Beloved Enemy (23 page)

“Spotswood,” Payton repeated. Unfortunately, a very public and respectable place. It would be difficult to drag Julia out of there kicking and screaming.

“But she checked out after one night,” Barlow drawled.

Payton frowned. “Where did she go from there?” He drummed his fingers on the desktop.

Barlow stared at the brandy decanter. “Talking sure do give a man a thirst,” he observed.

Payton swallowed his ire, and poured a small splash into one of his late father's crystal glasses. Without a word, he pushed it across the desk.

Barlow took a long time savoring his liquor. Payton figured he was planning to ask for more money, and tried to calculate how much ready cash he had on hand.

After draining the last drop, Barlow continued. “She dropped out of sight. For a week I couldn't find her. Even paid a visit to Miss Livy's crib on Locust Alley to see if she had taken on a new girl. She had.”

Payton sat up in his chair. Julia in a house of prostitution?

“But it weren't her. Nice-looking gal though. Same color of hair, but not her. But Miss Livy did say something about seeing another redhead visiting down at Libby. She and some of her gals go down there to aggravate those incarcerated Yankees.”

Payton sat back, slightly disappointed. Libby Prison—he should have thought of that, since that blasted Yankee major was probably kept there. He just didn't expect that Julia would stoop so low as to visit a prison.

“So you saw her at Libby?”

“Nope, but I did some talking with a couple of the sentries and they sure had seen her. They were most impressed by her, though she had only been there twice.”

Payton's fingers drummed faster. “So where is she
now?
”

“I'm coming to that part, but another drop of that fire-water would sure help with the telling.” Barlow's eyes glinted in the firelight, giving him an uncomfortably feral look.

Payton poured a bit more brandy into the emptied glass, then put the decanter down on the floor behind the desk.

“Please go on,” he said. He clenched his teeth to keep himself from hurling invective at his minion.

Barlow sniffed the brandy and hummed under his breath. Then he sipped it for an extraordinarily long time, considering the small amount. Finally, he returned the glass to the desk. “She's staying with Crazy Bet.”

Payton racked his memory. An eccentric elderly spinster. “What's her real name?”

Barlow scratched his head. “Can't rightly say, but she lives in a big old house up on Grace Street opposite Saint John's Church. You couldn't miss it even at midnight. I'd like my money now, if you please.”

“Not yet.” Payton pulled at his nose while he mulled over the information. “How many servants live there?”

Barlow shifted his weight. “Don't know exactly. I've seen a couple of men go in and out. Big fellows, look like they know how to handle themselves in a fight. There's a cook, but she never goes past the backyard. Then there are some other folk—not servants. Mostly young men with their hats pulled low. They come and go.”

Payton's frown deepened. It sounded as if Julia had located a fortress to hide in. But if he came in the dead of night and caught the household when they were asleep, he could have Julia bundled into a hack before anyone knew what was up. He studied Barlow.

“I have one more little job for you, my friend, and I will pay you double for all your services.”

The ruffian grinned, displaying a gap where one of his front teeth had recently been. “You name it, Mr. Norwood. Old Silas Barlow is your man. And let's seal the bargain with the rest of that poteen.”

February 9, 1864
Washington, DC

M
ajor Scott Claypole of the United States Army settled back in his chair inside the warren of the Federal War Department with a great sigh of relief. Last night he had burned his Confederate uniform, though with regret. He had enjoyed masquerading as a general in Richmond. However, the problem of Montgomery still worried him. That man enjoyed unusually good health. He might survive a long stretch in solitary confinement, even on the few crumbs Ross would allow him. Claypole needed to devise a secondary plan that would stop Montgomery if he were ever exchanged or escaped. Using a cipher of his own invention, he hastily scribbled an order to the Pinkerton agents stationed in Virginia and the Carolinas.

“Major Robert Montgomery, late of the Rhinebeck Legion, and operative of this office, has been proven to be a traitor to the government of the United States. Disregard all other messages concerning his loyalty. He is currently in Libby Prison posing as a captured Federal officer but
may escape by Confederate design. Advise all unit commanders in your territory. Be on the lookout for Montgomery. He is armed and considered to be extremely dangerous. If sighted, shoot to kill. Reward of $5,000 in gold.”

Claypole reread the directive. Then he recalled that Julia Chandler had also been in the guard room when Montgomery denounced him. He didn't expect her to cause him any trouble, yet that niggling possibility pricked him like a thorn in his foot. He added a final postscript following the major's physical description.

“Montgomery may be accompanied by a young woman, Julia Chandler of Alexandria. About twenty years of age, slim, five feet four or five inches tall. Auburn hair and green eyes.”

Just thinking about the delectable Miss Chandler made Claypole ache.

“She is unarmed. Apprehend her, and remand her to my custody at once. Signed, Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War.”

Chuckling, he pushed himself away from his desk, and headed for the telegraph room. Lieutenant Johnson caught him as he reached the door.

“Colonel Lawrence requests your presence in his office, sir.”

“Very good, Lieutenant. I will be there momentarily.”

Johnson barred the way. “Begging the major's pardon, but the colonel was most insistent. He said
now.
” He looked down at the paper in Claypole's hands. “I would be honored to deliver your message, sir.”

Claypole's initial irritation changed to pleasure. How ironic that Montgomery's own cousin would send the order for his doom! He handed the paper to him.

“By all means, but make haste, Johnson. Those instruc
tions are most important and need to be implemented at once.”

Flattered to be doing something important, the gullible young man snapped him a quick salute, then dashed down the hall to the telegraph. Humming under his breath, Claypole knocked on Lawrence's door.

“Enter!” the colonel shouted.

Claypole saluted his superior officer. Only after he had come completely into the room did he notice that several officers from the District Provost Marshal were also in attendance.

Lawrence glared at him, looking like a huge walrus in a frock coat. “Major Scott Claypole, you are hereby under arrest for the crime of high treason against the United States.” The colonel flushed red in his face. There was no mistaking the well of deep loathing in his eyes. “You will be taken to the Old Capitol Prison at once where you will await your trial.”

A drumming filled Claypole's ears. His vision clouded. He gripped the back of the nearest chair as the two provost marshals closed in around him. “Treason?” He gagged with the bile of fear. “There is some mistake.”

Rising from his chair, Lawrence waved several reports at him. “I have information from two disparate authorities in Richmond that you have acted as a double agent for the past two years. You will hear the details in court.” He turned to the marshals. “Take this piece of filth away.”

Who had informed on him? Montgomery was locked deep underground. Julia Chandler? Claypole dug in his heels. “My uncle will be most displeased by your treatment of me. The charges are utterly false.”

Balancing his bulk on his knuckles, Lawrence leaned far over his desk. His anger filled the small room. “For
your information, I am acting under the
direct order
of your uncle, Secretary Stanton.”

Claypole's eyes rolled back in his head. He sagged in the grip of the marshals. His comfortable future evaporated.

Richmond, Virginia

Once Lizzie had ascertained Julia's true feelings on the subjects of her handsome major and of her political loyalty, the ardent Unionist had no qualms about enlisting her guest into the inner workings of the mansion on Grace Street. Though Julia loved Virginia as much as Lizzie did, the girl's desire for the return of peace now outweighed her allegiance to the Confederacy's ruinous pursuit of the war. Julia Chandler was not a political animal, but a sweet young girl in the first blush of romance. War and love never made good partners.

This morning, Julia helped Lizzie carry up more bedding and blankets to the secret bedroom under the portico's roof. The last message that Lizzie had received from the prison relayed that the tunnel was almost completed. The men's bid for freedom could happen within the next few days. After three weeks of preparations, just about everything was ready to receive those escapees too sick to travel. Though the day was cold, Lizzie blotted perspiration from her brow.

“I am getting too old for these quick runs up and down stairs,” she remarked to Julia.

The girl laughed. “You, Lizzie? I think you will outlive us all.”

“Humph!” Lizzie replied, feeling every day of her forty-five years.

Wilson rapped on the bedroom's small door. “Miss
Lizzie? You got a note from Mr. John.” He thrust out a folded letter to her.

“Is that your brother?” Julia asked. She had heard a number of stories about John Newton Van Lew, who hid from the war on the family's vegetable farm east of Richmond.

“Yes.” Lizzie pulled down her spectacles from their perch on the top of her head and read her brother's anguished scrawl. “Damnation!”

Both Wilson and Julia gaped at her. “John's received notification of conscription,” she explained, growing red in the face. “They want him to fight against the Union, for heaven's sake. He's worked himself up into a lather, and wants me out there right away.”

Lizzie shook her head over the note. John always came running to her for help, even as a small boy with skinned knees. She crossed the hall to the third-floor window where she surveyed the panorama of Richmond and the James River below her. The winter sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, hinting the return of warmer weather soon. Tuesday morning, and nothing unusual to be seen along the riverfront. The clip-clop of a horse and wagon along Grace Street disturbed a few ravens, but all else appeared serene. Lizzie decided that it would be safe to leave Julia for an overnight.

“I shall pack a small bag, Wilson. Tell Christopher to hitch up the horse and I'll be down directly.” Turning to Julia, she gave her a cheerful smile. “You'll be just fine here, my dear. Stay indoors and keep Mother entertained. Don't breathe a word about John's latest predicament or she will worry needlessly.”

Julia's voice dropped to a whisper. “Will he have to go off to war?”

“Hush, child!” Lizzie scolded with fondness. “Of
course he won't. I have General John Winder's protection—in writing, no less—and I am sure he will extend that courtesy to John. Heavens! My brother is too old to shoulder a gun. He's likely to blow off a toe or two if he tried to shoot the thing. This is all a tempest in a teapot.”

Julia rubbed her arms. “I do hope so,” she murmured.

Lizzie hugged her. “Now put on your best face for Mother, and I'll be back home before you miss me. Wilson and Mary will be here with you as well, so you have nothing to fear. I am afraid that it will be a very quiet, boring day for you.”

Then Lizzie scurried down the hall to fabricate some little story for Mother's ear. No need to upset her—at least, not yet.

 

Rob awoke from his fitful doze at the sound of a key scraping in the lock of his tiny cell. His stomach growled for food. All he had eaten was some stale corn bread and water. He scrubbed the sleep from his face as the door swung back.

“I do hope you enjoyed your rest, Montgomery,” remarked Erasmus Ross in his usual sarcastic tone. “You're going to need it.”

Rob squinted in the dim light provided by a candle lantern hung on the wall outside his cell. “Come to gloat?” he asked the clerk.

Ross rasped a dry laugh. “Haven't the time for that pleasure tonight. Well, don't stare at me like a landed shad. Let's go.”

Rob stumbled to his feet and practically fell out the door. He hated displaying his weakened condition, especially in front of this pitiless man. He blinked several times to adjust his eyes to the flickering light.

“Here,” Ross handed Rob his greatcoat and hat from upstairs. “Don't stand there, man. Come on!”

Rob shook his head to clear his fuzzy brain. “Where are you taking me?” he asked warily. “What time is it?” He noticed that the usual sentry was gone from his chair.

Ross strode down the stone passageway. “It's just past seven.”

Draping his coat around his shoulders, Rob hurried in Ross's wake. “Morning or evening?” he asked. He could see his breath in the dank basement.

“Evening,” Ross barked. “Not up there,” he added when Rob paused at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the ground floor. “You're going out a different exit.” He chuckled.

Rob's empty stomach knotted up. He was going to be executed in this hole. That's why the guard was gone! He looked around the yawning storage room for something he could use to defend himself.

Ross put his hands on his hips. “Listen, you fool, because I'm only going to say this once. Your friends are breaking out tonight.”

Good God! He knew about the tunnel!

Ross continued without a pause. “There's no point in keeping you behind. You'd only cause me more trouble. Yes, I know exactly who you are, Major, and why you're here. You did a good job briefing the men. They're ready. Surprised? A rat can't sneeze in Libby without me knowing it.”

He pointed to the thick oak door at the far end of the room. “Through there is Rat Hell. The first group is going out now.”

He pointed to the ceiling. “I have allowed the prisoners the privilege of presenting a musical and dance tonight. It has been underway for a quarter of an hour already, and
should provide the necessary distraction for your safe getaway. Understand? Now go!”

“Who are you?” Rob asked softly.

“Your bloody guardian angel, and the devil to pay, if you don't get a move on.” He started up the stairs, then looked back over his shoulder. “And give Miss Chandler my compliments when next you see her. Fine girl. Too good for you, of course, but marry her, if she'll have you!”

Rob drew himself up. “See you in hell, Ross,” he said, giving him the soldier's salute.

Ross returned the honor. “I'll be dancing on the coals.” With a silent laugh, he disappeared into the darkness above the stairs.

Rob broke into a wheezing sprint down the passageway, Cautiously, he pulled open the door. Several rats squealed at the intrusion. At the entrance to the tunnel, a dozen pairs of frightened eyes stared at him.

Grinning, Rob held up his hand. “Good evening, gentlemen, I trust I am not too late for the party?”

 

Payton lounged against the red velvet upholstery of his booth and lit up a smuggled Havana cigar. With a contented sigh, he blew the smoke into the air above his head. Dinner at the Oriental Saloon was always a pleasure. The terrapin soup had been especially good and the baked shad fish was tender and flaky the way he liked it. A juicy slab of beef steak with potatoes, onions, carrots and snaps, all washed down with a bottle of good claret. Now he dawdled over his second glass of French brandy while listening to his dinner companions regale each other with stories of their latest conquests, both financial and feminine.

Payton poked a finger into his waistcoat pocket, extracted his father's gold watch, opened the lid and squinted at the time. At first he thought it read quarter of four. He
rubbed his bleary eyes and looked again. Twenty minutes past nine o'clock. Plenty of time. He wanted to wait until Lizzie Van Lew and her household had gone to bed before he banged on their door. He would have the best chance of whisking Julia out of there before that crazy old bat or her servants knew what had happened if he caught them all in bed.

“Champagne!” he called to the waiter.

“What are you celebrating, Norwood?” asked Beau Reynolds, a lifelong chum of Payton's.

“My impending nuptials,” Payton replied in a jovial mood.

Beau pretended shocked surprise. “What? I thought the lady had declined your offer.”

Even though the quip was said in jest, it still stung Payton like the bite of a mosquito. He covered his embarrassment with a laugh. “Well, it seems that the lady has changed her mind.”

Beau held up his flute for the waiter to pour. “Bully for you, Payton! Here's to your future happiness!”

The third member of the party, even more inebriated than the others, waved his flute in the air. “And good luck to the new Mrs. Norwood. God knows she'll need it.”

Payton curled his lip, but said nothing. After tonight's work, he would be too rich to care what anyone said to him.

 

For some unknown reason, sleep eluded Julia. After a day of reading to the elderly Mrs. Van Lew and playing endless games of whist with her, she should be exhausted. Perhaps the emptiness of the big house made her restless. When Saint Paul's distant bells chimed nine o'clock, Julia decided to get up. Wrapped in her dressing gown and slippers, she lit her bedside candle and quietly descended the
curving grand staircase. Shadows jumped away from her as she crossed the wide hallway and let herself into the library.