Candle in the Darkness (46 page)

Gilbert and I didn’t notice anything unusual the next morning as we headed downtown to a store on Main Street to buy his shoes. We caused enough of a stir all by ourselves, outfitting a slave with new shoes costing twenty-five dollars a pair. Slaves usually wore their master’s castoffs, whether they fit him or not.

Had we driven past the capitol, we might have noticed the huge crowd of people milling in the square, armed with knives and axes and pistols. But we drove down Main Street, not Franklin, and we had no idea of the danger we were in until the mob poured down the hill into the commercial shopping district, clamoring for food. As they streamed past the window of the store we were in, shouting for bread to feed their starving families, the alarm bell in the square started to ring. I saw that the mob was mostly women—poor and ragged, some as thin as skeletons. Many carried ragamuffin children in their arms. The woman at the head of them was as tall as a man, wearing a hat with a long white feather in it and armed with a six-shooter. The women surged into bakeries and grocery stores, grabbing food off the shelves.

“What’s going on?” one of the other customers asked as we crowded near the store window to watch.

The proprietor quickly locked the door. “I think you’d better stay inside where it’s safe, ladies. Those people look like rabble . . . and they’re out of control.”

I watched in astonishment as the crowd flooded through the shopping district, looting the stores, grabbing bread and hams, loading their arms with butter and bacon and sacks of cornmeal. More people came running from their homes to join the band of women, including dozens of men who didn’t look half-starved at all. They began plundering more than food, stealing shoes and tools and bolts of cloth.

I stood frozen in front of the window, watching as the rioters rushed toward the store where Gilbert and I had taken refuge. When they discovered that the door was locked, they picked up bricks and homemade bats to smash the window. Gilbert perceived their intentions a moment before I did, and he grabbed me around the waist, whirling me away from the window, shielding me with his own body as the window shattered in a hail of shards. The proprietor was struck by a brick, several of the others cut by flying glass, but thanks to Gilbert, I was unharmed. Then he stood in front of me, brandishing a cobbler’s mallet as looters poured into the store through the broken window, snatching all the merchandise they could carry.

Outside, firemen turned their hoses on the rioters, but that only seemed to make them more violent, and they turned their weapons against the volunteers. Then the Home Guard came running to the scene, alerted by the ringing alarm bell, armed with rifles and bayonets.

“Better look away, Miss Caroline, in case this get ugly,” Gilbert warned. I stepped back from the window a few more paces, but I didn’t want to believe that the guards would actually use their bayonets or open fire on civilian women and children.

There was a louder shout above the chaos, and the crowd parted right outside our store to let Governor Letcher pass through. “What is the governor saying?” someone asked the store owner. He had stepped cautiously toward the window to listen, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his head.

“He says he’s giving them five minutes to disperse or the guard will open fire. Nobody is leaving, though. The looting has stopped, but even with bayonets pointed in their faces, no one is leaving.”

The tension was as sharp and brittle as the fragments of glass beneath our feet. But before the five minutes were up and the guard would be forced to fire, President Jefferson Davis arrived. Gilbert and I edged toward the window to watch as Davis climbed onto a wagon that had been turned sideways across the street.

“Go home,” he shouted to the crowd. “The Yankees are the enemy, not one another.”

“We’re hungry!” someone called. “We can’t afford to feed ourselves or our children.”

“But if you steal,” the president replied, “then farmers won’t bring any food at all into the city. We’ll starve for certain.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out all of his change, flinging money into the street. “Here . . . take it. It’s all I have. I don’t want anyone injured, but this lawlessness must stop. You have five minutes to disperse or you
will
be fired upon.”

Davis took out his pocket watch and held it in his palm, waiting. The first three or four minutes seemed to pass very slowly as no one moved. Then the crowd gradually began to drift away, leaving only the Home Guard and a very relieved president and governor when the five minutes were up. I sagged onto the nearest chair, feeling weak.

“Those thieves didn’t steal your new shoes, did they, Gilbert?” I asked shakily.

“No, Missy, they right here on my feet.”

“Good.” I remembered how Gilbert had pulled me away from the flying glass, how he’d protected me from the looters, and I vowed I would repay him someday. I would help win his freedom.

“I believe we’ve done enough shopping for one day,” I told him when my strength finally returned. “Let’s go home.”

More than a month after I said good-bye to Robert, I sat in the drawing room one evening, reading one of my father’s new books, when Gilbert tiptoed into the room and whispered in my ear.

“There’s someone outside who needs to talk to you, Missy. Says he knows your friend Robert.”

Daddy, who’d had more than one after-dinner drink, was snoring loudly in a chair beside me, his book falling closed on his lap. I followed Gilbert out to the backyard.

The middle-aged man waiting for me in the shadows by the carriage house was beefy and florid-faced, with reddish hair and beard. He wore suspenders and a shopkeeper’s apron and smelled very strongly of fish.

“My name’s Ferguson,” he said, lifting his hat. “A Lieutenant Robert Hoffman sent me a message saying I should contact you.”

“Where is Robert? Does this mean he made it home safely?”

“I have no idea. I never met the gentleman. And the less you and I know about each other, the better. My contact in Washington said to tell you he spoke to the lieutenant. Said maybe you’d be willing to supply us with some information that would be useful to our cause.”

I suddenly felt as though a million eyes and ears were watching us, listening to us. “I don’t have any information at the moment, Mr. Ferguson. But if I did . . . how would I get it to you?”

“I sell fish at a booth in the farmers’ market on Eighteenth and Main. Know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Fold the information inside a bank note and hand it to me when you pay for your fish.”

I glanced around nervously and saw Gilbert standing at a respectful distance, guarding me. I noticed that Ferguson had left the backyard gate open, as if prepared to flee in a hurry if he had to. I was embarking on a dangerous course.

“Is that all?” I asked.

“If either of us is caught, we’re gonna swear on our grandmother’s graves we never met.”

He tipped his hat again and hurried off into the shadows. When the gate closed quietly behind him I knew I had just opened a door through which I could never return.

Chapter Twenty-one

April 1863

On the night of my father’s party, our house seemed to come alive, like Rip Van Winkle waking from a long slumber. For the first time since the war began two years ago, we had people crowding into every downstairs room, food and spirits spread across our dining room table like a banquet, and brilliantly lit chandeliers filling every dark space with light and cheer. Tessie and Ruby served at the buffet table wearing starched white aprons. Gilbert padded among the men, refilling their glasses, the leather of his new shoes squeaking jauntily. Esther had outdone herself, cooking for days, refusing Daddy’s offers to hire an extra cook. Now, after the spectacular meal, laughter and music spilled from the drawing room as our sated guests forgot the war and their privations for a few stolen hours.

The prominence and prestige of Daddy’s friends amazed me— cabinet members, senators, army generals, city officials. The only men of importance who were missing, it seemed, were General Lee and President Davis. Of course, the St. Johns had been invited, and I was relieved to see Charles’ father laughing with mine, his suspicions and accusations seemingly forgotten.

As I circulated through the drawing room, engaging my guests in conversation, accepting their compliments and congratulations, Charles’ mother waved me over. With her was a group of government wives.

“This is a lovely party, Caroline,” Mrs. St. John said. “You’ve done a wonderful job. Caroline is engaged to my son, Charles, you know,” she bragged to the others. “She’ll be a fine asset to him someday, don’t you think?” They nodded and murmured in agreement.

One of the ladies took my hand in both of hers and pressed it warmly. “Thank you so much for a splendid evening, Miss Fletcher. My husband, Lewis, really needed this diversion. He works in the War Department, and ever since those spies were captured last week he’s been under a great deal of pressure.”

The very word
spies
made me shudder. I had read about their arrest in the paper.

“You mean, your husband knew that horrible Mr. Webster?” Mrs. St. John asked.

“Yes, he worked as a clerk in the War Department. We knew his wife, too. They’ve both been arrested. It seems they were
both
spies.”

“I heard that he was a double spy,” one of the ladies said. “He sold Yankee secrets to our government as well as selling ours to the Yankees.”

“It will all come out in the trial, I suppose. If he’s convicted of espionage he’ll be condemned to hang. No telling what they’ll do to his wife.”

“They say there are all sorts of spies living among us,” one of the generals’ wives confided. “They even come to gatherings like this one. They hear every word our leaders speak in private and take it straight to the enemy. And they do it for money—can you imagine?”

“That’s what upset my Lewis so much—the way those people deceived us all. Mr. Webster worked side-by-side with him. His wife even wore a secession badge. They worshipped with us at church, worked in the hospitals—and all this time they’ve been lying to us.”

“I think they should both hang,” the general’s wife said. “Their treachery not only cost the lives of our men on the battlefield, but it put all of us at terrible risk. If the Yankees were to take Richmond, heaven only knows what they would do to us.”

Mrs. St. John shuddered. “God will repay them for their deeds.”

I stared at the floor, terrified to meet anyone’s gaze, certain that these women would see me for what I was. Fear of being caught, of being hung for treason, vibrated through me. I wanted this party to end. I wanted nothing to do with passing information to Mr. Ferguson, to Robert, or to the Yankees. I couldn’t remember why I had ever decided to do such a thing in the first place. I glanced up to see if anyone had noticed my anxiety, and I saw Tessie standing a few feet away. I could tell that she wanted to speak with me, but she hadn’t wanted to interrupt. I thanked God for the timely escape.

“Excuse me please, ladies. I believe my servant needs me.” I hoped my voice sounded normal.

I clung to Tessie’s arm as we walked into the dining room. At first she didn’t notice anything wrong with me or realize that I was hanging on to her for support.

“Esther’s wondering when you want us to serve the coffee and dessert,” she began. Then she looked at me for the first time. “What’s wrong, honey? You looking like you about to faint. You need smelling salts?”

“The women were talking about those two spies who were caught . . . the Websters.” My heart pounded against my corset stays. “I . . . I don’t think I can do this, Tessie. What Robert asked me to do is too hard.”

She rested her hands on my bare shoulders, steadying me, reassuring me. “No one saying you have to, honey. And no one blaming you if you can’t. Seems like you done plenty already.”

“Thanks.” I saw Tessie’s love for me in her warm brown eyes and felt my strength slowly returning.

All of a sudden Tessie gave a little gasp of surprise. A look crossed her face that I’d never seen before, a look of wonder and inexpressible joy.

“What is it, Tessie? Tell me.”

In an instant, panic replaced her joy. When she rested her hand against her stomach protectively, I knew. Josiah had gone back to the war with Jonathan last November, five months ago.

“You’re going to have a baby, aren’t you?” I said.

Tessie nodded fearfully. I smiled and pulled her into my arms. “It’s all right, Tessie. I’m happy for you.” I felt the tension leave her as she hugged me in return.

“Let me see you,” I said when we finally separated. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed before. Tessie’s slender, hourglass figure was fuller, the waistband of her skirt an inch higher. And a quiet joy overspread her face.

“I felt the baby move just now,” she said shyly. “Ain’t no feeling like that in the whole world. Ain’t no way to describe what it feels like to have him kicking . . . and knowing there’s a
life
inside there. He’s part of me, part of Josiah, yet he his own person. You’ll see for yourself, someday, with Massa Charles’ baby.”