Chapter 35

JUNE 24, 1862

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

Sven paced back and forth, wearing the green grass thin under his feet. The Swede’s perpetual motion made Gabe’s head swim. Between the sticky heat and the tension lying like a blanket over their company, his nerves felt as if they were fraying.

“I could see them, Briggs. Across the valley our boys were up to their armpits in mud, screaming and fighting.” Sven’s blond brows dipped low. “Why won’t they call us to fight?”

Briggs shot a stream of tobacco juice with a pointed arc, landing only an inch away from the Swede’s massive boots. He glared, and Briggs’s dark beard rose at the corners.

“We’re in reserve, my friend. You know that. Be patient.” Briggs rolled the snuff to the other side of his mouth, his expression somber. “We’ll have our chance soon enough.”

Gabe wiped a rag across the back of his sweaty neck. “Sit down. You’re making me anxious.”

Sven snapped, his ice-blue eyes glinting like sunlight striking glass. “And so I am. I want to be home with my Olga. We have waited far too long already. This should be done. And now Pinkerton arrives.” A muscle twitched near his eye. “How much longer must we wait?”

Gabe shot Briggs a questioning look. Briggs shrugged, his shoulders hunched like a brooding gargoyle. The distant booms of cannon fire and the faint echoes of small-arms fire drifted across the valley, a present reminder that life and death were at stake mere miles away.

If only he could share a bit of encouragement with his friends. But Pinkerton had sworn him to secrecy.

When the head of Lincoln’s secret service had arrived in camp, Gabe was shocked to learn the infamous detective was not searching for Thomas Turner this time. No, Pinkerton was asking for him. And once he’d stood before the serious gentleman, the request was too easy to consider refusing.

Pinkerton had requested Gabe make photographic copies of maps and charts that would be distributed to field and division commands. A simple task, and one that made him wonder why the secret service hadn’t been utilizing photographic skill from the beginning.

In addition, Pinkerton wanted the photographs Gabe had captured in Richmond—bridges, railroad tracks, field hospitals, barracks, and terrain. He’d confessed McClellan was preparing to take the Confederate capital, and they wanted as few surprises as possible.

Gabe squinted as another echoing boom reverberated through the air. He was happy to do his part, but if he were honest, the pay he was offered solidified any concerns he had about working with Lincoln’s secret service. He’d continue forwarding it to Jacob until he heard the man had paid off his bills.

“You sold it to a bunch of newspapers to line your pockets.”

Cassie’s haunting accusation continued to rankle.

“Has anyone seen Turner of late?” Sven’s baritone intruded.

Briggs lifted the brim of his kepi, revealing a mop of sweaty, mussed brown hair. “He’s running mail down the line.”

Sven glowered. “Past the Chickahominy?”

Briggs yanked the kepi down over the crown of his head, his beard twitching as he chewed the thick wad of snuff. “Reckon so. Seems to me brass keeps him busier with more than just delivering mail.”

“Hospital?”

Briggs narrowed his eyes. “Among other things.”

Gabe squirmed. He had no intention of betraying Cassie’s secrets. Still, he’d given her a hard time about joining the secret service, and here he found himself in the same situation. The irony was not lost on him.

It was different. He was a man and she was a woman. He could hold his own matched against brute strength. Cassie couldn’t. If she didn’t have a gun, an enemy could snap her slim form like a pencil. There was no place for women in war.

Or was there?

Cassie was the one who had dragged him to safety after he was shot at Ball’s Bluff. Cassie had taken down two Confederate sharpshooters. Cassie was the one Pinkerton had turned to, and she had outperformed everyone’s expectations. She had outwitted an entire regiment of soldiers with her disguise, save for one. Jonah.

But she deserved better. She should be pampered and cherished. Not eating maggot-infested hardtack among filthy, crude men.

Somehow over the past few months, though, his adamant belief in where a woman’s place should be had weakened in fervor.

“You used me.”

“Some people’s definition of happy might not be the same as yours. . . . Maybe that’s why you like taking your photographs. It’s something you can mostly control.”

Cassie’s and Jonah’s voices melded in a cacophony inside his head.

No, he wasn’t controlling. He only wanted to protect her. The two were completely different . . . weren’t they?

He was going to drive himself mad. He rose from the hard ground with a groan, unfolding his stiff limbs.

“Where you going?”

Gabe kneaded the back of his neck. “To write Gardner. I need him to make another trip to the drop point. I’ve stored a wealth of photographs there and don’t want the Confederates getting their hands on them. I need more supplies, and besides—” he smiled tightly—“as long as the prints are stored, I don’t get paid.”

He turned to leave when Briggs called out, “Why not just go now? It’ll only take a couple of days.”

“Because I have a feeling we’ll be moving into Richmond at any moment.”

Cassie tore open a powder cartridge with her teeth amid geysers of spraying dirt and rocks. Thunderous booms split the sky, rattling her skull and numbing her ears. Her whole body shook from the tremors.

The entire earth was ripping in two.

Inhaling a pull of acrid air, she positioned her rifle over the bulwark. She peered through the thick haze of fire bursts and pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked her shoulder, but she didn’t even feel its impact anymore. Couldn’t feel anything.

She dropped below the parapet, panting, and tried to swallow against the dry sawdust coating her tongue and throat. Bullets hissed. Horses screamed. Chaos had been unleashed, and she could do nothing more than load gunpowder, fire, and breathe.

She blinked away the sweat stinging her eyes and turned to see Briggs shouting to Jackson farther down the line. “Courage!”

A wild kind of panic spiraled through Jackson’s eyes. “The Rebels won’t stop coming! Column after column. We can’t hold up much longer!”

The Zouave next to him scowled, his teeth bared and black from gunpowder. “Aye, we can and we will!”

Briggs captured her eyes and held fast. “They’re mowing us down, Turner.”

With a cry, she whirled and lifted the rifle once more to her shoulder. “Then we stop them!”

Trees snapped. Cannons shrieked. The hair-raising shriek of the Rebel yell grew louder. Snapping her head to the left, she watched her fellow soldiers use the fallen dead as shields as they loaded and fired, loaded and fired. The hissing thumps of bullets hitting corpses settled deep inside her eardrums, pounding to the rhythm of her heart.

Something was wrong. The Confederates were advancing with reckless abandon. Almost as if they didn’t care whether they died or not. Bile rose in her throat.

A dull, rhythmic tap of thrumming snares penetrated through the chaos. Da-dum, da-dum, dum, dum, dum . . .

Air seared her lungs. No, it couldn’t be.

Briggs’s eyes grew wide. “Do you hear that?” A hail of bullets whizzing overhead forced him to duck low.

Cassie ground her teeth. “I heard it.”

Jackson screamed over the din. “What is it?”

Briggs opened another pouch of gunpowder and spit out the residue, jamming down the barrel as fast as he dared. “The drummers are signaling retreat!”

She propelled her feet forward to obey the command, but her body felt stiff. Shock turned into a fire that burned her belly.

General McClellan was giving up Richmond. The Union had just watched hundreds of their own cut down like stalks of corn. And for what?

How could they possibly win now?

JULY 2, 1862

Dear Jacob,

You have been in my relentless prayers since I heard of your illness from Miss Esther. How are you faring? Your health is of utmost concern, second only to ensuring you are provided for.

I sent an inquiry to the hospital about your financial needs, since you did not respond to my earlier questions. I know you are a proud man and are fully capable of providing for yourself, but please, as your adopted grandson of the heart, I take on your welfare with utmost solemnity. I have not heard from the hospital in regards to your outstanding bills. Please advise and I will send them payment posthaste.

As I write this, we are leaving Richmond, stung and dismayed by the decision of General McClellan. In truth, I debated for long moments over writing the following, but knowing me as you do, you’ll no doubt understand my thoughts regardless: I fear our great general has lost his fortitude. I confess feeling a righteous indignation watching the men I’ve grown so attached to fighting the screeching Confederate devils, many of them cut down and forgotten while the general was being ferried away from the tumult on a gunboat bound for Harrison’s Landing.

Our spirits are demoralized. Keep us in your prayers.

Your friend,

Gabriel

Gabe studied the written lines and sighed. He probably should not have shared his disquiet with the elderly man. Disgruntled musings like his were better suited for talk among soldiers, yet they tried to refrain as well. Among the ranks, keeping lips shut against mismanagement of troop movement and war tactics was growing increasingly difficult.

He ought to be thinking of a way to lift Jacob’s spirits. His stomach churned at the thought of disheartening the kind man.

Penning the plea had brought little relief. There was only one person he wanted to talk to, and his own foolish decision had snipped their relationship to frayed ribbons.

Cassie dragged one foot in front of the other, her back and legs aching. The pack grew heavier with each passing hour. She blinked through the dust churned up by a thousand booted feet shuffling down the wide road. Dirt coated her teeth. Each time she bit down, she could taste the crunch of grit.

Overturned wagons, abandoned ambulances, and dead horses, interspersed with muskets and broken wheels, choked the road leading away from Richmond. It was as if God had taken this piece of earth, turned it upside down, and shaken it loose before dropping it back in place again.

Their retreat had been slowed considerably by the multitude of broken vehicles they had been forced to push out of the way. Cut harnesses provided evidence that horses had been stolen away, leaving their owners with no choice but to abandon their wagons and walk.

The silence smothering the sluggish army was thick enough to cut with a pocketknife. Cassie forged ahead, the hot anger burning within nearly causing her limbs to shake.

Why had Little Mac given up Richmond? It didn’t make any sense. Nothing did anymore. She stumbled over a discarded shoe and scowled. What would President Lincoln do? Word had filtered through the ranks that Lincoln was none too pleased with McClellan’s less than stellar performance. The Rebels should have been crushed by now. Instead they gained, both ground and spirit.

A shove against her left shoulder forced her attention ahead. Sven motioned with a frown. “Look there.”

Dead horses and blood-soaked blankets were mounded by the side of the road. The stench crept into her nostrils. A swarm of flies buzzed thick. She grimaced and turned away. A raspy voice drifted through the sound of shuffling boots.

“Jeff Davis is coming, oh, dear!”

Sven muttered something under his breath that Cassie couldn’t understand. She squinted to see a grizzled old man sitting in a barren field beyond a broken line of fencing, its wood jutting up in haphazard confusion like a row of broken, crooked teeth. A lone tree stood guard over him, stripped of any sign of green, riddled with shot and shell.

The old man with his tobacco-stained gray beard and tattered hat was perched among discarded haversacks and abandoned items of clothing—shoes, hats, and coats. Hooking his thumbs under his suspenders, he flashed stained teeth in a leering grin as he sang.

“Jeff Davis is coming, oh, dear!

I fain would go home without shedding a tear

About Davis in taking the president’s chair

But I dare not attempt it, oh, dear! Oh, dear!

I’m afraid he will hang me. Oh, dear!”

Behind her, Briggs growled, “Confederate trash.”

The old man’s singsong taunts only grew louder the closer they came.

“I wish I was in Dixie. Hooray! Hooray!

In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie.”

“If he wants to die in Dixie, we can accommodate.” Sven spit out the threat with an uncharacteristic vehemence. They were all spent.

Cassie curled her fists and kept marching amid the man’s gleeful taunts.

“While Right is strong and God has pow’r, the South shall rise up free!”

“That’s it!”

Jackson broke rank and charged toward the old man with a wild look on his face.

“Soldier, halt!” Captain Johnston barked.

Jackson whirled, his face red and eyes flashing. “I’m gonna knock the Reb out with the butt of my gun if he dares utter another word!”

The old man finally stopped singing but hummed to himself, watching the interchange as he fiddled with the straps of a haversack at his feet.

Captain Johnston sighed, his shoulders sagging. “He’s lost his mind, Jackson.”

“He’s our enemy, sir!”

“The man is a doddering old fool, Private. Ignore him.”

Before the old man could launch into more of his Confederate repertoire, the melodious timbre of one of the contraband soldiers marching with their regiment drifted through the air.

“Oh, freedom; oh, freedom; oh, freedom over me

And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave

And go home to my Lord and be free.”

The other contrabands lifted their voices and joined in, drowning out the sounds of Confederate fervor. Cassie felt her spirit unwind and lighten as she let the beauty of their song and the truth of their words wash over her.

“No more worry, no more worry, no more worry over me

And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave

And go home to my Lord and be free.”

No more worry. Was such an existence even possible? Grunting, she shifted her pack and winced. Had she ever been carefree? She reached as far back into her memories as she dared, but Father was always there. And where Father was, there was terror.

The group continued on, too weary in mind or body to think, fight, or do anything other than place one foot in front of the other. An hour passed. Then another.

A bass voice boomed behind her, starting another song. “‘We marching into Canaan land . . .’”

She turned to see one of the contrabands on her left side. The wide expanse of his arms made her feel even smaller than Jonah. His skin glistened like polished mahogany, but it was his contented air that captured her attention.

“Were you the one who led the singing?”

“Yes, sir. I’s the one that started it, anyhow.”

“Thank you. I needed it.”

“Music is good for the soul.”

They marched side by side in silence for a long moment.

Cassie swallowed. “Do you really live what you sing?”

The massive man’s brows pinched as he studied her. “Sir?”

“You know: no more worry.”

He lifted his face to the burning sun. “I still got worries, but I don’t despair. Big difference between the two.”

“No more despair because you’re finally free from slavery?”

“I’s been free a long time, but only physically free from my massa for a few months.” He laughed big and deep. “Jesus set my spirit free long ago.”

For the first time in a while, a chuckle burst from Cassie’s chest. “I understand that. He set me free too.”

“Then you ain’t got no worries either.”

Didn’t she? She lived with a cloud hanging over her head every waking moment. Being caught, being discovered, being killed, being sent back home. Each prospect seemed worse than the last.

She shook her head. “But it seems different for you. You seem . . . happy.”

His eyes shimmered. “Some days I am. Other days not. But I’m always joyful.”

He was talking in circles. She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“My massa was a mighty mean man. Some days seemed like the devil himself. I was mighty unhappy when I was with him. But joy, that’s a different story. Joy comes from forgiving and being forgiven. The day I forgave him was the day I finally felt free.”

“He sought your forgiveness?”

“No.” The contraband’s voice was wistful. “Would have made it easier perhaps. Perhaps not. Massa would likely curse my name and shoot me on sight if he saw me now, but it don’t matter.” He patted his chest. “I’m free in here. Ain’t always been easy, though. I struggled hard with hate for that man, until one day I learned about Frederick Douglass. You hear of him?”

“Of course.”

He nodded. “Douglass goes and writes a letter to his former massa, telling him that he loves him but hates slavery.” His eyes glassed. “Douglass showed love to the man who used to abuse him. Love! I couldn’t fathom such a thing. But God showed me he’s forgiven me for a lot more.”

The contraband sighed, gazing into some faraway distance as they walked. “Massa was taught to hate by his daddy, and his daddy’s daddy before him. They was all miserable men, or so I’s been told. Unhappy and bitter. In some ways, I think Massa was more enslaved than I ever was.” He turned to her and smiled. “At least God broke my chains. Massa ain’t found his freedom yet. I sure hope he does.”

With that, he broke into a jaunty whistle, erasing all need for further conversation.

Cassie couldn’t have spoken further if she’d tried.