Authors: Gilbert Morris
“Slipped on the sidewalk and broke his ankle—and then got the flu. He’s always been so active that it’s been difficult to keep him still.”
She glanced at him curiously. “You said at Richmond that you’d be going back to England.”
“Well, I was all packed—before grandfather got hurt. He wouldn’t stay in a hospital, and he would’ve driven my parents crazy in a week. So I moved into his house to take care of him.”
“You still won’t get involved with the war?”
He gave her a sharp look, and shook his head. “I’ll be leaving as soon as you are able to take care of Grandfather. There’ll be a servant to help him, too, of course, but I hated to leave him without someone to talk with.” He pointed ahead, “There’s the house.”
The little cottage was set back from the street, with two large trees in the front and a garden in the back. He helped her out, saying, “Let’s go in. I’ll get your bags while you and Grandfather talk.”
They entered the house and he led her through a small foyer into a hall that turned off to the right. He opened the first door on the left. “This will be your room, Belle.”
She stepped in, noting the yellow wallpaper, the walnut bed with the ornate wardrobe and the small desk beside it. She walked to the large window overlooking the garden. “This is lovely, Davis,” she smiled. “Let’s go see your grandfather.”
He escorted her to the master bedroom off to the left, opened the door and said, “Grandfather—Belle is here.”
“Well, bring her in!”
Captain Whitfield was sitting up in bed, reading. He smiled
as she approached. “My dear, how good to have you here, but I’m afraid I’m going to be a great bother to you.”
She knew his words were meant to alleviate the strangeness she felt, and it touched her heart. “We’ll be trouble to each other, Captain,” she returned. “Both of us have been spoiled, I think.”
“Nonsense!” he responded. “Davis and I are heartily sick of each other’s company. We’ll be much better by your presence! Now sit down and tell me all about our family. Davis, go bring Belle’s baggage in!” She sat down, and as soon as Davis left, Whitfield nodded toward the door. “Belle, no matter what anyone says about that boy and his attitude—he’s been a godsend to me! If I had gone home with Robert, one of us would have shot the other by now!”
They talked about her trip for a time, and then Davis came back and announced that her luggage was in her room, adding, “It’s too late to fix a meal. Suppose you and I go out to a restaurant, Belle? We can bring something back for Grandfather.”
“Oh no,” she said promptly. “I’d rather stay in tonight. Let me try my cooking on you.” They protested, but she insisted, and soon Davis was sitting on a high stool in the kitchen as she put together a quick meal, the main course being a cheese and mushroom omelet. He set the table when she announced that the meal was ready, and he went to get the captain.
“Well, now! This is something I like!” The captain wolfed down the omelet and waved a thick fluffy biscuit in the air. “A few days of this and I’ll be ready to take command again.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” she warned. “This is my easiest dish—Mama’s recipe. It’s a sure success, too.” A smile broke across her face. “I’ve just put my best foot forward for the first meal.”
Davis laughed and poured himself another cup of tea. “Whatever you cook will be better than my efforts.” He gave a few humorous anecdotes of his abortive attempts at cooking.
“That reminds me . . .” and the captain related a story of the time his cook died at sea.
When he finished, an awkward silence fell across the table. Belle looked at the men. “You’ve been good to invite me here—but I want to make one thing clear,” she told them. “I don’t want to cause you any problems. I can find a room at any time if I become troublesome.”
Whitfield Winslow gave her a steady look. “Most things in this life are trouble, Belle—most worthwhile things, that is. You’re a smart girl, and you know that some people are going to doubt your motives. Nothing to be done about that, my dear. But this is your home as long as you choose to make it so.”
The simplicity of his reply brought a swift reaction from Belle. She had seemed stiff and somewhat artificial in her manner. Now for the first time since entering the house, the set expression on her face broke, and the softness they remembered returned. Her eyes glistened and she said in a husky voice, “Thank you, Captain.”
Davis saw that she was on the verge of tears, so he changed the subject. “How is Thad, Belle? And the rest of the family?”
Swiftly Belle brushed her handkerchief across her eyes, smiled, and began to report on her family. They talked for an hour, and finally she said, “I’m a little tired. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”
“I’ll do the dishes,” Davis offered.
After Belle left, he asked quietly, “What do you think?”
“She’s troubled, Davis. She’s lost her husband, and now she’s really losing her family—and she’s not too sure about anything.” Whitfield took out his pipe, lit it from a candle, and with a sad look in his wise old eyes concluded, “It’ll depend on how our people respond. Some fools will hate anyone who’s ever had a thing to do with the South.”
“If Father and Mother accept her, it would help a lot. Mother, especially. Why don’t you ask her to invite us all to the big party she’s giving next Wednesday, Grandfather?”
“That’s not a bad idea!” A wicked gleam shone in his eyes, and the edges of his lips curled in a smile. “They’ll
have
to let me bring her, won’t they? I mean, as an invalid I’ve got
some
rights!” He slapped the table with glee. “If they ask her to that party, it’ll mean they’re endorsing her—and I’m going to make them do it!”
As he lay in bed chortling over his plans to maneuver Robert and Jewel to invite them to the party, Belle was in her room, seated at the small desk, musing over the events of the last few days.
Everything had been theoretical—until she had gotten off the train. She had spent the long train ride planning ways to subvert and destroy all she could of the Union cause. When struck by the fact that she might be responsible for the death of federal soldiers, she had thought bitterly,
They started this war—they killed my husband. Now let them suffer!
But Davis’s cheerful face and the captain’s warm welcome had made her plan difficult. She sat for a long time, her mind in turmoil. Finally she raised her head, and her lips drew into a tight line as she whispered, “I’ve
got
to do it!”
She got up and walked swiftly to the luggage on the floor, picked up a small blue case and placed it on the bed. Opening it, she removed the cosmetics and feminine personal items. Then she pressed one of the rivets that held the handle, and with the other hand reached down inside, pressing firmly on a small pencil mark near the bottom. A faint
click
sounded and the bottom swung up on one side, held on the other by an invisible hinge. Taking out a single slip of paper that lay in the false compartment beneath, she remembered Huger’s instructions when he had given it to her:
Keep any messages for your contact in this compartment. When you have something to give him, put it in here. Then go for a walk to a place he designates, and leave the case on a bench—as if you’ve forgotten it. Later, go back for it. You’ll find your message gone and new instructions in its place.
Belle took a pen and a sheet of stationery from the desk
and wrote “Agent in place” and her message. When she had finished, she folded the sheet and sealed it; then from a slip of paper in her hand she copied a name and address on the front of the letter. Inserting her note, she closed the compartment and replaced the contents.
It had been a long day, so she undressed and lay on the bed; but despite her fatigue, she could not sleep. About midnight it began to snow, and she watched the flakes softly falling to the earth. How she wished she could feel as clean and fresh as the bright silver mantle that would soon blanket the brown soil!
CHAPTER FOUR
BELLE MEETS STANTON
For most people a seasonal party was only an opportunity to gather with a few friends and enjoy a time of fellowship and laughter. But not for Mrs. Jewel Winslow. To her, a Christmas party was like every other social function—a means of increasing her standing in Washington circles. Her husband’s goal was no less secular, for he saw everything through a politician’s jaundiced eye, and was quick to turn any meeting into a useful platform to promote his politics.
Their home had been built to stage such spectacles, with most of the lower floor comprising a huge ballroom, and on the night of December 23 it was nearly filled to capacity.
“Good lord, Jewel!” Robert complained as the pair descended the curving staircase leading down from the sleeping quarters, “did you invite
everybody
in Washington?”
“I don’t think you appreciate how hard I work for you, Robert,” Jewel said reproachfully. “It’s gotten to be quite an honor to be at our Christmas Ball. Anybody who isn’t asked—isn’t
anybody.
”
He grinned, knowing that to a large extent she was right. Many major policy decisions of the United States had their origin in the cliques that met at such parties. “Is Stanton going to be here?”
“He promised he would—if I could guarantee that the President
wouldn’t.
” Jewel frowned, and added as they reached the foyer and turned into the ballroom, “Edwin is much more gifted than Lincoln! It’s a shame he’s not the president!”
“Stanton’s feelings are pretty plain—that Abe is Edwin’s assistant.” Robert grinned sardonically. It was common knowledge that the secretary of war treated the President as if he were slightly retarded. Stanton had even been heard to say on several occasions that the only salvation of the Union lay in
his
hands, not those of a country rail-splitter.
“I hope you seated Mrs. Wickham as far away from Stanton as possible,” he remarked. “He’s liable to have her arrested for no other reason than that she was in Richmond a few days ago.”
“Edwin
has
to be hard on the Rebels!” Jewel snapped. “The President is far too lax.”
Half the ballroom was occupied with banquet tables, with guests already seated, while the other half was left for the dancing that would follow. The walls and ceiling were decorated with holly and mistletoe, and the great clusters of candles from the chandeliers reflected their golden light in the brass buttons and insignia of the Union officers who sat at the long tables. Their dark blue uniforms served as a counterpoint to the reds, blues, and whites of the women’s dresses, and Jewel was pleased.
“There’s Edwin,” she whispered, scurrying off to greet the secretary of war, as Robert followed dutifully.
“Edwin! I’m so glad you could come!” she exclaimed.
Stanton was short of stature with a bristling beard and a pugnacious look in his eyes. His temper was mercurial, the dread of the rest of the Cabinet—and everyone else. However, tonight he was in a cheerful mood, and gave Jewel a peck on the cheek. “Jewel, you look downright beautiful!”
Salmon Chase, secretary of the treasury, came forward and greeted Jewel with a simple “Good evening,” then was shouldered aside by William Seward, secretary of state. Robert Winslow’s eyes gleamed at the obvious thrust, for he recalled a comment the President had made once about the two men. Each was convinced he was better qualified to be President than Abe Lincoln. Winslow’s mind flashed back to the early,
dark days of the war. He had been in Lincoln’s office, and had complained to the President that Chase and Seward showed no respect for the Chief of State. Lincoln leaned back in his chair, and with a light of humor in his deep-set eyes said, “Winslow, when I was a boy, I used to carry pumpkins to town in a sack. I figured out that if I had just one pumpkin in a sack, it was hard to carry, but once you could get two pumpkins in, one at each end of a sack, it balanced things up. Seward and Chase’ll do for my pair of pumpkins.”
Now they all moved toward the heavy-laden tables and sat down. Jewel had made sure she was seated in the midst of the important guests so as not to miss a word that was said about the war. Chase began by needling Stanton about the tragic losses at Fredericksburg.
“Well, Mr. Stanton, I suppose you will be ready to go back to General McClellan—now that your last selection proved so inept.”
“I think you can trust me with the selection of our military leaders, Mr. Chase!” he shot back angrily, his face flushed. It was a sensitive subject, for General Burnside, who was practically forced to take command of the army after Lincoln had relieved McClellan from his post, had led the army into a tragic blunder at Marye’s Heights outside the small town of Fredericksburg. Burnside had allowed Lee to get his army on a hill across the Rappahannock, where he commanded a charge against the impregnable lines of Confederates. Wave after wave of Union troops had rushed forward, jumping over the bodies of their dead comrades—straight into a murderous fire, six charges in all. The dead had been piled up three deep in that violent and useless attack. Over 12,000 Union soldiers were killed or wounded for no gain.
Chase lit his cigar and countered daringly, “But, Mr. Stanton, how is it that the Army of the Potomac, the nation’s best trained fighting force, can be routed by an army of poorly armed barefoot beggars?”
Stanton almost rose out of his seat, and his voice carried
over the ballroom, causing every head to turn. “I’ll hear no such talk, especially from a member of the Cabinet, Mr. Chase!” He railed on, blaming McClellan and the other members of the Cabinet.
Jewel shot an agonizing glance at Robert, whispering, “Robert! Say something!”
Robert waited until Stanton paused in his diatribe, then stood to his feet and called, “I propose a toast—to the gallant men who wear the uniform of the United States. They may lose a battle, but they will emerge victorious over the foe!”
Everyone rose, and Stanton was forced to join in the toast. When they were seated again, Jewel steered the conversation around to less explosive issues. She was congratulating herself on handling the volatile situation so well when Colonel Henry Wilder, Stanton’s military advisor sitting to her left, asked suddenly, “By Jove—who is
that?
”