Beloved Enemy Page 11

  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.

  Chapter Eleven

  More 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.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A sickening lump formed itself in the pit of Rob’s stomach. While he had no fear of personal danger, Julia’s safety loomed as a paramount importance to him, despite his vow to forget her.

  “What about Miss Chandler, sir? I fail to see what help she can give. As a matter of fact, I have not pursued our acquaintance. The young lady and I were too much—” He groped for the right word. “Our politics are at opposite poles. I realized that a continued friendship would lead to grief.”

  Lawrence sat back in his chair. “Ordinarily, I would never presume to dictate the social affairs of my men, Major Montgomery, but we are not living in civilized times. I am aski
ng you to resume your friendship with Miss Chandler, and entertain her with all the formidable powers of that charm of yours.”

  Rob opened his mouth to protest, but the colonel held up his hand.

  “Hear me out, Major. My reason is far from frivolous. We must place you in a position to be captured by Colonel Mosby. You will be apprehended while at the home of a known Southern loyalist. I am quite certain that Mosby’s men will have no trouble locating the address. They probably know it already.”

  White anger overcame Rob, and he leaped to his feet. “Julia Chandler is an innocent young woman, sir! To use her trust for such a nefarious purpose is a callous act.”

  Lawrence folded his hands together as if in an attitude of prayer. “Indeed, Major. War is also a callous act, and it turns us into beings that we are not by nature. Families tear each other apart like hunting dogs over a fox. Brothers kill brothers in the name of patriotism, and friends betray each other with a smile—and a kiss.”

  Rob gritted his teeth. “It sickens me to use a sweet young woman for such a devilish purpose. Isn’t there some other way?”

  Lawrence shook his head; he would not meet Rob’s eyes. “None that we can use so quickly, and time is of the essence. Your countrymen languish in hell, Major Montgomery. They pray daily for release,” the colonel whispered. “Your President wants them out, and General Grant needs them desperately.”

  Closing his eyes, Rob wished that he were back home in Rhinebeck. The Hudson would be frozen hard by now, and he could skate up its winding course halfway to Montreal, leaving the war with its bloody maw and gut-wrenching decisions far behind him. The air was crisp and clean in the wilderness of the North Country.

  “Major?” Lawrence’s voice shattered his daydream. “Will you do it?”

  Rob swallowed down the bile in his throat. “Yes, sir,” he replied in a hollow tone. His conscience screamed reproach. “While I loathe the idea of Miss Chandler’s involvement, I understand the reason for it. I pray that she, too, will understand it eventually. May God forgive me for such a breach of trust.”