Beloved Enemy (11 page)

Lawrence pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He firmly believed that civilians should stay out of military affairs. This rash scheme was going to cost him a good man, not to mention the number of other lives at stake.

He stared out his window at the gray morning. A few hardy pigeons winged their way toward Lafayette Park in search of food for the day. Washington, with its soot-stained gray buildings, its muddy streets and an overflowing population, looked particularly grim this morning. The usual optimism of the New Year was muted by the discouraging news that, a week ago, Richmond celebrated the triumphant return of that wily Confederate general, John Hunt Morgan, who had successfully tunneled out of the Federal prison in Columbus, Ohio. Lawrence pulled out
his wrinkled handkerchief from his hip pocket and blew his wet nose. The Federal City was not only the center of government, but also a cesspool of dangerous vapors and noxious air. Whatever had possessed America's founding fathers to erect their capital city in the middle of a pest-infested swamp?

“Lieutenant Johnson!” he barked to his aide whose desk was just outside his half-open door.

Within a minute, the perpetually cheerful young man appeared before the colonel. After wiping his fledgling mustache clean of coffee, he snapped a salute worthy of West Point's parade ground. “Sir!” he chirped.

In the face of such youth and high spirits, Lawrence suddenly felt very old, although he was only in his early forties. The years of warfare had already tinged his dark hair with streaks of steel gray. He sighed.

“Lieutenant, I believe that you were at the Winsteads' ball on New Year's Eve?”

Johnson grinned. “A most enjoyable affair, sir.”

“By any chance, did you engage the Chandler girl in conversation?”

Johnson's grin broadened. “I spoke with a number of charming young ladies, sir. I regret that I also imbibed liberally of our host's well-medicated eggnog. As a result, I am afraid that I lost track of names.”

The colonel sighed. Why was he sent so many green young officers who had no notion how and when to gather useful information?

“Lieutenant, may I remind you that even when you are off duty and enjoying a social hour, you should always remember where you work and why we are here? It is at balls and receptions, in saloons and restaurants, even in the depths of the lowest brothel in Swampoodle where we learn the most useful information that our generals need to
engage in this infernal war. It is a proven fact that some of the Confederacy's most effective spies are women, very comely young ones. No matter how much you enjoy yourself, remember that you, Lieutenant Johnson, are the eyes and ears of the United States. Do I make myself clear?”

Johnson gulped under his tight collar. His grin disappeared. “Yes, sir. You might ask Major Claypole, sir. He was there and, as I recollect, he spent most of the evening hugging the wall. I do not believe that he knows how to dance, sir,” he added with a snicker.

Lawrence rumbled in the back of his throat. “Send him in, Johnson. You are dismissed.”

The colonel sighed while Johnson disappeared to fetch the major. Lawrence had wanted to avoid including the man in this delicate matter, even indirectly. Scott Claypole may have been born to a middling farm family in Ohio, but, unfortunately for Lawrence, he was also the beloved nephew of Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War. Claypole proved to be uncommonly intelligent and ambitious for one of his social class. Since joining the army as a second lieutenant, he had worked his way into his present rank with surprising speed. Claypole always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. His name had often appeared in dispatches, usually accompanied with high recommendations for advancement. At Antietam, a year ago September, an unlucky but opportune bullet had killed Claypole's immediate superior, allowing the young man to take command of his unit under fire. His field promotion to captain quickly followed. Since the battle of Fredericksburg, he was a major, even though he had been stationed in Washington at the time. Lawrence narrowed his eyes. The colonel had the uncomfortable feeling that he needed to watch his back when this man was around.

No doubt Claypole wanted to be a general before the war ended.

“Sir, you wished to see me?” Claypole asked.

The colonel fiddled with a pencil. “You attended the Winstead ball?”

Claypole smiled. “Indeed, sir. It was a very jolly evening.”

“Mmm,” Lawrence rumbled. “As did Johnson and Montgomery?”

The smile never left the major's face. “On your orders, sir.”

The colonel nodded. “On the day following, you mentioned something about Johnson, or was it Montgomery? I cannot now recall what it was you said.”

If anything, the smile on Claypole's face broadened. “I merely remarked that Major Montgomery quite surprised me, sir. After protesting to all of us that he did not care for the company of ladies, he spent the entire evening speaking with a very pretty specimen. A Miss Julia Chandler, as I was told.” He paused.

The colonel shifted in his seat. The little brick city of Alexandria shielded many Secessionist vipers behind its veneer of gentility. Though Confederate sympathies ran underground there, the feelings were strong and not easily squashed, despite the daily presence of the Federal army and an active provost marshal. In Lawrence's opinion, the whole town should have been cleaned out of Southerners two years ago. It wasn't safe to have such a tinderbox of rebellion sitting so close to Washington.

According to the Pinkerton detective, one of the known Southern sympathizers in Alexandria was the Chandler family, a name that cropped up occasionally in his reports. Nothing specific, merely whisperings of their allegiance to the Confederate cause. Most of the time, his agents wrote
of Mrs. Jonah Chandler, who had the nasty habit of berating any poor Union soldier she met on the streets. Apparently the woman wielded an acid tongue.

Then there was something about one of the daughters—a young minx barely out of pinafores who played pranks on the local provost guards. Harmless tricks, to be sure, but nevertheless they showed a certain lack of respect for the very people who were there to protect the good citizens of Alexandria. Could this Julia Chandler be the same prankster?

Lawrence cleared his throat. “Was there something more about the major and this Miss Chandler?”

Claypole's smile segued into a slow smirk. “Indeed, sir, though as a gentleman, I hesitate to elaborate on the private behavior of a fellow officer.”

Claypole was as much a gentleman as a pig in a mud wallow, the colonel thought. His family relationship had gone to his head. He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “You have my permission to elaborate, Major. Indeed, it is my order.”

The man licked his lips as if he were about to indulge in a savory feast. “The long and the short of it is that they were quite thick with each other all evening. Heads close together, whispering…things, if you catch my meaning, sir.”

He was either insinuating that Montgomery was seducing the woman or that they were exchanging information. Both options made the gorge rise in Lawrence's throat, especially since Montgomery's military record was exemplary.

He glowered under his brows at Claypole. “But you have no clear idea what they were…um…discussing?”

Claypole's eyes grew wide with assumed surprise. “Colonel, sir, I would never
dream
of eavesdropping upon
a private conversation. I was merely surprised by Major Montgomery's…warmth toward the young lady.” His eyes glittered as he leaned closer to Lawrence. “I found the major's behavior even more surprising when he left the party almost immediately after the departure of Miss Chandler and her sister.”

Lawrence felt as if a rock had hit him hard against his chest. Of course, young bucks will dally when and where they can, especially during wartime. Years ago, the colonel had enjoyed one or two dalliances himself when he was fighting the Indians in the west. But his marriage to his beloved wife had put an end to all such immoral pastimes.

Unlike Claypole, Montgomery came from an old Knickerbocker family. Lawrence could not conceive of him indulging in despicable vices. He struck the colonel as a cut above the rest, most especially Claypole. That virtue was precisely why the colonel now wanted Montgomery for Stanton's mission.

Lawrence narrowed his eyes at the young man on the other side of his desk. “So you are accusing Major Montgomery of licentious behavior with a young woman?”

Again, the major expressed a wide-eyed look of astonishment. “Not at all, sir. I know nothing of any behavior of that sort on the major's part. On the other hand—” He glanced over his shoulder at the half-opened door, then lowered his voice to just above a whisper.

“There
is
the possibility that the major may have fallen into the tender snares of the delightful Miss Chandler. She is a Southerner. A pretty face, fluttering lashes and a cooing voice asking him what he does in this office all the livelong day. A slip of the tongue, and Miss Chandler stores this tidbit in her memory until she can relate it to Confederate ears. I understand this sort of thing happens with depressing regularity here in Washington. I know for
a fact that Major Montgomery did not return to Ebbitt's Hotel until the small hours of the following morning. We have rooms on the same floor,” he added, by way of explanation.

As much as he disliked the fact that Claypole would even suggest such a disturbing scenario, Lawrence was forced to admit that the possibility existed. In any event, the colonel's question had been answered. Montgomery had struck up a friendship with one of the Chandlers. “Tell Major Montgomery I wish to speak with him,” he snapped at Claypole. “You are dismissed, Major.”

Claypole straightened up, saluted his superior, then left the office with almost a jaunty step. Lawrence had the overwhelming urge to wash his hands and perfume the air behind him. He studied Stanton's letter once more and wondered what Montgomery's answer would be to the horrific proposal it contained.

M
ore than a week had passed since Rob made his resolution not to see Julia again. Yet he could not forget her. Her face haunted his dreams; temptation plagued his days. Why couldn't he forget her as easily as he had done with the numerous girls of his youth? Julia had only been an evening's diversion. But her spirit refused to leave him in peace. Shifting in his hard chair, Rob tried to focus on the latest Pinkerton report.

“The colonel requires your presence, Major.” Claypole leaned over Rob's shoulder, breaking into his reverie.

Rob bit back his annoyance, not at the colonel's request, but at Claypole's behavior. He covered his papers with a file folder, then stood so abruptly that he forced the man to stumble backward. “Thank you, Major,” he replied in a crisp voice. Claypole grated on Rob's nerves; so smug, so sure of himself because he was Stanton's kin.

Without giving Claypole another glance, he strode to Lawrence's office. Only after he had saluted the colonel did he wonder what matter could be so urgent on the colonel's mind.

Lawrence looked weary, as if he hadn't enjoyed a good night's sleep, though that was the usual expression with
most of the senior officers in the Federal army—at least the ones who were out in the field in the thick of the war. “Sir?” Rob prompted him.

The colonel stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Close the door, Major. What I have to say is somewhat…delicate.”

Rob steeled himself for news that his mother had died. Her health had always been a cause of concern for the family. Her lungs had never been strong and the cold winds blowing off the Hudson River made her condition much worse. Yet, being a proud descendant of hearty Dutch settlers, she had steadfastly refused to leave New York for warmer, more healthful climes.

Rob squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. “Sir?” he asked again as Lawrence continued to stare at him. “Is it about my family?”

The colonel pursed his lips. “No, Major. To the best of my knowledge, they all enjoy good health.”

A wave of relief swept over him; he barely heard the colonel's next sentence.

“It is your friendship with Miss Chandler that I want to discuss with you.”

Rob raised his brow “Miss Chandler? Is
she
ill?” How did the colonel know of Julia?

Lawrence looked up to the pressed tin ceiling then back to Rob. “Major, I have it on good authority that you have struck up a friendship with Miss Julia Chandler of Alexandria. Is this true?”

Heat rose up Rob's neck and enveloped his ears. He hadn't felt this uncomfortable since he was nine years old and had been caught helping himself to a full glass of brandy from his father's decanter. He cleared his throat. “Miss Chandler is a very fine young lady, sir. Well brought up and from a good family.”

The colonel nodded as if he already knew quite a bit about her. Rob hoped he wouldn't inform her parents about their rendezvous.

“I can assure the colonel that nothing improper has passed between us,” Rob continued in a rush. Julia did not deserve to be further punished for his rashness. “We have met only—” he hesitated for a fraction of a moment “—once. At the New Year's Ball given by Mr. George Winstead. The same ball that you ordered me to attend, sir.”

Lawrence nodded again. “So I was informed. And at this party, you and Miss Chandler spent a good deal of time together?”

A tight knot formed between Rob's shoulders. Did the Colonel know about those dangerous moments he had experienced in the supper room alcove? “We did. Miss Chandler is an exceedingly bright person and has read a great many of the same books as I.” His mouth twitched at the memory. “I don't believe that I have quoted so much Shakespeare since my school days.”

Lawrence's penetrating stare turned to one of astonishment. “You were whispering Shakespeare into that woman's ear all night?”

“Some of it was.”

“And the rest of it, Major?” Lawrence lifted one of his brows. “Understand me, I am not in the habit of prying into the affairs of my officers, unless there is a compelling reason to do so. I do have a compelling reason. What
else
did you and Miss Chandler discuss?”

“We spoke of the other guests, and the weather, of course.” Also, Miss Chandler had begged him to seduce her.

Lawrence cocked his head like a terrier on a scent. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing more that I can recall, sir.” Rob swallowed the lie. “May I ask the colonel what is his reason for his interest in my social life?”

“Mmm,” rumbled the colonel. He pointed to the straight-back armchair opposite him. “Sit down, Major. I have a proposal I want to discuss with you.”

Wary of the colonel's sudden shift in the conversation, as well as his offer of the chair, Rob perched himself on the end of the seat. “Sir?”

Lawrence untied a bundle of documents that lay in front of him. He scanned the topmost paper. “You are a man of action,” the colonel began. “First and Second Manassas, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg. You have been cited in dispatches for bravery in the field on several occasions.”

Rob's ears burned at the recitation of his past accomplishments. “That was a long time ago, sir.” Inside his coat pocket, his useless hand ached as if the Rebel's minié ball had just ripped it apart again. “Ghost pain,” the surgeons called it. Rob massaged his forearm. “My days in the field are over.”

The colonel regarded him in silence for a few moments. Rob shifted his weight on the wooden seat. The room felt stuffy.

“Do you enjoy working behind a desk, Major?”

Rob snorted. “It's tolerable, sir.”

“But not to your liking?”

Rob cleared his throat, more worried about the reason behind the colonel's interest than the question itself. Were they going to send him home on permanent medical disability? “I am pleased to serve the United States in any capacity that I am able.”

Lawrence raised both his eyebrows. “Is that a fact?” He leaned forward, his brown eyes hooded like those of a
hawk inspecting its prey. “Would you be ready to leap into the jaws of hell for your country?”

Fireworks of excitement swirled inside Rob's chest; his heart thumped like a racehorse at the starting post. He had not experienced this rush of anticipation since the second morning at Gettysburg, when he took command of the Rhinebeck Legion on a rocky hill called Little Roundtop.

“I would, sir, if a one-handed man is needed.”

The colonel flashed him an odd smile. “As long as your mind is fully operational, it does not matter how many hands you possess.”

Rob tensed his shoulders. His breathing grew more rapid. He did not dare to hope that the colonel was going to send him back into the action. “There is nothing wrong with my mind.”

“Good.” Lawrence held up a sheet of paper. Rob saw the words: “Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War” on the letterhead. “I have just received orders that are effective immediately. You will presently understand why time is of the essence, but first I must caution you that anything I tell you from now on must be kept in the strictest confidence. Not even your cousin is to know what is said here.”

Rob gripped the arm of his chair with his good hand. “You have my word, sir.”

“Even if you decline to accept the task?”

The taste of adventure filled Rob's mouth, intoxicating him. “Yes, sir, though I am most anxious to be of any service.”

“The task is dangerous. You could lose your life.”

Rob disregarded the Colonel's warning. He had been in a number of life-threatening situations in the past three years, but nothing had killed his spirit so much as the six months he had spent in an office. The suggestion of danger only whetted his interest.

“What does the Secretary have in mind?”

Lawrence nodded, as if he approved. “President Lincoln has become increasingly concerned over the high casualty rate our army has sustained during the past year. Most particularly, he is worried about the growing scarcity of junior field officers—men who thrust themselves into the forefront of the battle to give encouragement to their troops. Men like yourself, Major.”

Rob silently acknowledged the compliment.

“The cadets at West Point are eager young pups, full of idealism, but they lack sufficient seasoning,” the colonel continued. “The current crop of second lieutenants are too wet behind the ears to be of much use.”

Lawrence's voice dropped into a conspiratorial tone. “Rumor has it that General Grant will be put in charge of the army in the not-too-distant future. He's a fighter like a bull terrier. He will need a lot of qualified field officers when he takes command for the springtime campaign. The question is, where do we find these men before the roads dry out and the war heats up again?”

Rob presumed that the Secretary of War didn't mean to empty all the hospitals of wounded officers. “From abroad?” he ventured, though he couldn't imagine his own boys being willing to take orders from someone with a foreign accent. They would want a good man from New York to lead them.

“A thought,” the colonel agreed, “but not practical given the lack of time. Pinkerton has come up with a viable solution, though as I warned you, it is a highly dangerous one for all concerned.”

Rob curled his lip. “What does a civilian detective know about training army officers?”

Lawrence barked a laugh. “My thought exactly. No, Pinkerton, with the Secretary's blessing, has suggested that
since the Confederates are unwilling to give us back our officers whom they have captured, we will go down to Richmond and get them ourselves.”

Understanding flooded Rob. “The prisoners of war?”

Lawrence nodded again. “In Libby Prison, right in the heart of the Confederate capital.”

Rob's imagination raced with the possibility. It could work, if planned well. “How?”

“We understand, through a trusted informer, that a major prison breakout is already in the works. Who is planning the escape and when are unknown, as yet, but the goal is to free as many men as possible. Mr. Pinkerton suggested that we arrange for an officer—one battle-hardened and briefed in escape tactics—to be placed inside Libby. There, he will help the organizers. He will have memorized the fastest routes out of Richmond and will know where caches of clothing and provisions are hidden along the way.

“We need someone who has a quick mind, who is able to improvise and who will remain cool under pressure. We need a man who will willingly go into the hellhole of Libby for as long as it takes. Also, he must be someone who will not break under torture, if it comes to that. Are you interested in volunteering, Major?”

Rob could barely contain himself. It was salvation for a dying soul. “I am your man,” he replied, his voice quivering with pent-up excitement.

The colonel relaxed against the back of his chair. “I had hoped you would say that, Montgomery. I will be honest when I tell you that I do not relish sending anyone into the Confederate prison system.”

“When do I leave?”

“As soon as you have memorized the maps that Pinkerton has prepared. The United States is most fortunate
to have loyal citizens in Richmond—one in particular. It is she who has provided most of the necessary information. She will be your contact as she visits the prison under the guise of charitable works. Her name is Elizabeth Van Lew, known as Miss Lizzie. She is an elderly spinster—”

Picturing his mother trying to organize anything more complex than a picnic, Rob groaned.

Lawrence cocked his head. “Do not be so quick to judge this woman's abilities. I have read reports of what she has already accomplished and she sounds quite capable of anything, including murder. She affects the guise of an eccentric old biddy, but make no mistake, Miss Lizzie is a good deal more intelligent than many men I know. Most importantly, you can trust her.”

Rob mulled over the various aspects of Stanton's plan. “Very well. I'm a fast study. If I have the maps and other information this afternoon, I can be ready to go in a day or two. How will I be sent to Richmond, sir?”

The colonel's mouth hardened into a thin-lipped smile. “The most obvious way, Major. You will be captured. Our agent in Fairfax City has the ear of Mosby's Rangers. He will let it be known that an important member of General Grant's staff—one who is privy to the plans for the spring advance on Richmond—will be in a certain place at a certain time. The Confederates will be eager to have the information they think you know.”

Rob felt as if a hand had closed itself around his throat. “I see what you mean by the possibility of torture, sir.” He attempted to sound lighthearted. “They will not be amused when they discover that they have made a mistake.” He knew that Mosby occasionally hanged his prisoners.

Lawrence tried to look cheerful. “By that time, you will be in Richmond. Once they discover that you are no use
to them, they will toss you into Libby. It's the only prison there strictly for officers. As to torture, let us hope that the Confederate officers will live up to their reputation of being honorable gentlemen. Are you still interested?”

Thinking of his life during the recent bleak months, Rob nodded. “Have you chosen the place of my capture? Surely you do not expect Mosby to come riding up Pennsylvania Avenue for me.”

Lawrence sighed. “Hardly. This is where your Miss Chandler enters into the picture.”