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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.

  Julia awoke the following morning with the rattling of sleet and freezing rain against her window pane. Looking out, she saw that Richmond had turned gray and slick overnight. Julia rued that she had not brought her umbrella with her. Nevertheless, she would not cower inside her comfortable hotel when Rob lay so nearby, possibly starving to death.

  After a quick breakfast of rolls and expensive coffee, Julia buttoned her cloak, tied on her hat, put on Rob’s lovely gloves and prepared to face the day. Stopping to chat with the doorman, she inquired abour directions to the nearest shopping district as well as Libby Prison.

  “Don’t know what a nice lady like you wants to see those Yankees for,” the man remarked when she thanked him for his help. “I hear they are nothing but trash. And…” Lowering his voice, he whispered in her ear, “Pardon me for saying so, miss, but everybody in that jail has got cooties, and you don’t want to catch them on you, no sir!”

  Julia thanked him for his caution, though she did not have the slightest idea what a “cootie” was. It sounded nasty.

  The sparse stock on the grocer’s shelves shocked her. Alexandria’s shops and vendors were always well-supplied with every luxury imaginable, thanks to the northern suppliers. For the first time since war had been declared, Julia saw for herself the hardships and privations that so much of the south endured on a daily basis. Richmond painted on a merry face, but the pinched look of the ordinary citizens illustrated the stress of living under the perpetual threat of siege. Many women wore mourning clothes. Most of the men were in uniform. The latest reincarnation of the Confederate National flag hung wet and limp from many flagpoles.

  Julia’s Yankee money stretched enough to buy a half-dozen apples, a small can of sardines, a packet of salt crackers and a box of soft nougats from Richmond’s celebrated Italian confectioner, Mr. Pazzini. At the dry goods store, she added three handkerchiefs and a thick pair of woolen socks to her basket. Recalling the conversation from the previous evening, she purchased a small bar of lye soap and a toothbrush. Watching her fellow shoppers counting out huge quantities of Confederate bills, Julia wondered how anyone could possibly afford to live in Richmond. She didn’t allow herself to think what would happen if her funds gave out before her birthday. Once she could draw on her inheritance, all would be well, but for now, she would take each day as it came.

  Turning downhill toward the river, Julia made her way to the prison. The neighborhood changed from neat row houses, shops and churches to large gray and brown warehouses, interspersed with noisy oyster bars, garish restaurants and tenements that teemed with grubby children and large, frightening dogs. Since the rain had ceased, hopeful lines of washing hung across garbage-strewn alleyways. Rough-looking men, smelling of stale spirits, and women with reddened, chapped faces brushed past her on the tiny bits of broken sidewalk. Julia regretted that she had not hired a cab at the Spotswood, even though it would have cost a fortune. At last, she spied the building, just as the hotel doorman had described it. Outside the long brick warehouse, a faded wooden sign announced Libby & Son, Ship Chandler & Grocer. Dirty whitewash paint covered the brick wall up to the second floor. The sentinels in their gray uniform greatcoats stood out starkly against it.

  As Julia drew closer to the entrance on Cary Street, she saw that a dozen or so women paraded back and forth on the sidewalk opposite the prison. Despite the cold, wet weather, they bared their shoulders and breasts that all but fell out of their brightly colored satin bodices. The women shouted rude taunts and bawdy remarks up to the crowded windows of Libby’s second and third floors.

  “Don’t you wish you had some of this sugar, Yankee boy?” called out one soiled dove as she raised her skirts to reveal her lower legs clad in white patterned stockings.

  Dozens of disembodied arms stuck out through bars of the open windows above the heads of the grinning sentries. The inmates shouted down some of the foulest words Julia had ever heard. Ducking her head into the folds of her soaked shawl, she crossed the street quickly lest the guards might mistake her for one of the rabble.

  At the door, her curiosity got the better of her common sense. She asked the young sentry, “Who are those women?”

  He had the grace to blush before answering, “Them? They’s…well, miss, I guess you could call them fancy ladies.” He gave her a sidelong look, swallowed hard, then continued. “They’re not your kind, miss. You don’t want to have anything to do with them. They are…well, um…the sort of lady that a good brother would never introduce to his sister.”

  Painted jezebels! Aloud, Julia persisted, “But what are they doing here? Surely they don’t expect to…conduct business with the prisoners.”

  The sentry’s eyebrows went straight up to his hairline. “Service a Yankee?” he sputtered, then turned even redder. “I mean, no, miss. They come around to…um…” At this point, his vocabulary ran out.

  “I see,” said Julia hurriedly. “I’ve come to visit the prisoners myself—but purely in Christian charity,” she added in a rush, tapping her basket. “Would you be so very kind and tell me with whom I should speak?”

  The young guardsman eyed the covered basket. “I’m afraid those Yankees in there won’t appreciate anything a fine lady like yourself might do for them. Their souls are far beyond redemption.”

  Julia bit back her growing impatience. Water from the gutter seeped though the stitching of her walking boots. “I do appreciate your concern,” she replied as sweet as sugar, “but there is no harm in trying, is there? The good Lord particularly sought out the worst kinds of sinners for His grace, didn’t He?”

  The soldier furrowed his brow as he tried to recollect his childhood Bible classes. “I expect so, miss.” He opened the door. “You will want to speak with Major Long or Mr. Ross. Good day, miss.”

  Stepping across the bare wooden threshold, Julia had the uneasy feeling that she had just entered a reasonable facsimile of Dante’s Inferno. A potbellied stove set against a brick partition wall hissed as if it were filled with writhing snakes, though it warmed Julia’s cold fingers. She removed her gloves, then looked around for someone in charge. A man dressed in a gray sack coat shifted his attention from the papers on his battered desk. Around his waist, he wore two holstered pistols.

  “May I be of assistance?” he asked, though none too kindly.

  Controlling her jitters, Julia gave him her best smile. “Good morning, sir. My name is Julia Chandler and I have brought a few things for…” She had not given thought how to explain her relationship with Rob until now. “For my cousin. Most regrettable, to be sure, that he turned against his family and went off to fight for the Yankees. It all comes from sending him to one of those schools up there. Turned his head, it did.” Taking a page from her mother’s repertoire of hysterics, she sniffled a little and wiped her cheeks. “Just about broke his poor mother’s heart.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Julia saw that her story not only interested the clerk, but also several guards and a little old woman who sat against the far wall on a rough-hewn bench. Gathering more courage from their attention, she continued, “Naturally, the family disowned him on the spot, but I…” She sighed deeply.

  “We were playmates so many years ago, and I have always kept a soft spot in my heart for him. When we learned that he was here, I thought it my Christian duty to at least pay him a call. Perhaps he has come to regret his hasty action.”

  The clerk barely moved a facial muscle. “And the name of this black sheep?”

  “Montgomery, Major Robert Montgomery,” she said, hoping not to sound too eager. “I do believe he joined a regiment from New York.” She gave him another smile. “I would be ever so gratef
ul if you would let me see him—even just for a minute…ahem…so that I can tell his mama that he is safe. She does grieve so for her baby boy.”

  “Montgomery.” The clerk opened a large black ledger, flipped through a few pages, then ran his finger down a column of names. “Robert,” he repeated to himself. Then he closed the book with a snap. “Yes, Miss Chandler, your cousin is residing with us. Do you have your pass from the provost marshal?”

  A cake of ice hardened in Julia’s stomach. Real tears threatened to make their presence known. She had not abandoned her home and security only to be turned away for want of a wretched piece of paper. She allowed her lower lip to quiver, and hoped that this stone-faced man with his little mustache was susceptible to women’s tears.

  “Oh, dear, no. I had no idea I needed something like that. No one told me. And I have so very little time here in Richmond. Oh, please, kind sir, I mean no harm. I have not come here to abduct my cousin, only to bring him a little hope and cheer—as it is my Christian duty,” she added for good measure.

  The clerk’s stare bored a hole into her soul. She prayed that he wasn’t a mind reader. The guards laughed and repeated “kind sir” under their breath to each other. Julia clutched her basket and stared back at him, willing him to give in.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Ross, just where did you hang up your manners today?” snapped the little woman on the bench. She rose and tottered across the room to stand beside Julia. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for making this poor child cry.”

  Then, in an undertone that Julia barely heard, she said through stiff lips, “Turn up your waterworks, girl.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Montgomery!” shouted the guard over the din on the second floor. “Robert Montgomery! Downstairs! Now!”

  Rob looked up from the card game that he was playing with a couple of amiable and talkative Pennsylvanians. He had been in Libby long enough to know it did not bode well for any prisoner to be singled out.