Union Mills, Maryland
November 4, 1863
Rain fell in sheets from the black sky,
whipping across the spy's face. Damned if he wasn't a fool for
being out on a night like this, he thought, his feet slipping
in the muddy road. He stepped into a wheel rut and nearly lost
a shoe in the deep muck.
The spy was wet and miserable, but he
stumbled on through the storm. He had seen and heard things that
had to be told. The spy knew, too, that he would be well paid
for his information, more than enough to make it worthwhile to
brave the stormy November night.
Up ahead, through the blowing rain,
he spotted the lights of the tavern. The Blue Lantern. Aside
from a few farmhouses and barns, it was the only building for
miles around Union Mills. He knew there would be a roaring fire
in the hearth, along with a drink of whiskey to warm his bones.
There would be money, too. The one-eyed man would see to that.
Wind stripped the changed leaves from
the oaks and maples along the road, hurling them like giant snowflakes
in the gusts. A black, dirty night to be out. The tavern was
set back from the Hanover Road, and he trudged the last one hundred
feet across the muddy yard, toward the yellow light that shone
from the windows.
His chilled hand gripped the handle,
and he swung the door open.
The tavern was full. Inside, the air
was hazy with wood and tobacco smoke. There were few places to
stay on the road from Baltimore, and the storm had driven travelers
to whatever shelter they could find. The spy shut the door behind
him, then stood for a moment, blinking in the sudden light. Conversations
trailed off as the tavern's customers eyed the newcomer.
"Is that a man or a muskrat?"
someone shouted. That brought laughter, and the men at the tables
turned back to their food and drink. The spy wasn't the first
man that night to wander in out of the storm.
The tavern keeper recognized him and
nodded, then jerked his head at a man sitting alone by the fire.
The spy moved toward a narrow-shouldered figure hunkered on a
bench, his hands toward the fire. He looked up as the spy approached,
and smiled. The spy smiled back, trying not to stare at the black
patch where the man's left eye used to be.
"You're a good man to come out
on a night like this," the one-eyed man said quietly.
"I'm a friend to the Cause."
The man nodded, then flicked a bony
finger at the bench across from him. He spoke in a low voice
so that only the spy could hear. "Not all are friends here.
I wouldn't go talking about Causes if I were you. Won't you sit
down?"
The spy did, pulling up another bench.
He shrugged out of his heavy coat and took off his hat, glad
of the fire. The intense heat burned along one shoulder, and
after a few minutes his wet clothes began to steam.
The one-eyed man grinned. The spy didn't
know his name, just that he could be found at the tavern most
nights, and that whenever he had information, he passed it on
to this fellow on the bench. He supposed the man then took the
train to Baltimore, or passed word to someone on the train. In
any case, there was always a bit of money in it, which was why
he had learned to keep his ears and eyes open. Times were hard
because of the war and a few dollars were welcome. The spy really
didn't care which side won the war. He was just interested in
the money, and the Confederates were always willing to pay more,
mainly because Maryland was a Union state, if just barely.
"What I got's worth something,"
the spy said, surprised at the excitement in his own voice, the
loudness of it.
The man winced and held out his hands.
"Quietly, man, quietly. I'm sure we'd be better off if everyone
in the place didn't hear what you have to say." The man
smiled again, but there was menace in the smile, filled as it
was with yellow teeth.
"Lincoln's going to Gettysburg,"
the spy said. "On November seventeenth. He's staying the
night at the home of a lawyer in town and then there's going
to be a big ceremony the next day to dedicate the new cemetery
for all them dead Yankees."
"I've heard about the ceremony,"
the man said, all hint of a smile gone now as he leaned toward
the spy. His one eye glittered. "Are you sure about Lincoln?"
"It's just been decided,"
the spy said. "He's going to give a speech, too, when they
dedicate the cemetery."
"Lincoln." The man said the
name and fell silent, thinking it over. After a few moments he
looked up again, glanced over his shoulder, then turned to the
spy. "The whole county will know before long that he's going
to Gettysburg. It's not worth anything to me -- in dollars, at
least."
On the other side of the tavern, three
men were struggling into their heavy coats. They went out the
door into the rain, and the spy thought they must be fools to
trade the tavern's smoky warmth for the autumn storm.
It was the spy's turn to smile as he
leaned in close to the man across from him. "I reckon the
whole county will know before long about Mr. Lincoln going to
Gettysburg. Half the state, too, between here and Washington
City. It will be in the newspapers next week. But now you know
before everybody else. That's good information."
The man shrugged. The truth was, he
knew all about Lincoln's planned trip to Gettysburg. He had even
helped Colonel Norris, head of the Confederate Secret Service
in Richmond, set up an ambush for the train on the tracks north
of Baltimore. He didn't tell any of this to the spy.
"Well," the spy continued,
"I guess it really ain't much of a secret. Hell, Lincoln
wants everyone to know about it."
"What are you talking about?"
He motioned for the man to lean closer.
"How do you think Mr. Lincoln's travelin' to Gettysburg?"
The man humored him. "Why, on the
train, I should think."
"Which one?"
The man appeared to think it over. "Washington
to Gettysburg? He'll take a train to Baltimore, then take the
Northern Central Railroad north to Hanover. There's a spur there
that runs to Gettysburg."
It was the spy's turn to smile. "Well,
that's just what the Yankees want you to think, ain't it? Lincoln
ain't goin' to be on that train, though."
"What do you mean?"
"I've got ears, don't I?"
the spy said. He was grinning now, enjoying himself. "How
many ears do you think Mr. Lincoln's got? Why, lots and lots,
I reckon. He's heard all about the plans. That's why he ain't
goin' to be on that train."
The man stared keenly at the spy, suddenly
interested. "What plans are you talking about?"
"Them guns. A whole battery of
artillery. I heard about it. Hell, you'll be able to blow Abe
Lincoln to Kingdom Come and back. Shame he ain't goin' to be
on the train, though."
The man with the eye patch went very
still. Either he had underestimated the abilities of this spy,
or else Colonel Norris' plan to ambush Lincoln's train was hardly
a secret. "Tell me what you mean by all this," he hissed.
"Mr. Lincoln is leavin' Washington
on November seventeenth, then he's goin' to Baltimore, only he
ain't goin' to take the Northern Central to Pennsylvania. No,
he'll be gettin' on a Baltimore and Ohio Railroad car headed
west. Nobody knows about this, mind you. Then at Weverton he's
taking the Hagerstown spur, and from there he's going to Gettysburg.
The roundabout way, you see, only it's a secret. Safer that way
and he gets there all the same. Like I said, he's done heard
about your plans."
"What about the train he's supposed
to be on?" the man asked.
"Oh, I reckon it will leave Baltimore
in fine style, only they'll say Mr. Lincoln's has pressing concerns
or he's tired and can't be bothered in his car. Ain't nobody
goin' to see him again till Gettysburg."
The one-eyed man sat quietly for a minute,
considering what he had just heard. The spy's clothes were steaming
nicely, the wool getting that greasy smell it did when it was
hot and wet. Finally, his companion at the table gave a short
laugh.
"Surely this can't be true."
"It is." The spy's screwed
up his face in a wise expression. "Though you won't hear
it around half the countryside, I reckon." "Where did
you hear it?"
"Never mattered to you before,
did it?" The spy shrugged. "I got my sources."
The man with the eye patch smiled again,
flashing his yellow teeth, and put a hand inside his coat. He
produced a wad of greenbacks, and pressed it into the spy's hands.
It was more money than the spy had ever received before, and
he gripped it tightly in his hand, staring down in wonder. Then
the bills disappeared inside his damp coat.
"A drink to the Cause?" the
man asked quietly.
"I reckon that would be good."
They shared three whiskeys there by
the fire, neither of them saying much. It was strong liquor,
and the spy was half drunk when he stood up to leave. He wasn't
looking forward to walking home in the storm, but his wife was
waiting for him. It was just three miles he had to go, but it
would take him well over an hour on a night like this. No one
paid much attention as he left, except the man by the fire, who
stared after him as the spy launched himself into the night.
The storm had grown worse. Sleet now
stung his face as he leaned into the wind and picked his way
between the wagon ruts. Up ahead, the spy thought he saw something
move, but he didn't pay much attention. Probably just the wind
blowing a gust of rain. No man or beast would be out on a night
such as this, at least, not if they had any sense. He tugged
his collar tighter at his throat, glad for the whiskey's warmth
inside him.
He shivered, although the thought of
the money he had just made more than compensated for a little
cold and wet, he thought. What would he do with all that money?
Bring home a few bottles of the tavern's whiskey, for one thing.
Maybe get himself a new coat, too, one that kept off the rain
--
Suddenly, the darkness grabbed at him
from behind, and the spy felt a powerful arm around his throat.
Instinctively, he reached behind him, found a face, gouged at
the eyes. He heard a muffled curse and the grip loosened.
As he spun to face his attacker, he
felt something hot and sharp dig into his side. The pain was
terrible, paralyzing. As if in a dream, he caught a glimpse of
the long knife blade as it was pulled free, bloody and dripping,
before it plunged again deep into his side. He felt steel twist
in his kidneys.
He screamed.
The spy hoped someone in the tavern
would hear. But the wind and wet night swallowed up the noise.
The blade plunged in again and the spy fell to his knees in the
mud. The coppery taste of his own blood welled up from inside
him and filled his mouth, dribbling from his lips.
"Bastard almost put my eye out,"
a gruff voice said.
Then someone grabbed him under the arms
and dragged him off the road into the muddy cornfield nearby.
He felt hands search his pockets until they found the roll of
greenbacks. He wanted to protest, but no words would come from
his mouth, only gurgling sounds.
"No," he finally managed to
moan through the terrible pain in his guts.
"Finish him off," the gruff
voice said.
"He's done for. Let's get out of
here before someone comes along. He squealed like a stuck pig."
The gruff-voiced one kicked the spy.
"Hell, of course he can squeal. Squeals to the Rebs every
time he hears some news, don't he? Well, that was the last time."
Footsteps splashed away, and the spy
lay there as his blood pumped out to mingle with the rainwater
in the furrows. He tried to crawl back to the road where there
might be a chance that someone would find him, but he only slipped
deeper into a plowed rut. His face was in a puddle, but he didn't
have the strength to raise it. A few bubbles rose up. After a
minute, they stopped, and the spy was dead, drowned in a puddle
of muddy water streaked red with blood. |
