Beloved Enemy (17 page)

“Oh!” The paper fell from Julia's hand.

Carolyn gave her sister a pitying look. “I've heard that Libby is the very worst prison in the whole South. Your major is likely to die there.” She made a face at the idea, then added in a gentle voice, “I am truly sorry for it, Julia. He may be a Yankee, but at least he made you happy.”

Julia hugged herself as if she could squeeze out her misery. “Don't talk like he is already dead, Carolyn.”

Carolyn retrieved the newspaper and folded it. “There's nothing we can do for him here. And I highly doubt that Payton will let you go visiting him when you are living at Belmont.”

A brilliant idea hit Julia so hard, she nearly slipped off her chair. In the blink of an eyelash, she knew exactly what
course of action she would take—and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Payton Norwood.

She forced herself to settle down so that she could think straight. “Run and get Hettie, Carolyn,” she asked as excitement ignited her hope.

The girl stared at her sister with anxiety. “Have you taken ill?”

“No, you little goose! I've finally turned the corner of my life. Hurry up and don't ask me questions now. There is very little time left and a world of things I must do. Get Hettie and don't talk to another soul.”

Carolyn cast Julia a second worried glance, then raced out the room, banging the door behind her. Julia heard her footsteps thudding down the stairs. New life welled up inside her. She made a list of all her jewelry in her small satin-lined jewel case in her top bureau drawer under the handkerchiefs. She underlined the string of pearls that Papa had given her for her sixteenth birthday. They ought to fetch a good price at a Yankee pawnbroker's.

Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia
Late January 1864

“F
resh fish! Fresh fish!” cried a dozen voices at once. Then a hundred more took up the refrain in the rooms overhead.

Two days after his capture in Julia's garden, Rob stood before Major William Long of the Confederate States Army and adjutant of Richmond's infamous prison for Union officers. Rob couldn't recall the last time he had eaten a full meal, nor when he had been allowed to lie down and sleep for more than three hours at a stretch. Despite his fatigue, he straightened his shoulders and gave Long a crisp military salute, albeit with his left hand.

“Major Robert Montgomery, Rhinebeck Legion, New York,” he stated, staring straight into the gray eyes of the man on the other side of the desk. “Pardon my salute, Major, but some of your boys took care of my right hand at Gettysburg.” He gave the adjutant a cold smile.

More voices overhead shouted “Fresh fish,” and banged their tin cups against the floor planking. Rob
looked up at the ceiling. “I didn't know you served fish on your menu for supper. What kind?”

Behind him, a young prison guard sniggered. Even Major Long permitted a half smile to flit across his face. “We haven't had fish here since last September, Major Montgomery. It's
you
who is our latest catch.”

“Oh,” replied Rob crisply, to cover his chagrin. “Then I am honored by the welcome of my brother officers.” He wished Lawrence had given him a better briefing on Libby's rituals. From now on, he would hold his tongue until he learned the customs of this cloistered society.

Long scanned the report that had accompanied Rob on his journey from northern Virginia—miles jostling on horseback, followed by more miles lying bound on the floor of a train's unheated cattle car.

“I see that Colonel Mosby was misinformed,” Long remarked at last. “It appears that you are not a member of General Grant's staff, as the colonel was led to believe, but merely a flunky in the Quartermaster's Department.” He regarded Rob with a penetrating look. “Pray enlighten me. How on earth could Colonel Mosby have been so wrong about you, when he is usually so right?”

Rob decided to play the part of a “bombproof,” the derisive name for officers who sought safe desk jobs instead of the hazards of field command—men like Major Scott Claypole. Relaxing his stiff posture a fraction, he assumed Claypole's annoying mannerisms.

“To tell you the truth, Major, I was as surprised as the colonel. More so, in fact, since I was…shall we say,
interrupted
in the midst of a promising tête-à-tête with a most delightful young lady.” The young guardsman perked up and drew nearer in hopes of hearing more lurid details.

Ignoring the beardless pup, Rob continued to weave his
cover story. “I have nothing to do with General Grant, and have never even had the pleasure of meeting him. So you see, Major, I am utterly useless to you, and I said as much to Colonel Mosby. I must confess, he did not take too kindly to the mistaken identity. Nor did he offer an apology for my inconvenience.”

In fact, Mosby had lost his temper, both at Rob and at Lieutenant Adamson. The Gray Ghost baldly accused Rob of lying and a great many other devious crimes as well. The heated interrogation had lasted until dawn before Mosby grudgingly accepted Rob's identity as a mere supply officer. No breakfast was served the prisoner except a cup of the foulest-tasting excuse for coffee he had ever drunk, followed by the harsh ride across open countryside to Catlett Station.

Major Long lifted a brow. “Inconvenience? Well, I would not count on seeing your young lady again in the near future. You will bide a while with us.” To the guard, he ordered, “Take the major upstairs and put him in the central gallery.” To Rob, he added, “I do hope that you get along with Pennsylvanians, Major. You'll be sharing quarters with quite a number of them. Reveille is at five, breakfast at six, roll calls are at eight and four in the afternoon, supper at six and tattoo at seven. See that you don't miss anything. My sergeant-at-arms is very touchy about punctuality.”

As the guard pushed him toward the far door, Rob asked, “What time did you say was dinner, Major? I'd hate to be late for that.”

Long narrowed his eyes. “There is no dinner here, Major. Good day.”

The young guard sniggered again as he prodded Rob up a narrow flight of open stairs. “You're in hell now, Yankee.”

With bewildering speed, Rob left the last vestiges of normalcy in the adjutant's office, and entered into a nightmare existence at the top of the stairs. The second floor of the former tobacco warehouse and ship chandler was comprised of three long galleries, divided from each other by bare brick walls. Cast-iron stoves inside large fireplaces at each end of the galleries provided a feeble heat. Despite the huge number of men packed into each gallery, the room was chill as stone. Wind from the nearby James River whined through the open-barred windows that lined the outside walls of each gallery.

A lanky lieutenant colonel, wearing a dog-eared uniform, stepped out of the crowd and extended his hand. “Welcome to Hotel de Libby, Major,” he said with a grin. “You've arrived just in time. We were about to commence this evening's entertainment, cootie races.” The men around him laughed, though there was no mirth in their eyes.

Rob returned the handshake with his left. “Rob Montgomery, sir. I hope you gentlemen will not mind having a New Yorker in your midst.”

“So long as you don't snore much,” shot back one of the men.

The lieutenant colonel nodded. “Hamilton's my name, Rob. The boys call me A.G., and I'm a Kentuckian by birth and breeding—a
Northern
Kentuckian.” He pointed to a spot on the floor along the outside wall. The “bed” was a single rolled blanket without the addition of a cot or straw mattress.

“You can sleep over there since the youngster who was using it last night doesn't need it anymore.” A.G. paused for a moment; a tic quivered along his jawline. “The wind will keep you wakeful, I'm afraid, but when we all lie
down, it gets nearly tolerable in here. Just holler when you want to turn over.”

The stark conditions of his new surroundings appalled Rob, though he did not betray his shock. Until he could learn who was planning the breakout, he would watch, wait and pray that he could get these lean, hollow-eyed men back home.

That night, in the few hours of sleep that he could manage, Rob dreamt of Julia Chandler.

 

Two mornings after the painful interview with her parents, Julia quietly dressed in the gloom of pre-dawn. Thanks to help from Hettie and Carolyn, she was ready to make her bid for freedom, though it cut her to the quick to realize that her disappearance would cause her beloved Papa great pain and fill her mother with fury. On the other hand, she didn't care a fig what Payton would think once he realized that his golden goose had fled her coop.

Since her planned escape route compelled her to travel with little baggage, Julia dressed with care, putting on two layers of everything. The double skirts, petticoats and, especially, the tight bodices made her appear considerably heavier than she was. In a small carpetbag, she packed toothbrush and powder, her hairbrush, tortoiseshell comb and a small ivory-backed mirror, a small bottle of lavender water, a clean set of underdrawers and camisole, a spare chemise, a half-dozen handkerchiefs, her spectacles and a pair of wool stockings. She hated to part with her precious books but necessity forced her to be sensible. A woman on the run could not be encumbered with a library.

Carolyn watched her from the warmth of the four-poster bed. “I'll hide your books,” she said with sympathetic understanding, “so Mother won't burn them in a fit of
pique. Someday you'll be back…” She trailed off with a sniffle.

Julia paused in her preparations to give her sister a quick hug. “I do hope so, lambkin.” With her own eyes welling up, she turned back to her little bag. “I'll take my Bible for comfort, and Mr. Browning's poems for diversion,” she continued, stuffing the two small volumes deep inside the bulging satchel.

“You're sure you want to do this?” Carolyn asked her yet again. “Once you leave, you know that Mother will never let—”

Julia interrupted her. “I know I can't stay here and marry Payton. In Richmond, maybe I can find some employment. I understand they need nurses badly in the hospitals.”

Carolyn made a face. “I would faint at the sight of blood.”

Julia didn't want to think about the grim scenes she knew those houses of suffering held. She would find out soon enough. “Once I have found a place to stay, I will go to the Libby Prison. I am sure I can persuade the guards to let me visit with Rob. I'll bring him some extra food and whatever else he will need. I've got to prove to him that I didn't betray him to those soldiers.”

Her sister sighed. “You must truly love that varmint to run off after him like this.”

Julia fastened the bag's latch with a snap. “I don't love Rob, Carolyn. You make me sound like one of those sugary heroines in those novels of yours. But I do feel very responsible for his capture. It's only right that I try to make his imprisonment as comfortable as possible.”

She paused before the tall dresser where Frank Shaffer's silver locket lay in its velvet box. Julia held up the trinket. The little heart twirled on its black velvet ribbon. For
nearly three years, she had worn it faithfully, but that time was now past.

“Rest in peace, sweet Frank,” she whispered to the locket. “Thank you for teaching me how to love. I will always remember you.” Then she returned it to its box, burying the treasure deep in the top drawer under her handkerchiefs.

Julia pulled on her green velvet cloak. It was a snug fit over all her other clothing. She tied on her hat, then put on the wonderful gloves that Rob had given her. Lastly, she took up her reticule. Inside, the proceeds from her pieces of jewelry and her meager pin money amounted to less than seventy dollars, most of it in small greenback bills and the rest in a mixture of silver and copper coins minted by the Federal government. The pawnbroker assured Hettie that Federal money was worth a lot more than the pink shinplasters that the Confederate Treasury printed.

A soft knock on the door startled both girls, then Hettie peeped in, holding a lantern. “Are you about ready, Miss Julia? Old Sam will be down the street any minute now and you need to be on the corner.”

The little clock on the mantel showed 4:25 a.m. by the single candle's light. With one final glance in the mirror, Julia straightened her hat. Then she wrapped the plaid wool shawl around her shoulders and picked up her carpetbag. It weighed more than she had anticipated, but she couldn't stop to repack it now. “Ready,” she replied in a shaky voice. She crossed over to the bedside and hugged Carolyn. “Don't cry, honeylamb. You are not supposed to know I've gone.”

Carolyn wiped her nose on her nightdress's sleeve. “Don't worry about me, Julia. I'll be fast asleep in my own bed.” She got out of the four-poster that she had shared with her sister since she was barely out of infant
clothes. She stuffed the bolster pillows under the sheet to approximate the shape of a sleeping body. “That will fool them for a while.”

Julia cupped Carolyn's chin in the palm of her hand. “Promise you won't tell them where I've gone? Mother will send Payton after me, if you do.”

“Won't breathe a word. Cross my heart and hope to die.” Carolyn shrugged. “How could I know anything? I was across the hall asleep in my own bed when you sneaked out of here like a thief in the night,” she added, mimicking their mother's voice. She blew out the candle. “I will miss you something fierce.”

Julia hugged her again. “And I will think of you every day. Please remember me in your prayers. I love you, Carolyn.”

Hettie tapped her foot. “We've got to go, Miss Julia.” Just then, a faint call drifted up from the street. “There's Sam now.” She pulled Julia out into the hall. “You get back in your own bed, Miss Carolyn, or you will give us all away. Lordy, stop sniffling, both of you,” she whispered, shutting the bedroom door with a soft “click.”

Suddenly, there was no more time for Julia to think or reconsider the drastic action she was about to take. Once she left her home, she knew she could not return. The shame and scandal of running away would be too painful for even her gentle father to bear. Hettie pushed her past the closed doors of her parents' suite and Payton's room. The two women hurried down the back stairs, through the pantry and out the rear door.

On the back stoop, Hettie hugged Julia, then looped a small basket over her arm. “Some bread and butter, apples, cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs and caramels. You make that last, 'cause I don't expect there will be much between here and Richmond that's fit for a lady to eat.”
She kissed her on the forehead. “Now you behave yourself and tell Old Sam that next time he comes by, I'll place a double order for eggs, you hear?”

Julia's heart was too full to voice her gratitude lest she dissolve in tears. She hugged Hettie for a third time, then dashed down the steps. Lifting her multiple skirts to allow her more speed, she raced to the back gate. She could hear the clip-clop of Old Sam's horse as he pulled the heavy egg-and-chicken wagon up Columbia Street. They would pass the corner of Prince at any moment. Hettie had cautioned Julia several times that Sam would not loiter there for her. Even though he was a freeman, the penalty for “kidnapping” a white woman from her home would be very stiff for him, no matter what Julia would say in his defense.

She reached the intersection just as the cart passed by. Old Sam, looking younger than she had expected, pulled the horse to a stop, then jumped off the seat. With a mumbled “morning” to Julia, he snatched her bag out of her hands, and tossed it among the willow-work coops of his feathered wares. The chickens, startled from their sleep, squawked their indignation, breaking the silence of the slumbering neighborhood.