In Freedom's Shadow, page 7
Scobell nodded, but didn’t speak.
“I was one of the agents who read through all those confiscated papers,” Webster continued. “This is her handwriting, without a doubt. I’d know it anywhere.”
“But Scully said she’s locked up in the Old Capitol Prison,” said Scobell.
“She must’ve discovered a way to smuggle out these letters and send them south,” Webster replied. “Miss Rose is definitely spying again.”
“We’ve got to get word back to Pinkerton so that they can shut her down again,” said Scobell.
“You’re right,” said Webster. “Or,” he added thoughtfully, “let her keep working and monitor her messages. But to do either, we must find that cipher key.”
He paused for a moment, looking directly at the black agent. “This material would’ve gone straight to the Confederate Secretary of War if you hadn’t stopped it. That’s good work, indeed.”
Scobell grunted his thanks, looking down at the ground between them as he did so.
“Now,” said Webster, “how are we going to get this back to Washington? You and I need to stay on our original mission. We could give it to the commanding officer of the Navy unit here, but they would want to run it through their channels, which would take forever. We need to get this back to Pinkerton immediately.”
Scobell said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I already took the liberty. I found someone who can take this information to Washington tomorrow.”
Webster looked startled. “Someone we can trust? It needs to get there quickly, but also quietly. I don’t have to remind you of the consequences if we’re found out.”
“No, you don’t,” Scobell replied, only barely keeping the sarcasm from his voice. “We can trust this man,” he assured Webster. “He has his own reasons to travel quietly.”
“I’m going to want to meet him first. There’s just too much on the line,” Webster said.
“I assumed you’d want it that way,” said Scobell. Turning away, he said, “Follow me. If we go now, we can still catch them.”
“Them?” asked a bewildered Webster as he started off after Scobell. “I thought you said it was one man?”
“Webster, you best prepare yourself,” said Scobell over his shoulder. “I’m going to show you something tonight that you’ve never even imagined.”
With that, he led his fellow agent off into the gloomy winter night.
◆◆◆
Hurrying through the darkness as quickly as they dared, the two spies came to a dilapidated building outside of town. It was a two-story structure that might’ve once been a store or a wagon shop. But now rough boards covered the windows and the front door dangled from one hinge. It looked as though it had been vacant for years.
“Around here,” Scobell whispered. He grasped Webster’s sleeve and led him around the side of the building to a second entrance, this one with a more substantial door on it.
Scobell quietly knocked three times on the door, pausing a moment between the second and third raps. He felt Webster’s arm jerk in surprise when the door suddenly and silently swung open.
Scobell stepped through the doorway into the dark interior of the building, towing Webster alongside. They heard the door close behind them and a bolt slide into place to lock it. Unseen forms rustled in the surrounding blackness.
The two men stood still in the shadows. At one point, Webster leaned over to say something, but Scobell quieted him with a firm squeeze of his wrist.
Finally, a low voice came out of the gloom. “Who comes?”
“Friends of Uncle Abe,” Scobell replied in an equally hushed tone.
“What do you desire?” asked the voice.
“Light and liberty,” said Scobell.
Suddenly, there was a noise from above them and a faint light filtered into the room. It was flickering candlelight, drifting down to them through a trapdoor that had opened from the second story. With barely a sound, a rope ladder unrolled through the hatch.
“After you,” Scobell said, motioning toward the rope ladder.
Webster hesitantly scaled the ladder, followed by Scobell, who slipped up the ropes as easily as walking up a set of stairs.
Once their eyes adjusted to the light, Scobell had to suppress a grin at the look of shock on Webster’s face.
Though there was not a stick of furniture in the room, there were about three dozen men crammed into it, some standing and some sitting on the floor. A large wooden barrel stood in the center of the room, an American flag draped over it.
“Webster,” said Scobell, “Welcome to the Loyal League.”
◆◆◆
Webster scanned the room, the gaping look of astonishment still affixed to his features. The surrounding men ranged from teenagers to stooped oldsters with white hair and beards. Nearly all of them wore the ragged clothes of slaves, some with blankets wrapped around them to ward off the December cold.
“What the hell is this?” Webster finally asked no one in particular. “Who are all these men?”
“This is Tim Webster,” said Scobell to the group. “He is an agent working undercover in Secesh territory, and reporting directly to the head of the Union Army. You’ll have to forgive his surprise, though. I didn’t tell him what to expect before we came.” There were quiet laughs around the room.
Scobell continued, “Webster is working on a mission to gather information here in Virginia. And I have been called into the secret service to help him.” Indistinct sounds of approval from the gathering greeted this news.
A tall, slender black man who looked to be in his mid-thirties stood up and extended his hand to Webster. The man had been sitting on a packing crate next to the barrel in the center of the room.
“Mr. Webster, my name is Elijah. I am the leader here. Welcome to the Loyal League.” The two men shook hands firmly.
Webster, slowly recovering his wits, looked from Elijah to Scobell and back again.
“Thank you,” Webster said slowly. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I’ve never heard of the Loyal League.”
“No,” said Elijah with a slight smile, “you wouldn’t have. Our group is made of Negroes dedicated to securing freedom for all of our brothers and sisters. We believe in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution – and that the rights guaranteed by those documents apply to black Americans just as much as whites.” There were murmurs of assent from the crowd.
“There are groups like this one that meet across the South,” Elijah continued, “In secret, of course, to protect our members. We look for opportunities to get Negroes safely to freedom, identify southerners who might be sympathetic to our cause, and get news to Negro newspapers in the North so they can spread the word. Anything at all we can do to further the effort for liberty.”
Then he added, “I first met your friend Scobell at a Loyal League meeting down in Mississippi, nearly a year ago.” Webster looked across at Scobell, who avoided his gaze.
“You’ve found a good man in Scobell,” concluded Elijah. “He’s smart as an owl and strong as a bull. Plus, he knows how to keep a secret.”
“So I gather,” said Webster with appreciation.
Scobell quickly changed the subject. “Elijah is headed north to Washington tomorrow to meet with some northern abolitionists who are friendly to the League. He’s agreed to deliver our package to Major Allen while he’s there.”
Webster shot another quick glance at Scobell. Scobell knew he’d picked up on the use of Pinkerton’s cover name in the instructions to Elijah.
“I’m honored to help,” said Elijah.
“Then it’s settled,” said Webster. “I doubt we could find anyone better for the job.”
Scobell handed over the package of letters to Elijah and gave him directions to deliver it to Major Allen’s I Street office. Scobell then turned to Webster and said, “We should go.”
“Before you do,” said Elijah, laying his hand on Scobell’s shoulder, “would you mind saying a few words to our friends here?”
“Well, uh…” Scobell stammered. He took a small step toward the trapdoor. “We really need to get back to town before someone at the hotel misses Webster.”
“It would mean a lot,” said Elijah quietly.
Scobell hesitated a moment and then stepped back to the middle of the room.
“Men,” he said in a quiet, but clear voice, “our time is at hand. For 200 years and more, Negroes have been slaves in this land. I don’t need to tell any of you about that. But our chance for freedom is here, courtesy of Lincoln and the Union Army.” Sounds of approval again came from the men. A few even clapped their hands.
“I’ve seen those boys in blue fight. Seen some of them die, too,” continued Scobell. “But from what I’ve seen, they’re ready and able to give the Johnny Rebs every bit of fight they want – and more.” There was more clapping and a few hoots of encouragement, followed immediately by reminders to stay quiet.
Scobell’s voice grew more intense. “But I’ll tell you this: those boys won’t win this war on their own. There will come a time when every single man in this room will be called upon to help in his own way. When that time comes, what are you going to do?” He slowly turned in a circle, directing his words to every man in the room.
“Are you going to shrink? Will you be able to look your children and grandchildren in the eye? It might be pretty sweet to tell them, ‘When my name was called, I stood up. I answered the call.’”
Although Scobell’s voice had barely risen above a whisper, his chest heaved as though with exertion. Several men around the room shook raised fists toward the ceiling.
After saying goodbye to Elijah, the two spies crawled down the ladder and headed back toward Leonardtown through the black night. They had walked briskly for several minutes when Webster finally said, “That was some speech.”
Scobell shrugged. “I said what they needed to hear. Some of them have been beaten down for so long that they’ve forgotten how it feels to stand. But there’ll come a time when they’ll have to step up and fight to get what they want most.”
Then he added, “No man ever fell up a mountain.”
CHAPTER 8
Since they had arrived on the same stagecoach, Webster and Scobell left Leonardtown separately. It was another extra step to avoid any potential suspicion.
Webster, applying his sympathy like a balm to Gurley’s wounds, ingratiated himself with the doctor when the latter staggered back into the hotel bar after Scobell’s attack. Convinced that Webster was a loyal secessionist, the deserting doctor invited him along on his covert trip to Virginia. The following night, the two men slipped away together on a boat loaded with goods being smuggled to Rebels across the Potomac.
Scobell remained behind, blending unobtrusively into the black population of the town. He gathered as much useful information as he could through quiet observation and through the pumping skills learned in Washington.
When a few days had gone by and any chance of being associated with Webster passed, Scobell decided it was safe to move on with the next phase of his mission. Through another Loyal League member, he secured a ride across the river on a small fishing skiff.
Just before midnight, he found the raft and its pilot hidden in the reeds along the edge of Breton Bay. It surprised Scobell to see that the pilot was a young teen, barely more than a boy. But he quickly saw from the quiet efficiency of the teen’s movements that he was a skilled riverman.
They slipped silently down the bay and out into the wide Potomac, headed toward the Virginia shoreline. Neither man spoke a word for the first hour.
As the youngster poled the raft, Scobell stared into the dark, trying to quell his fear of the cold, inky liquid below. He couldn’t help but imagine the skiff as a tiny piece of bark on the open water, one that a single wintry gust might flip at any moment.
Still, he thought as he glanced back toward the pilot leaning on the pole, this sure beats swimming across. In his nervous state, the thought almost made him giggle out loud.
When they were near the middle of the river, the young pilot finally broke the silence. In a low voice, he said, “You know, I taked lotsa Negroes like us ‘cross this river. Mebbe three, four dozen jus’ since the weather turned cold.” He paused for a moment, staring at Scobell. “But they was all escapin’ to Mar’land, tryin’ to get North. You sure as hell be the first one I taked this direction.”
“Yeah,” said Scobell, “I s’pose that’s true. Don’t ‘spect you gonna find too many Negroes dumb enough to go South when they’s already North.”
The young man pondered for a moment, and then said, “Mus’ be somethin’ you want pretty bad over in Virginny. Bad enough to risk yer neck.”
Scobell looked out into the murky gloom surrounding them. “I want the same as them other folks you rowed over. Jus’ found me a different way to get it.”
The young boatman nodded and pushed the skiff on into the night.
◆◆◆
When they reached the Virginia shore, Scobell paid the young man, then set off up the bank. Pinkerton hadn’t given him specific directions, other than to scout Rebel camps and note troop strength and fortifications. He realized he needed to scout the most locations possible, yet carry the intelligence back to Washington in a timely fashion.
Consulting a map given to him by a Loyal League member who had once been enslaved in Virginia, Scobell decided his best course would be to walk overland to the Rappahannock River. From there, he would try to catch a ride on a riverboat upriver to Fredericksburg. The fake pass from his Maryland master was worthless here in the Confederacy. He’d have to rely on his wits from here.
Taking a quick bearing from the stars in the pre-dawn sky, he set off to the southwest. Walking smartly, but still cautious of wandering Confederate soldiers, Scobell arrived just after noon at Leedstown, a small port on the banks of the Rappahannock. He spent about an hour scouting the layout of the town. He soon discovered that, given the short winter day, no more boats would leave to go upriver that afternoon.
He needed to get upriver soon, but in reality, he was thankful for the delay. He hadn’t slept in nearly three days, hadn’t eaten since the previous day, and had just walked 15 miles in the windy cold of January. Scobell was flat out exhausted.
For now, he’d finished asking questions and scouting the landscape. With a few brief inquiries, he found a slave hut where he could bed down for the night and share a few meager bites of food. Sitting on a wooden plank inside the little hut, Scobell hadn’t even finished his hoe-cake and salt pork when his head nodded onto his chest. In moments, he was snoring softly.
◆◆◆
The next morning, Scobell was at the docks before the sun came up. He learned from the dockhands that a packet boat called the Celeste, bound for Fredericksburg, was due in shortly. When the Celeste’s gangplank dropped, he grabbed a heavy crate from the dock and hustled it onboard.
He quickly found the captain to ask if he would allow Scobell to work off his passage to Fredericksburg.
The captain, a grumpy man in his mid-fifties with a long clay pipe clenched tight in his teeth, eyed Scobell suspiciously. “So you’re lookin’ for a free ride to Fredericksburg, is it?” he asked.
“Not a free ride, Massa Cap’n,” Scobell replied. “I’ll work hard as any man heah.”
“And what’s so interesting for you up there?” the older man asked. He shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other without using his hands.
“I gotta get back to my massa’s plantation. He off fightin’ Yankees and I gotta git back to help the missus,” Scobell lied. Recalling the name of a town from his map, he added, “I been down Montross seein’ some of my kinfolk, but I ain’t got no money for to get back.”
The captain considered this for a moment. With the war underway, many of the working-class white men from the local area had gone off to fight. Consequently, there was a shortage of able-bodied men to work on the packet boats that shipped their cargo up and down the inland waterways. Scobell could tell by the slow pace of the loading going on around them that the Celeste needed more hands.
“Alright then,” the captain said, letting out a great cloud of smoke from between his teeth. “It’s agin’ my better judgement, but I’ll take ya.”
Before Scobell could thank him, the old crotchet said, “Grab them crates and get ‘em on here, quick. When we’re loaded, get below and help out the cook.” The captain turned and stalked off, but Scobell heard him mutter as he went, “I’ll get my money’s worth out of ‘im, so I will.”
Grabbing a cask of molasses, the operative threw his shoulders into the work. Even as he labored, Scobell observed the scrum of people milling about the quay, vigilant for any action or conversation that might provide him useful intelligence – or better yet, an insight to the cipher key.
One man, in particular, caught Scobell’s observant eye. Dressed in a long gray coat and matching top hat, the gentlemen appeared to be waiting for someone. And a bit impatiently at that, thought Scobell, as the man glanced repeatedly toward the street.
After about an hour, Scobell saw a Confederate military messenger ride up the street to the dock. Still hauling cargo onto the boat, he watched the rider approach and dismount. Searching the crowd dockside, the messenger glimpsed the man in the top hat beckoning furtively and strode toward him.
As the two men talked, Scobell moved across the dock to grab a crate from the pile nearest them. Feigning difficulty in lifting it, he overheard a few small snatches of their quiet conversation.
“I’m to take them to General Johnston at Fredericksburg, then?” asked Top Hat.
“Yes,” said the rider. “He’ll have a messenger meet you at the dock there.”
As Scobell moved slowly past them, he saw the soldier pull a thick packet from his coat. The crate Scobell carried suddenly crashed onto the dock. It fell about as heavily as he could drop it without appearing deliberate; hard enough for one corner to crack open and scatter horseshoes within a few feet of where the two men conversed.
