In Freedom's Shadow, page 14
Eventually darkness fell across Richmond and Scobell, worrying he’d lingered too long in that spot, moved back down Main Street. When he was across from the office, he ducked sideways into an alley. Just inside the shadowy opening, someone had stacked three barrels. He slipped behind them and turned to watch the building across the street.
An hour passed before someone doused the lights in Matchett’s office. A few minutes after that, Lucy emerged from an alley beside the building. Scobell nodded to himself. She would’ve left the building by the slave exit in the rear.
Although it was dark, he could tell it was her immediately. Her thin build and crooked neck were distinctive enough, but the soft glow of the pipe in the evening gloom was a sure giveaway.
Just as William Ascot had taught him in Washington, Scobell waited for her to get halfway down the block before he slid out of his hiding place. Remaining on his side of the street, he moved casually and remained an unobtrusive distance behind Lucy.
Two blocks down, three men in long coats stopped Lucy. Scobell watched her produce a piece of paper from the pocket of her coat and show it to them. This seemed to satisfy them. She pocketed the paper back and moved down the street.
Though he stuck to his side of the street, the three men noticed him as well.
“Hey!” one of them shouted at him. “You over there. C’mere right now.”
Scobell complied. When he reached the opposite sidewalk, one of them waved a gold badge marked with the letters “CS” and said abruptly, “Papers.”
Scobell fished two pieces of paper from his pocket. One was a sheet signed by Brackett, identifying him as her servant. The other was a copy of the pass signed by Winder, giving Brackett – and by extension, Scobell – permission to be in Richmond.
“Where you headed?” one of them asked.
“Well, now,” Scobell started, “The missus done axed me to check our hosses at the livery up the way. Then she axed me-“
“Yeah, yeah. That’s enough, boy,” another man cut him off. Examining his papers by the light of a streetlamp, the three deemed them satisfactory and waved him on his way.
Scobell strolled slowly away from the patrol, making sure to neither hurry nor linger where he might still be in their sight. After covering a city block, he sped up to catch Lucy.
Cresting a slight hill, he saw her just ahead. He slowed again to let her gain ground, wanting to stay at least far enough back that the sound of his footfalls wouldn’t attract her attention on the quiet street.
As Lucy turned down Broad Street, Scobell noticed the houses around them getting progressively larger and more ornate. When the tall, white steeple of St. John’s Church came into view, he realized they were in the Church Hill neighborhood. He’d heard slaves at the Exchange discussing this as one of the more upscale areas of Richmond, home to its upper crust citizenry.
It made sense, Scobell reasoned. If Lucy belonged to Matchett, it meant he was part of that gentrified class. That would explain how he became an officer at the outset of the war, and why Winder kept him on as a captain in the spy-hunting unit after his injuries.
Lucy turned down a side street. Scobell hustled to close the gap. Though there were no streetlights on this thoroughfare, he was close enough to see her slow as she passed the main gate in front of one of the more modest homes on the street. She took a few more strides, then stopped to open a side gate partially hidden by shrubbery: the slave entrance.
Scobell hurried up to her just as she went through the gate. “Lucy,” he called in a hoarse whisper.
She paused and turned toward him, the glowing coals in her pipe flaring a bit.
“Yes, suh?” she said. Her tone seemed composed, despite the unusual interruption.
“I’m John,” he said. “We done met yesterday at Cap’n Matchett’s office. I was there with my missus.”
“Yes,” she replied, unperturbed. “I ‘members.”
“I needs your help,” he said, cutting to the chase. “I needs to know something.”
Lucy stood silently. The tobacco in her pipe flared brighter for a moment, then died down again.
“Has you heard the cap’n say anything?” Scobell continued. “’Bout me, I mean.”
She was quiet for another moment, then said, “’Bout you, your own self? Don’t s’pose I have. Can’t recall it anyways. Why?”
Scobell didn’t reply immediately either. He’d have to proceed carefully here.
“I done met him afore,” he said.
“Why’d Massa Cap’n care ‘bout that?” Lucy asked.
It was a reasonable question. Why would a prominent Richmond citizen and detective captain care about having crossed paths with a slave somewhere along the way?
“You know them burns on his face and neck?” Scobell said. “I done give ‘em to him.”
Lucy went silent again. Her pipe flared once more in the darkness.
“Hm,” she said at last.
“He was tryin’ to kill me,” Scobell explained. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. But that’s what done happened.”
“I wasn’t with my missus then,” he added. “She didn’t have no part of that.”
He saw the glow of Lucy’s pipe move up and down as she nodded in response.
“I needs to know if he ‘members me,” Scobell continued. “If he don’, that’s good. If he do, though…” Scobell paused to let the thought settle in her head. “Well, that’d be bad. Real bad.”
“What you wants me to do?” she asked at last. “Don’t wanna do nothing agin the cap’n. I been with him since he’s born. His daddy was my massa afore him.”
“Don’t need you to do nothin’ special,” Scobell replied, trying to keep his voice calm. “Jus’ listen. See if the cap’n mentions me, like maybe he seen me somewhere afore.”
He saw her glowing pipe bob up and down again. “S’pose I can do that,” she said. “Don’t see no harm in it.”
“No harm at all,” he said. “Jus’ listening and letting me know.”
“S’pose I can do that,” she repeated.
“How ‘bout I check back in a few days?” he asked. “See what you might’ve heard.”
“Alright,” she said. Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the night.
Scobell spun back to the sidewalk and headed toward the Exchange. He let out a deep breath. If Lucy heard nothing, it would confirm Matchett hadn’t recognized him.
If that was the case, it would just be the first step. The next, a far more dangerous one, meant getting his hands on Matchett’s cipher disc.
CHAPTER 16
Scobell entered through the slave doorway at the rear of the Exchange, then climbed the three flights of steep, narrow, and unlit stairs that the unwritten rules forced him to use. He was still catching his breath from the climb when he knocked on the door. Brackett whipped it open and waved him into the room.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We have a dinner appointment tomorrow,” she said with more than a hint of excitement in her voice.
“A dinner appointment?”
“With Joseph Anderson,” Brackett said, a smile spreading across her face.
His eyes widened. “General Joseph Anderson? The owner of Tredegar Iron Works?”
“The very one,” she said, still grinning.
“That should be interesting,” he said. “How did you manage it?”
“I’ve been working on it since we got here. Pinkerton gave me the name of a Secesh captain named Michael Atwater and told me to contact him when I got here.”
“Pinkerton gave you his name?”
“Yes. Webster connected with him last fall. Apparently, Captain Atwater is less than enthralled with the Rebel cause and is considering defecting back to the United States.”
“Interesting,” said Scobell. “Why didn’t you share that information with me earlier?”
“Do you tell me everything you learn?” she asked.
He had to concede that he did not.
“Captain Atwater and his wife, Arlene, proved most helpful,” Brackett continued. “The good captain served under General Anderson in the Tredegar Battalion that they formed last summer, shortly after the war broke out. When Anderson temporarily took command of the Cape Fear district in North Carolina last fall, they transferred Atwater with him.”
She paused, confirming Scobell was following. He nodded for her to continue.
“Both of them were recently rotated back here. The general and his wife are keen to reestablish their places in Richmond society, so they’re hosting their first dinner party since his return. The guest list included Captain and Mrs. Atwater.”
“And Atwater secured you an invitation?”
“Well, more Arlene than the captain,” Brackett said. “It seems she has family on her mother’s side who live in Chicago.”
Scobell perked up in alarm. “You didn’t tell her you were from there, did you?”
Brackett raised her delicate hand to stop him. “I only told her that my widowed grandmother moved to Chicago in 1850. Which is true, by the way.”
He let out a relieved sigh.
“Even though Pinkerton gave us this contact,” Brackett added, “I don’t know for certain where their loyalties lie right now. I’m maintaining my cover all the way.”
“Smart choice,” he said. His brief response didn’t reflect his deepening appreciation for Brackett’s discretion.
Returning to the subject at hand, Brackett picked up an invitation card. She read, “General and Mrs. Anderson request the pleasure of your company at dinner tomorrow evening, promptly at five o’clock.”
“Dinner with the president of the Tredegar Iron Works,” repeated Scobell. “Maybe the richest man in the city?” Scobell continued.
Brackett nodded and smiled. “The same.”
“Well,” he said, “I shall have to wash my socks.”
◆◆◆
Their hired coach, pulled by a pair of jaunty gray steeds, pulled up in front of the Anderson’s Franklin Street mansion. There was already a line of carriages waiting. General Anderson’s enslaved coachmen, wearing gray uniforms trimmed in silver brocade, assisted each passenger as they alighted. The coachmen then skillfully guided the horse-drawn barouches around the corner to the stable.
The disembarking occupants, mostly couples, wore their finest evening wear. Women in their gaily colored hoop skirts, ranging from maroon to light blue to gold, glided down from the coaches. The gowns exposed a goodly portion of the ladies’ shoulders and bosoms, but the crinolines virtuously hid the legs and feet of each.
The men wore a mix of clothing according to their service status. Civilians wore long gray or black coats over starched white shirts and bow ties, topped by wide-brimmed hats. Scobell observed that the stovetop hat favored by President Lincoln, and now wildly popular in Washington, was completely absent.
The Confederate officers among the guests were instantly recognizable in their gray uniforms. The spring evening being warm, the men wore shell jackets that rode just above their hips.
Captain Atwater, assisting his wife down from the carriage ahead of Brackett and Scobell, wore a gray wool jacket with a gold collar, broad gold lapels, and gold buttons. The jacket cuffs were similarly trimmed in gold, with gold braid extending up to the elbow. More senior officers wore plain jackets, although still with gold braid up the sleeves.
When their barouche reached the designated spot, Scobell hopped to the sidewalk, catching a whiff of sweet perfume on the still evening air. Clad in a neatly trimmed black suit, complete with black tie and black, narrow-brimmed hat, Scobell made a show of assisting Brackett as she stepped from the carriage. Brackett, still maintaining her role as a widow in mourning, wore a black silk dress trimmed with white collars and cuffs. She’d added a tasteful touch of black lace to embellish the presentation.
Scobell trailed behind her as she joined the Atwaters. They presented their invitation cards to one of the black doormen, then passed between the columns in front of the mansion and through the tall entryway.
The Anderson home exceeded even the most luxurious plantation “big house” that Scobell had seen in Mississippi. The ceilings towered ten feet overhead and dark wood trimmed every corner, doorway, and staircase. Thick carpets adorned with brilliantly colored, intricate patterns covered nearly the entire surface of the hardwood floors. Gas lighting, augmented by oil lanterns and candles, cast a flickering glow throughout the interior. The aroma inside was a combination of linseed oil, lamp smoke, and perfume from the female guests.
Scobell accompanied Brackett into the drawing room, where guests would briefly visit before dinner. He then retired to the kitchen, where he would remain with the other slaves throughout the evening. After asking the house slaves a few quick questions about the Anderson household, he found a seat in the hallway. He could sit here without raising suspicion and still overhear most of the conversation from the crowd in the adjoining dining room.
Since guests were still mingling in the drawing room, he peeked into the dining room. The massive wooden table was impossibly long and set with more places than he could quickly count. A small bouquet in a slender silver vase sat next to certain plates. Scobell assumed these denoted each lady’s seat.
The men's plates also had flowers, arranged in the folds of the napkins. He knew from the few times he was called into assist with a banquet in the great house at the Scobell plantation that each gentleman would fasten the flower to his lapel once he sat down.
A dazzling array of knives, forks, and spoons spread beside the dishes. Plates were stacked four deep, one for every successive round of the banquet. House slaves had meticulously folded napkins on top of each pile of dinnerware.
A crystal water glass accompanied each place setting, along with an empty wine goblet. A plump black woman emerged from the kitchen to fill the water glasses. Her white apron, worn over a long black dress, was nearly a match to her white head of hair. A second house slave in a maid’s uniform emerged from the kitchen to pour wine into carafes.
A polished wooden sideboard along the far wall held salad plates, waiting to be placed on the table. Scobell could see, and smell, a plate of bread waiting on the sideboard as well.
Main courses would still be in the kitchen. He’d seen a soup tureen next to the stove when he passed through earlier, and caught a whiff of the mouthwatering aroma emanating from it.
The war was taking its toll on Richmond. Wounded soldiers, women in somber widow’s weeds, and displaced civilians from the surrounding countryside crowded the city’s sidewalks more with each passing week. Newspapers described shortages of wool and flour. But here in General Anderson’s house, it was pleasure as usual.
From the adjoining drawing room, he heard dinner being announced by the uniformed butler. The servers placed the first plates in front of the guests, starting with Mrs. Anderson, then the general. As soon as a guest finished their food, the quietly efficient butler pounced, removing the offending plate and utensils immediately. The moment they eliminated the last plate from a particular course, the butler began serving the next round.
As the initial din of guests being seated and the salad plates distributed came to a close, Scobell found he could hear the conversation from the dining room remarkably well. Shifting a bit, he realized he could even see some guests reflected in the glass of a breakfront cabinet across the hallway from his seat.
Brackett sat near him, but facing away. Scobell could only see the back of her head in the glass.
Arlene Atwater sat to Brackett’s left. Captain Atwater’s seat was on the other side of his wife. Sarah Anderson sat at the end of the table nearest the kitchen, while the general manned the head of the table opposite her.
Scobell had glimpsed General Anderson as he entered the room. He was a man of average height, with narrow shoulders and a high forehead. Anderson wore his wavy hair combed across the top of his head. He sported a neatly trimmed mustache, but eschewed the beard that so many Confederate officers cultivated.
“We’ve been able to increase production at Tredegar each month since the start of the war,” General Anderson was explaining to a civilian seated opposite Brackett. “With so many men in the army, that’s meant bringing in more slave labor, of course. We’re even using Negro women now.”
“Really?” asked the man, somewhat incredulously.
“Indeed,” the general assured him. “They’re proving quite handy at tasks that require more dexterity. The bucks, of course, we can only rely on for brute work. And even with those tasks, they require constant supervision, not to mention frequent lashes.” He chuckled as if he’d made a clever play on words.
“Are they paid for their work?” asked Brackett.
“The owners?” said General Anderson, misunderstanding her question. “Oh, my, yes. We wouldn’t think of using Negro labor without the owners being reimbursed. They require something to offset the loss of labor at home, of course.”
“Of course,” Brackett replied softly.
Conversation waned for a moment as the next course was served. As his guests dug in, General Anderson returned to what was clearly his favorite subject: the Tredegar Iron Works.
“We’re nearly finished with a quite exciting new project at the manufactory,” he announced in a conspiratorial tone.
“Do tell,” Brackett said, a flutter of excitement in her voice. “What sort of project is it?”
“Well, naturally I cannot tell all,” said Anderson, an unmistakable pride in his voice. “Two days from now, we will launch something completely unique. A new weapon that may very well win this war of Northern aggression.” He paused for dramatic effect, then added, “We will rule the waters, for certain.”
“Dear me,” Scobell heard Brackett respond. “That does sound promising. I read about a ship that sails under the water. Is it something like that?”
“That was Mr. Cheeny’s project,” said General Anderson dismissively. “A gimmick, my dear. A novelty. This is a proper ship, mounted with twelve guns.”
“Don’t we have other ships with more guns than that?” asked someone else at the table.
