Beloved Enemy (18 page)

“Hettie said—” Julia began, but Sam gave her no time to talk. Without preamble, he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her into the back of the cart. The chickens screamed louder. Sam pointed to an old blanket behind the pile of coops. “Get under that and stay there, miss, and you let my hens do all the talking. I'll tell you when you can come out—and not before, you hear?”

Julia nodded, them stumbled her way to the blanket. Sam hopped back in his seat, snapped the reins and the cart jerked forward. Jolted by the sudden movement, Julia sat down hard on the floorboards, just missing a stack of
the occupied coops. She pulled the blanket over her head and curled herself into as small a ball as she could, considering the amount of clothing she had on.

Above her hiding place, Sam bellowed, “Chick-ens! Fresh, lively chickens! E-e-e-gs! I got eggs this morning!”

For hours upon hours, Old Sam wended his way around Alexandria hawking his wares. The cobblestones of the city's streets jolted the cart and rattled Julia to the bone. Though the day was as cold as the previous week, she felt hot and stuffy under the foul-smelling blanket. She had never realized until now just how pungent a large number of confined chickens could be.

At first, she feared that the horrid smell would make her gag. Then she worried that the swaying, rocking wagon would upset her already nervous stomach. Eventually, she grew used to the smell and the uneven movement. Sam seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to sell his birds. He chatted up a large number of families' cooks, whistled while he drove between stops as if he hadn't a care in the world, and spent an unhurried dinner hour among friends from Market Square. Fortunately, Julia had no desire to eat. The proximity of the chickens coupled with her gnawing anxiety killed her appetite. A headache began behind her eyes. The swaying lulled her. She fell asleep sometime during the early afternoon.

“I said you can come out now, miss.”

Waking with a start, Julia forgot that she was under a blanket. Everything was very dark. When she pulled it from her face, she found that the daylight had passed, the cart was now stopped on a country road and Sam was grinning at her.

“I reckon you would like to stretch a bit,” he observed. He handed her a canteen. “Water, miss. It's cold.” He chuckled.

Julia smiled wanly. The bitter wind, unchecked by houses or trees, blew across the barren fields and slapped her in the face. She drank deeply, the water flowing down her parched throat in an icy stream that made her teeth ache. She started to stand up, but Sam shook his head.

“No, miss, not yet. We still have a ways to go and I don't want nobody to see you sitting up in the box with me. You're supposed to disappear, so you have to stay invisible.” He pointed to the loathsome blanket again.

Julia sighed but made no further protest. She had to trust Sam, just as she trusted Hettie who had arranged her flight. She certainly didn't want to get either of them in trouble, nor did she want to be caught and returned to Prince Street. At least, all the chickens were gone, though their noxious smell remained. Julia lay back down in the bottom of the cart, and once again covered herself with the blanket. This time the wagon took off with more speed. Obviously, the horse knew he was headed for the barn. As she jittered and bounced down Virginia's frozen dirt roads, Julia reviewed the next step of Hettie's plan.

Tonight, she was supposed to stay at an old inn in some village. As the wearisome hours jolted by, she flicked the blanket off her face and drew in deep drafts of the cold night air. Above her, the stars shone like bright diamonds in the black velvet sky. When the everlasting wind chilled her skin, she covered her face once more. Only the thought of seeing Rob again kept her from giving way to despair.

It was not quite how she had envisioned the beginning of her life as an independent woman.

T
hirty-six hours after she had fled from her home, Julia stepped onto the station platform of the Central Railroad Depot in Richmond. Exhaustion blurred her vision so that she did not immediately notice the difference between Alexandria and the Confederate capital. The night before, she had not slept well in the farmer's house at Burke's Station—the promised “inn.” The following morning, she boarded a train for Manassas Junction, where she had to bribe the local provost marshal for a pass through the lines. She had told him that she was racing to a family deathbed.

The train out of Manassas was derailed somewhere north of Fredericksburg—an occurrence that was quite common, a fellow passenger assured her, as they picked their way over frozen bracken at the side of the railroad bed. Several hours later, she boarded another train to Rappahannock Station. From there, Julia, and other passengers bound for the Confederacy, climbed into an army ambulance wagon for a trip down country roads to Guinea Station. There, they caught another train, this one headed for Richmond. The journey had utterly drained her.

As Julia mustered her mental and physical resources, she became aware of the city's bustle. A second train screeched
into the station, blowing its steam whistle to warn the lines of waiting ambulances and stretcher bearers that another load of Confederate sick and wounded had arrived from far-flung winter encampments.

Men shouted at porters. Porters shouted at each other. Vendors hawked everything from pigs' feet and gingerbread to used nails. Horses, dogs, children and women added to the hubbub. The sheer wall of noise nearly knocked Julia off her tired feet. Alexandria, though filled with Yankee soldiers, seemed a poky little town in comparison to Richmond—and Julia hadn't even left the depot yet!

Wiping train soot from her face and hugging her carpetbag closer to her body, Julia plunged into the crowd that streamed out toward the street. She had not the slightest idea where she should go. Once on the sidewalk, Julia surveyed the scene with growing dismay. In the fading light of the late afternoon, dray wagons loaded with barrels and boxes, light-sprung buggies, cabs filled with passengers, open carriages, men pushing handcarts, boys running in every direction and dogs racing underfoot vied for space along the cobbled thoroughfare. A living river of people, both black and white and of every age and description, pushed and shoved their way along the sidewalks.

Until now, Julia had thought herself well-acquainted with city living, but this discordant panorama made her feel very sheltered and naive. She had to find a hotel—a nice, respectable one where single ladies could sleep in safety. There must be something like that in Richmond, but where? Just then a distinguished-looking, elderly black man sitting on the driver's box of an enclosed carriage waved at her, and motioned her toward him. Remembering
Hettie's admonition “not to trust nobody in that sinful city,” Julia approached with caution.

“Yes?” she asked when she came within hailing distance. “Did you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes'm,” he replied, lifting his burnished topper. “Are you looking for the Spotswood Hotel, miss? This here is the hotel's conveyance for ladies and gentlemen of refinement such as yourself,” he announced with evident pride.

Julia cast a quick glance inside the carriage. To her relief, she saw that two men and a woman, all fashionably dressed, occupied the two facing seats. There was clearly room enough for one more. One of the men, spying her hesitation, lowered the window.

“We're going to the Spotswood, miss. Please join us.” He smiled at her. “I assure you, it is the finest, most elegant hotel in Richmond. General Robert E. Lee himself stayed there once, and so did President and Mrs. Jefferson Davis when they first came to town.”

The coachman chuckled in agreement. “That's the gospel truth. It is the best hotel you will find anywhere north of Charleston.” He stepped down off the box and held out his hand. “You come along now. I can put your grip on the roof, if you like.”

Julia clutched the handles of her bag. “No…thank you. I prefer to hold it.”

The coachman opened the door and offered to help her inside. Julia made a split-second decision. Since she had no idea where else to go, she would investigate the Spotswood. If it was not to her liking, she could leave. She gave her hand to the driver who settled her inside the coach. Only when he had closed the door did the faint odor of chicken manure fill the compartment. Julia winced, but said nothing. If she pretended she didn't notice it, perhaps no one else would, either. Lordy, she could just die!

The other woman, seated across from Julia, lifted her handkerchief to her nose and snapped open her fan. Her companion glared at Julia, before turning his gaze to the passersby. A tense silence enveloped the compartment as the coach started up. Julia's seatmate, the man who had encouraged her to join them, continued to smile at her.

“I fear that travel is mighty difficult during these hard times,” he finally remarked. “Especially for unaccompanied ladies.”

Julia blessed him for his understanding. “Indeed, sir. I am much relieved to finally be here,” she replied.

“Do you intend to stay in Richmond for long?” he inquired.

Hettie had also warned Julia against divulging too much personal information to strangers, even if they appeared to be friendly. Julia replied, “I have no idea, sir. It will depend upon my business here.” Then she lowered her eyes.

Fortunately, the ride to the promised hotel was short, sparing Julia from further conversation with the gentleman, who threatened to become even more friendly. When the coachman handed her out at the ladies' entrance, she was pleasantly surprised by the grandeur and size of the Spotswood. Rising five stories, the brick edifice took up most of a city block. Its decorative iron facade that arched over the hotel's entryway gleamed despite the dirt and grime of Eighth Street. Warm gaslight streaming from the wide windows beckoned the weary traveler. Tipping the coachman a Federal dime, Julia practically skipped through the double doors into the lobby.

The Spotswood was as packed inside its gilded, plush public rooms as were the sidewalks of Richmond outside the hotel's hospitable walls. Women decked in fashionable—and not so fashionable—day dresses sipped tea and coffee around little marble-topped tables. At one end of
the room, a small crowd gathered around someone who played a lively rendition of “The Bonnie Blue Flag” on the piano. The sprightly tune lifted Julia's spirits. She had rarely heard that so-called “Rebel” song in Federal-occupied Alexandria.

When the song ended and the crowd parted to applaud the musician, Julia gasped. The pretty young woman was unashamedly dressed in a smart military jacket with gold braid, a white Garibaldi shirt that Julia had only seen in
Godey's Ladies Book,
and a soft gray wool skirt—that ended just below her knees! Under that she wore a man's blue uniform pants and polished black boots! A smart little black pork pie derby, trimmed with a gold band and ostrich feather, crowned her pert head. Julia had never seen any ensemble so dazzingly bold and, at the same time, so desirable.

The ringing of desk bells brought Julia back to the reality of her homeless situation. With a shiver of nervous anxiety running down her spine, she approached the polished mahogany desk, and inquired about engaging a room. The sky-high prices quoted by the desk clerk nearly made her swoon.

“Do you accept Federal greenbacks?” she asked hopefully, while under her shawl, she gripped her reticule. Train tickets for the ladies' coaches and the counterfeit travel pass had diminished her funds far more than she had anticipated.

The man behind the desk lifted one dark brow. “Indeed we do, miss. We also accept English sovereigns, French Napoleons, and Mexican doubloons. The Spotswood prides itself in catering to a diverse and international clientele.” He wrinkled his nose at her.

Then the clerk scanned the bank of pigeonholes behind him. Very few brass key rings hung there, indicating that
the hotel, even in January, was almost filled to capacity. “We are very booked, you know,” he began, giving her a sidelong glance.

With a resigned sigh, Julia extracted a five-dollar bill from her hoard. She pushed it across the desk toward him. “Will this help?” she asked, as if she had bribed people all her life.

The man's face broke into a wide grin. “Indeed, indeed, miss,” he replied. “We
do
have a room available for that sum, though it is small.”

“I'll take it,” she breathed, without bothering to ask what was meant by small, or how many nights her five dollars had bought her. Right this minute, all she wanted was to clean herself up, get a decent supper and a good night's sleep, so that she could face the problem of locating Libby Prison in the morning.

Small was no exaggeration. Julia found herself in a tiny garret on the topmost floor. She strongly suspected that, during peacetime, her room and the others like it down the hall had once belonged to the hotel's chambermaids. At least the bed had clean sheets, a small strip of carpet covered the floor, the dresser was dusted, the mirror clean and the washstand's pitcher was filled with fresh water, and an extra filled bucket sat on the floor. Two towels and a tiny chunk of white milled soap completed the furnishings of her new home.

For the first time in two days, Julia stripped off all her clothes, let down her hair and washed herself as best she could in the china basin. She dressed in her only clean underclothes, washed her travel-worn ones and hung them over the back of the upright wooden chair. After brushing her hair two hundred strokes, brushing her teeth and brushing out her second-layer dress, Julia declared herself as
ready as she possibly could be to face the “international clientele” of the Spotswood Hotel.

Eight o'clock found her in the dining room where she supped frugally on turtle soup and a plate of roasted beef with lima beans and Irish potatoes. She ate her fill of the hotel's crunchy bread and fresh butter—until she learned that the rolls cost fifty cents apiece and the butter a dollar a pat. Since coffee was three dollars a cup, she settled for tea at two dollars a pot. Fortunately, her Yankee money stretched four times more than the inflated Confederate dollar. Though her sweet tooth craved the delicious-looking cakes and pies, Julia contented herself with some of her dwindling supply of caramels, left over from the Winstead ball. How long ago that seemed! Yet it was less than a month.

While she sipped her hot tea in the ladies' lounge, she listened to the sea of gossip that swept around her. Her waitress had informed her that the Spotswood Hotel was
the
place to hear what all the world was saying. The more Julia could learn of Richmond, the better it would be for her later on when she sought employment and a cheaper place to live.

“Shocking!” gasped a matron in green taffeta. “Painted jezebels sauntering as bold as you please around this lobby. And, my dears, there were some
certain
gentlemen—well known in this city—who were seen in rooms where they ought
not
to have been. Their folly is
not
to be believed!”

The other three women at her table squealed with shocked delight. Julia hoped that she might see one or two of these “jezebels”—at a distance, of course—so that she could describe them to Carolyn. Then she remembered that she would not be seeing Carolyn for a long, long time.

Someone behind her mentioned Libby. Julia stopped
stirring her tea and strained to pick up the conversation without appearing too obvious.

“I find it hard to believe that General John Hunt Morgan wasted some of his precious time in Richmond to visit those horrid Yankees there,” continued the woman in a brittle voice.

“I expect he wanted to see if we were treating those men any better than how he was treated in Ohio, before he escaped from their prison. How very clever of him to do that!” remarked the second speaker. “They say that old Abe Lincoln howled like a wild Indian when he heard that piece of derring-do.”

The ladies laughed. Then the first speaker continued. “Have either of you ever visited Libby?”

Julia sat up straighter. She wished she had the nerve to join in their conversation, but she had not been introduced.

A chorus of “no's” answered the first speaker. Then a younger woman asked, “Have you?”

The first woman simpered, “Only last week. My cousins were visiting up from the country and they were panting to see a real Yankee in the flesh, so we went.”

Julia pushed her chair around a little in order to catch all of the details. She didn't care if they noticed her or not. She had to know the particulars about visiting the prison.

The other two women leaned over their coffee. “Pray do not hold us in suspense a moment longer, Dottie. Were those Yankees just awful?”

Julia's fingers curled round her teacup. How dare these people talk about the Northern prisoners as if the men were some kind of wild animals on exhibition! How would they like it if the Yankee women treated their sons, brothers and husbands in the same demeaning fashion?

Dottie took a sip of coffee to prolong the suspense, then related, “They were the filthiest, smelliest, sorriest bunch
of scarecrows that I ever did see. I cannot imagine how the Yankees expect to defeat the South when they look such a fright! We could barely abide being in their presence for more than five minutes.”

Julia bit her lip until it throbbed like her rapid heartbeat. Poor Rob! Was he, too, as dirty, smelly and thin as the woman described? She could hardly imagine it. She had to bring him a basket of comforts tomorrow.

The women at the other table rose like three geese taking flight, and left the lounge. Julia finished her cooling tea while she planned her next day. Before going to the prison, she would buy Rob some food and perhaps socks—would that item be too forward for a lady to give a gentleman? She chided herself. This was wartime and, as she had already noticed in the capital city of the Confederacy, propriety had slipped in the mud.