne was camped, and she could take him there, under the cover that he was working with her. Avoid suspicion on the road. There would be lots of Union troops about.
He knocked on the door, and it was quickly opened. A young boy looked up. “Who are you?”
“Isaiah, get away from the door! I’ve told you to never answer the door. Never.”
Viola pulled the boy out of the doorway, looked at Lane, and said, “What are you doing here?”
“It’s nice to see you again as well. I need your help. Two things. I need you to take me to see our mutual friend the next time you make a delivery.”
“No. What’s the second thing?”
“I need a place to sleep.”
“No and no.”
“I can sleep in your cellar. Like the others.”
“Come inside before someone sees you.”
“Why is it a problem if someone sees me? We’re business partners, remember?”
Lane walked into the house. Seated at the table, eating their supper, were Viola’s mother and a young girl, younger than the boy who had answered the door.
“I’m John Lane. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
The woman said nothing. The girl smiled. The boy, standing next to his mother said, “My name is Isaiah. What happened to your arm? Are you a soldier?”
“No, but I used to be. I got hurt in the war. Now I work with your mother.”
“Mr. Lane, you are welcome to sit down and have something to eat. Quickly. Then you’ll have to go. You can’t stay here. I’ll be making another food delivery day after tomorrow, and I can take you along. But you have to find another place to stay. For everyone’s sake”
“Thank you. I’m famished.” Lane sat down next to the little girl. Viola’s mother, who hadn’t said a word, brought him a bowl of steaming stew. He bowed his head, said grace in a low voice, blessed himself, and took a spoonful. “Just the thing on a cold day. Thank you.”
He ate in silence. The children watched him closely, especially interested in how he managed with the one hand. Viola and her mother went into the other room and shut the door. Lane could hear their voices but couldn’t hear what they were saying.
There was a soft knock at the door. Isaiah went to answer it, and Lane whispered, “No, lad, don’t answer the door. Let’s have your mother do that.” Lane got up quietly and tapped on the bedroom door. When Viola opened it, he pointed to the door and made a knocking motion with his good hand. Viola pushed him into the bedroom and pulled the door closed, but it didn’t latch, remaining slightly ajar.
Lane watched through the crack as Viola opened the front door. She stuck her head outside, looked from side to side, then pulled two people into the house. A Black man and a Black woman, probably in their twenties, bundled against the cold.
“You’re safe here,” he heard Viola say.