Shadow of Dawn (11 page)

“Thank you for giving me this opportunity to
speak with your husband,” Clayton said, as though it were only
natural to find her straining to see out the window, which had
begun to fog over with her breath. “He talked to me quite freely.
I’ll send you a copy when it’s printed so you can read it to
him.”

She turned slowly, her hand over her heart.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said a little breathlessly.

“Well, good night.”

“Good night. Ephraim will be waiting to show
you out.”

“Thank you.” He looked as if he wanted to say
something else. Catherine held her breath. But then he nodded,
turned, and began to go down the stairs.

“Mr. Pierce?”

He stopped and looked up. “Yes, Mrs.
Kelly?”

“How is my husband?”

A look came into his eyes, which she could
only interpret as a kind of pity, whether for her or for Andrew she
could not tell. “He seemed…unwell, even before I began. Immediately
after the interview, he said he wanted to retire and asked me to
leave. The nurse is with him now.”

“Did he tell you where it happened? Where he
was wounded?”

“He doesn’t remember. He had already been
treated somewhere else when he turned up at the hospital, so no one
there knew anything about him, other than his identity. He had
papers, some medical records, with him.”

“Oh,” she said.

He came slowly back up the stairs toward her.
“You look lost and lonely,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t bear
to see you this way.”

She took a step backward. “I’m fine,” she
murmured.

“If I can ever do anything to help you,
either of you, write me in care of one of the Atlanta papers. Will
you do that?”

“Yes, certainly. That’s…kind of you.” Hadn’t
she said that already? She felt completely flustered by his
nearness.

Andrew’s door opened again and Mrs. Shirley
came out. Her surprised expression changed to one of sharpened
interest. “You were leaving, were you not, Mr. Pierce?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, without taking his
eyes off Catherine. “I was just saying good-bye to Mrs. Kelly.”

With her lips pursed Mrs. Shirley turned
stiffly, went into her own room, and closed the door.

“I’ll probably be leaving Richmond soon,” he
said quietly. “I may not see you again. I wish you and your husband
the best.”

A sense of desolation gripped Catherine,
stronger than anything she had ever experienced. It was worse than
the grief she had felt at her parents’ death, worse than her not
knowing where Andrew had been all those long months.

She said, hardly above a whisper, “Good-bye,
Clayton.”

He stood looking at her for another moment,
and in that moment he allowed her to see, without saying a word,
how much he cared for her. It was written in his furrowed brow and
in the intensity of his unfaltering gaze. Then he turned to descend
the stairs, and he did not look back.

***

The next morning Bart stopped her in the
front hall just as she was about to take her cloak off the rack. He
stood in the doorway of the formal parlor and grinned at her.

“You are much too lovely to waste your time
in that hospital.”

“I beg your pardon?” She gave him a cold
look.

“I do have something I need to talk to you
about, Catherine. It’s important.”

She hesitated only a moment before replacing
her cloak on its hook. She couldn’t imagine what Bart would have to
say that had anything to do with her, but he had aroused her
curiosity. They went into the parlor and Bart closed the door.

“It’ll only take a moment,” he said, seeing
her cast a worried look at the door. “Come here and sit down.”

They went to the end of the room and Bart
pulled out a chair for her at the large card table, then sat down
across from her. He held up his heavily bandaged hand for her to
see. A serious expression replaced his easy smile. “There’s
something I need to do that I’m not able to do. The doctor told me
I’m not to move my hand or undergo any sort of exertion for a
number of days.”

Catherine looked apologetic. “I’m sorry about
your hand, Bart.”

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. I should have been
more careful. But that’s not the point. You see, Catherine, I have
many duties you know nothing about. In fact, few people do know
about it. I sometimes act as a courier for the War Department. I
was to deliver a message to someone in Lee’s army, an important
message about supplies, and I’m now

unable to do so. There’s no one else in my
department who can be spared, or for that matter, trusted.”

She stared at him. “Are you asking me to
deliver this message?”

“Yes, because I trust you, and because it
will be easy for you to get through. A soldier would be stopped and
questioned. This message must go to one man and no other, and it
must go immediately. That is, if you leave first thing in the
morning you could arrive at the meeting place within a few
hours.”

“But, Bart,” Catherine said, frowning. “What
is this message all about? I have to know more if you really want
me to do this.”

He leaned back in his chair. “There will be a
shipment of supplies, a crucial shipment, made to Lee’s army. The
person to whom you give the message will report directly to General
Lee himself. He must know where and when and what to expect.”

“Who is this person?”

“His name is Lieutenant Hadley. He’s
stationed at a house near Charlottesville. I’ll get you a pass, so
you won’t be questioned on the roads. There may be guards posted at
certain points. The only thing I ask is that you do not allow this
message to fall into anyone’s hands other than Lieutenant Hadley’s.
Lives will depend on it. There will be a battle soon, and its
outcome may depend on their receipt of this shipment, which of
course is to be carried out in secret.”

“Why do you ask this of me?” she asked, still
frowning a little as she looked squarely into his eyes. “We’ve
never even been real friends, Bart. We hardly know each other, for
all we do live in the same house.”

“You’re right,” he said, with equal
frankness. “I’ve never felt you liked me much, Catherine. But I
know enough about you to believe that if you give me your word,
you’ll do everything within your power to accomplish what I ask of
you. You are patriotic, and you are trustworthy. There’s no one
else who can be spared just now. Army couriers are sometimes killed
before their messages are delivered. As I said, no one would
suspect that you are anything but what you seem to be…a young
woman, perhaps traveling to see a relative.”

“It seems an awfully important thing to
entrust to someone who doesn’t have any experience.”

He shrugged. “You don’t need any unique
experience to just ride over to someone’s house, hand over a
letter, and ride back. I would have asked Sallie to do it, but
she’s sick. I could go myself, except that the roads may be rough
and the ride could set my hand to bleeding again.”

She glanced down at his bandaged hand. It
really was her fault he had hurt himself; it wouldn’t have happened
if she’d cut up the chicken herself instead of asking him to do
it.

“All right,” she said. “Tell me what I have
to do.”

He smiled again. “Thank you, Catherine. It’s
simple. You can use Martin’s carriage. I’ve already asked him,
though he doesn’t know what for. I have a driver who’s familiar
with Charlottesville, and he’ll know exactly where to go.”

“Then why can’t he deliver the message?”

“Put such an important matter in the hands of
a slave?” Bart snorted. “Catherine, you don’t realize what you’re
saying. This letter must go to Lieutenant Hadley only. Listen
carefully. He’s a short, balding man, about fifty, and he will say
to you, ‘the gates of hell.’ By that you’ll know he’s Lieutenant
Hadley. If anyone else attempts to take the letter, destroy it.
Tear it up. If you’re stopped, hide it where no one will
search.”

“What if it is found on me?” Catherine asked,
beginning to feel a flutter of excitement. “Will they think I’m a
spy and hang me?”

Bart laughed. “No woman yet has been hung for
spying. And there are no Yankees between here and Charlottesville.
If you’re stopped by any of our men you’ll be released, I promise
you. But no one must see the letter—you never know who might be a
spy for the Union.”

He sat back and smiled at her. “Besides,
women do this sort of thing all the time. Haven’t you heard of Miss
Belle Boyd?”

“No. Who is she?”

“Why, she’s a heroine! Not beautiful, but she
has an overabundance of southern charm. She has coaxed secrets out
of more men than fought at Manassas. I have confidence that you, my
dear Catherine, will be able to charm your way through any
situation that might arise, though I’m sure it will all go
smoothly. Nothing could be simpler.”

“Well, I don’t want to be famous, but I
suppose I could do it this one time.” She stood up. “Shall I leave
at dawn?”

Bart went to open the parlor door for her.
“The carriage will be waiting, my lady.”

Catherine put on her cloak and left the
house, feeling vaguely irritated by Bart’s self-satisfied
smile.

She slept little that night and was
wide-awake when she heard the downstairs clock strike five in the
morning. She rose quietly, lit a candle and took her clothes out of
the armoire, her toes curling against the chill hardwood floor. She
bent down, put a match to the dry twigs in the fireplace and placed
another log on it, huddling there until it began to burn.

She started nervously when there was a light
knock on the door. Thinking it must be Bart, she threw a wrapper
over her nightgown and opened the door. Her heart leaped in her
throat when she saw Andrew.

“I was awake and heard you moving around,” he
said quietly. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. That is—” Catherine had a feeling
someone besides Bart ought to know where she was going. She stood
back from the door and said, “Come in, Andrew.”

He seemed uncertain and she took his hand and
led him into the room. Once inside he did not move.

“I’m getting ready to go to Charlottesville.
I’m taking a letter to someone there, for a friend. It’s important
and I’m…I’m doing it as a favor.”

“To Charlottesville? But, Catherine, Mrs.
Shirley has been reading me the newspapers. The army is camped
around Fredericksburg and the Yankees are just across the
river.”

“I’ll have a pass. I should be able to get
through without any trouble.”

“This sounds dangerous. I wish you wouldn’t
do it.” “I’ve given my promise.”

He waited a moment, at last turning his head
toward her and saying, “Then I shall go with you.”

“But, Andrew, you’ll have to have a pass and
it’s too late—”

“I already have papers from the doctors
explaining my circumstances. I cannot allow you to go without me.
Not that I could be of any assistance to you, but if something
happened, I would never forgive myself.”

She thought rapidly. It really wouldn’t hurt
for Andrew to ride along in the carriage with her; in fact, she
would be grateful for the company. Somehow she’d have to convince
Bart that her husband would not compromise her mission in any
way.

“Very well. I’m going to get dressed now and
I’ll bring you up something to eat before we go.”

He nodded, turned and groped for the
doorknob, and let himself out. She listened for a moment, praying
he wouldn’t fall down the stairwell, and presently heard the
closing of his door. Quickly she dressed and went downstairs,
carrying a candle in the pre-dawn darkness.

The house was cold and still. She went
quietly into the kitchen and found some ham and biscuits left over
from yesterday. She made a pot of coffee, and as that was brewing
she pulled out a lunch basket and filled it with a loaf of bread,
some apples and a corked bottle filled with water to take on the
trip.

She put the coffeepot, some cups, and the ham
and biscuits on a tray and carried it up to Andrew’s room.

“I’ll leave your breakfast here on this
table. Shall I call Mrs. Shirley to help you?”

“No. Thank you, Catherine.”

She took two of the biscuits and a cup of
coffee to her own room, where she sat in front of the fire and
nibbled without much appetite. It
was
a dangerous
undertaking. She could see Bart’s dilemma, which was partly her
fault, and if the matter was as important as he said, she really
had no choice. But she had a strange feeling about the whole
thing.

Another knock sounded on the door. This time
it was Bart, with the thick, sealed letter and her pass. She looked
at the letter and wondered where in the world she would hide it if
she had to, for it was certainly too bulky to slide into her
bodice.

“Andrew is going with me,” she said.

Bart frowned. “Did you tell him?”

She shook her head. “No details. He’s just
going to ride in the carriage with me. He already has a pass.”