Chapter 26

APRIL 11, 1862

WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA

Cassie kept waiting to be hauled away in irons, but nothing happened. Jonah must have been serious about keeping her secret, for three weeks had passed and her duties remained steady, even amid their ambitious trek up the river. It had been three weeks of pure misery crammed on the Vanderbilt steamer followed by a twenty-three-mile march through knee-high mud and squelchy marshes. The horses were exhausted, the soldiers half-starving, and the rain relentless.

She’d caught only rare glimpses of Gabe in the melee pressing forward to Richmond. She ought to be grateful. His knifing accusation had rankled her enough to steal precious sleep. Her? Scared? Yet she couldn’t seem to put him from her mind. The truth was, she missed him. Desperately.

Even now, settled in front of her soggy tent on the spongy marshland, Cassie fought to keep her gaze from sifting through blue-clad men to find him. He was here somewhere.

“You are mighty quiet tonight, Turner.”

She jerked her head up and offered a tight smile to Sven as he settled his muscular frame across the fire from her. “Just listening.”

Sven nodded toward the dark-skinned contrabands huddled around their own fire, some of them praying, some of them lifting up their voices in song.

“‘Glory to God, he watches o’er his own. . . .’”

The soothing, lilting melodies settled around the camp like a sacred christening.

“Don’t let Turner fool you.” On Cassie’s right, Briggs puffed his pipe, cupping it between his thick, calloused fingers. “He’s been quieter than normal. And that’s saying something.”

“Maybe you’re missing someone back home, ja?”

More like I’m missing someone right here. How could she be so lonely when she was surrounded by people?

“Not really. Just tired.” She clenched her jaw before taking another sip of the bitter coffee in her cup. She grimaced. “Once more, we’re just sitting like squatters. It feels like Washington all over again.”

Briggs puffed and brooded. “I agree with you on that point.” He furrowed his black brows and glanced to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “Little Mac hasn’t done much of anything but send that aeronautic professor up and down in that hydrogen balloon of his.” He exhaled a plume of white smoke from between his whiskered lips. “No one needs to watch the Rebels’ position that often.”

Sven frowned. “I hear the Confederates are sitting in Yorktown, crowing about the ridiculous Union with their balloon rides. One of the pickets tell me they think we are too busy playing to fight.”

Irritation flared. “Why is General McClellan waiting to attack?”

Briggs tapped the pipe against the palm of his meaty hand. “If he continues to falter, he may not be our general much longer.”

Sven’s blue eyes rounded. “You think President Lincoln will replace him?”

“Shh!”

Briggs’s hiss of warning came none too soon. A moment later, Colonel Poe approached the three of them, gaze fixed on Cassie. “Private Turner, a word?”

She rose slowly on trembling limbs and followed him to his private tent, picking her way between soldiers lounging in the calm twilight around small fires dotting the hillside. She passed Jonah on her way inside the tent. His brows rose in question, but she merely shook her head and shadowed Poe, ducking into the tent’s hazy insides.

The sweet scent of cigar smoke curled around her. Several oil lamps were lit, casting a sleepy, honeyed glow over his quarters. Large maps were spread over his worktable, along with a handful of scrawled messages and fluttering letters stirred up by the evening’s breeze drifting through the tent flap. She snapped her gaze to his when he turned on his heel and studied her sharply. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to remain stoic, though her insides quivered like preserves.

“Do you consider yourself a moral person, Private Turner?”

Her mouth turned to cotton and she nearly choked. Did he know? Surely he must. He was baiting her, preparing to corner her in her own deceit.

Despite her hammering heart, she managed to croak out, “I’d like to believe so, sir.”

He turned to stand behind his paper-strewn table, his hands tucked behind his back. “I have an opportunity and am looking for the right man. The work requires moral courage, intelligence, and fortitude. I asked the regimental chaplain whom he would nominate for this particular work, and he recommended you above all others.”

Her thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, tumbling and circling in spinning drifts. “I—I’m flattered, sir. But I don’t understand—”

Poe continued as if he hadn’t heard, jutting his chin and his sharp pointed goatee forward like the thrust of a bayonet. “Have you heard of Allan Pinkerton?”

She fought the urge to frown, not comprehending the line of questioning. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you know he is employed by President Lincoln. He has trained a network of spies, particularly in and around Richmond, some of whom were recently captured by the Confederacy and sentenced to death. Pinkerton and General McClellan are requesting me to send them bright, able-bodied men to assist their work.”

His meaning suddenly became clear. “You mean—?”

“Yes, Turner.” Poe’s dark eyes snapped with a determined glint. “I’m recommending you to be a spy for Pinkerton’s secret service.”

Gabe stomped toward Cassie’s tent, fury licking his insides like an inferno. Surely Jonah was mistaken. Cassie would never agree to anything so dangerous, so utterly foolish . . . would she?

The small fires lighting the hillside were dying, nothing more than hissing streams of blackened wood and smoke. The bugle call for sleep would sound any minute. Only a handful of soldiers lingered outside, the remaining few pulling the last drags of smoke from their cigarettes. He ignored their greetings, nearly running to Cassie’s quarters. As he approached, he could make out her slender build against the faint light as she threw out the dregs of her coffee into the bushes. Brushing off Briggs’s friendly hello, he marched up to Cassie and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Private Turner, I must speak with you.”

Briggs chuckled. “You’re a mighty popular fellow tonight, Turner.”

Gabe turned on his heel to march toward the Whatsit, hearing her footfalls behind him. They walked quickly toward his darkroom wagon in silence. As soon as she stepped in, he slammed the door shut and spun to face her, thrusting his nose mere inches from her own. White-hot anger flooded his veins. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Her eyes widened, her eyebrows high. “What’s not true?”

“Jonah. Tell me he’s wrong. Tell me you didn’t accept Poe’s invitation to be a spy.”

She sucked in a harsh breath. “He heard us? He told you?”

It was true. He could see the resignation in her expression. Voice hoarse, he shook his head. “Why, Cass? Don’t you realize what will happen? Don’t you understand the danger you’ll be in? Spying for Pinkerton . . .” Bile rose in his throat. “It’s a death wish.”

Her large eyes searched his. “How could I not? It’s an opportunity to help. It might save lives.” She gestured toward the tents beyond his door. “Lives like those contrabands out there. And Colonel Poe asked me to help. How could I say no? The need is great. Since Pinkerton’s men were—” She stopped abruptly as if aware she’d shared too much.

Snatching his gaze away from hers, he leaned over the table and gripped the edges with white fingers. “What happened to them? To Pinkerton’s men?”

Her voice was soft. “They were captured.”

“I won’t let you do it, Cass. I can’t. You mean too much—”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

Panic tore at him. How could he make her see? “Why are you really choosing this? Are you sure you’re not hiding behind it?”

She opened her mouth to reply, then clamped her lips shut, her expression cold as ice. She turned to leave but glanced over her shoulder, searing him with a piercing glare. “My physical life and my soul are in the hands of my Creator. My safety is out of your control. You are so desperate to protect me.” Her expression flickered from anger to resigned sadness. “But whether I live or die is God’s decision. Not yours.”

Then she left, slamming the door behind her.

Gabe collapsed into his chair, digging his fingers into his scalp and twisting his hair. His chest constricted as he muttered, “You’re not fooling the Almighty, and you’re not fooling me either, Cassie Kendrick.”

He was suddenly back in time, watching his father wobble on the edge of sanity. Seeing his mother slowly work her life away. He was helpless, unable to fix it. Unable to stop the swell of horror gaining speed and creeping toward them.

Only this time, Cassie would be swept away in the crushing tide, leaving him bereft and alone. He couldn’t let her destroy herself.

He wouldn’t.

Dear Gabriel,

I write this on behalf of Jacob, who is currently in the hospital. The poor man was distraught, fearing you would think the worst of him if he did not write with haste. He tremendously enjoyed your last post and declares he feels like a soldier fighting alongside our brave boys after reading your descriptive reflections on life among the ranks.

As promised, I am doing my utmost to look after Jacob, cantankerous though he may be at times. He shoos me away when I hover, yet his eyes betray him. He enjoys the attention. My daughter is taking care of Sophocles while the dear man recovers from the influenza.

He has been under the hospital’s care for nearly a fortnight and has already received a bill for services. I continually pester him about his finances, but he refuses to tell me if he has adequate funds to pay. I mention this only because he has confided in you before. Does he have sufficient funds? If he knew I were asking you such a thing, he would consider me obnoxiously inquisitive, and rightly so. I only desire to know if he has a need. I can contribute to any financial necessities that may arise. It is born out of concern on my part. Nothing more.

As soon as he is settled back at his apartment, Jacob insists he will write. Please, tell him nothing of my inquiry. The man is vexed enough that is he bound to bed. We need not add his bruised pride to his list of grievances.

We are praying for your safety. May Providence bless and keep you.

With kind regards,

Esther Whitmore

Gabe lowered the letter. Jacob was ill. Hospitalized and, as Esther implied, possibly unable to pay his bills in full. All because he’d given his funds to Gabe.

It was his fault.

Dropping the missive to the worktable, Gabe pinched the bridge of his nose. He must find a way to care for his old friend. He would take on the bills himself. But how?

Since General McClellan had forced them to hunker down so much over the past months, Gabe had captured few photos the newspapers were willing to buy, few scenes wood engravers could easily manage to reproduce. Brady had already told him as much. His last letter had been firm. “While in long stretches of inactivity, you must be creative. Look at your world with new eyes. Think of what the papers would want to print. Scenes from battlefields are easy enough to sell. Photographs captured during times of quiet show the grit and beauty of a world through an artist’s eye. Be an artist.”

A sharp rap on the door jolted him from his troubled thoughts. A soldier’s voice barked, “Ten minutes and we move, Avery!”

The rest had not been long. In mere moments, he’d be forced to climb atop the wagon and guide the plodding horses behind the mass of blue moving toward Richmond.

What could he possibly send to Brady that would garner attention? Jacob needed him. The pressure of his own failings clamped onto his soul like a hot iron. He needed money and quickly. Something must be sent today.

He riffled through the most recently developed photographs. Stern, rigid soldiers greeted him from the surfaces of the prints. They were all the same. Nameless faces holding their guns and bayonets. No action. No movement. No life.

He stilled for a moment before he yanked an altogether different image from the bottom of the stack, studying the grace and beauty of the woman who had captured his heart.

Cassie running her slender fingers through the trickling stream as she sat perched on a flat rock amid the autumn woods of her grandmother’s home. Her skirts pooled around her, the curve of her full lips, perfect nose, and long lashes. A lock of dark hair brushed her shoulder. The dress she wore hugged every breathtaking curve of her body. And her face . . . an expression of haunting sadness mingled with a sweet serenity lifted the image from one of simplicity to a profound longing for peace amid war, courage through adversity, beauty within pain.

Dandelions blooming in concrete.

This was the image newspapers would clamor to print. He could title it “Beautiful Heroines of Home.” Cassie’s likeness encapsulated so many other women who were forging ahead to fight the good fight from their houses and farms—picking up the work abandoned by their enlisted husbands and sons. Searching for hope amid the ashes. Brave, fearless . . . this photograph shone with the angst of them all.

But would printing her likeness reveal her identity?

No. The lovely Cassie bore little resemblance to battle-worn Thomas Turner. Nobody would correlate the two. Who would draw the comparison?

Gently tracing a finger over the delicate lines of her face, he swallowed. Why was he torturing himself? She’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. Had pushed him away over and over. His heart still stung at the way she had so coldly disregarded his feelings.

Repressing the niggling unease in the pit of his stomach, he grabbed an envelope and slipped the photograph inside, hastily scribbling a note to Brady.

He might not be able to protect her any longer. But he could help Jacob.