The Radical Element

  Rose was quiet. She didn’t quite know what to make of Captain Austin. Once she and Pauline had grown up and become more interested in abolition than butterflies, they had joined their fathers’ clandestine organization. They had helped to arrange hiding places for escaped slaves from the South and seduced secrets out of suspected Confederate spies. But then Hurricane had stumbled. There had been weeks in the hospital, months of recovery, the crushing disappointment of never being able to walk again. Or spy.

  It’s over, she had said to her father. I’m useless to our cause now.

  Her father had shaken his head. You don’t need to walk to make a difference for the Union.

  At Pauline’s urging, Rose had agreed to start up their work again. She’d missed it — using her talents for something she believed in. It had taken a while to figure out how they could continue their work with Rose in a wheelchair, but then she’d gotten a condolence letter from Aunt Edith and Uncle Cornelius, who were rumored to have ties to the blockade runners. Pauline had suggested she write her aunt to ask for a convalescence at their plantation, and thus Lord Firebrand was born.

  Now Rose drew herself up to her full height in the chair. “Good luck convincing anyone of your theory. You’ll look mad, arresting a girl in a wheelchair.”

  “I haven’t come to arrest you, Miss Blake.” Captain Austin dropped his voice. “Don’t you understand? I’ve come to hire you.”

  She blinked. “What did you say?”

  He scanned the porch, the garden, the rosebushes. “I work for General McClellan. My brother enlisted for the Union, and I wanted to enlist, too, but General McClellan said my services would be more valuable as a secret operative. I made a show of breaking with my family so I could enlist for the Confederacy. I’ve been trying to uncover the identity of Lord Firebrand for some time now. That’s why I pulled strings to have myself sent to Fort Sumter.”

  “You’re a Union spy?” she asked, suspicious it might be a trap.

  “And you are Lord Firebrand.” A smile stretched across his face. “Or perhaps I should say Lady Firebrand.”

  “Show me proof, then,” she demanded.

  “What more proof do you need other than the fact that I haven’t arrested you?” His eyes danced. “I’m very impressed, you know. You and Pauline must have suspected that everyone would underestimate you.”

  She settled back in her chair, eyeing him with cautious curiosity. “But not you.”

  “No, Miss Blake. Not me. And not General McClellan, either. If you and your associate would be willing to help us, we have a mission for Lord Firebrand. It could change the course of the war. We just lost the Battle of Winchester — that’s thousands of Union men captured or killed. General Lee is getting more aggressive. We need you now more than ever.”

  She paused. What would Pauline make of this? If the Confederacy won, Pauline would likely be enslaved — or worse. Rose flinched, thinking of the plantation slaves with their crusty, oozing cuts from the overseer’s whip, and of Mr. Fillion’s leer as he ogled the brown women who worked in the house.

  Pauline had every reason to want to see the South defeated. She would think it worth the risk.

  Rose leaned close to the captain. “Tell me what you want us to do.”

  Captain Austin — Henry — came to Drexel Hall often over the next few weeks under a variety of pretenses: a forgotten cap, a book to lend Uncle Cornelius, updates on the war. At every visit, he and Rose snuck away to meet in the stables while Pauline kept watch — keeping a particularly close eye on Stella.

  It was maps that General McClellan was after. Specifically, maps of the sea routes that blockade runners were using to sneak between the Union frigates stationed around the port of Charleston. Through his spy network, the general had learned that Uncle Cornelius, a former sea captain, was the one charting the routes — and that blockade runners were planning a massive smuggling operation: ten thousand Enfield rifles, a million cartridges, and four hundred barrels of gunpowder. All to be delivered on the first of August. Rose and Pauline’s mission was simple: locate the maps, copy them, and turn them over to Henry so that Union forces could confiscate the weaponry for themselves.

  There was just one problem: they couldn’t find the maps.

  Rose spent days pretending to read a book while she listened in on her uncle’s conversations. Pauline spoke to the carriage driver to learn where Cornelius went and who he met with. At night they ransacked the guest bedrooms, the bookcases, even the pantry.

  Nothing.

  “The maps must be in the library,” Pauline concluded. “It’s the only place we haven’t been able to search. He disappears in there for hours on end, and Mr. Fillion’s usually with him.” She tapped on Rose’s dresser and raised an eyebrow. “Nitroglycerin would break the lock.”

  “Yes, and also make enough noise to rouse the dead. We used the last of it, anyway. But maybe there’s something else . . .” Rose rifled through the vials in her drawer. “Ah!” She held up a bottle of aqua fortis. “Henry gave me this in case Lord Firebrand needed it for one of his missions; Fort Sumter has quite a chemical arsenal. In the right conditions, it will silently eat away at a brass lock.”

  “And in the wrong conditions?”

  Rose scrutinized the bottle, thinking back on the public science lectures she’d attended in Boston, throwing her friends off by claiming she only went because she fancied the museum’s handsome young ticket-taker. “It’s dangerous if mixed with organic compounds, like turpentine.” She mimicked an explosion with her hands. “But I don’t think they used turpentine on the door. It isn’t varnished.”

  “What about the lock, though? Your uncle will see that it’s been broken.”

  “There’s nothing to be done for it,” Rose said. “We’ll just have to hope he assumes it was a common thief or an army deserter, after hidden valuables.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Pauline said. “The first of August is in two days. If we don’t have the maps when Henry comes tomorrow, the Confederates will get all those weapons.”

  Rose nodded. “Tonight, then.”

  Since Aunt Edith had given Rose a ground-floor bedroom on account of the wheelchair, it was much easier to sneak around without worrying about squeaky stairs or having to enlist someone to carry Rose from upper floors. Once they were certain the household was asleep, Pauline pushed Rose quietly down the hallway.

  Pauline held a candle while Rose measured five milligrams of aqua fortis into a glass eyedropper and applied it to the lock. An acrid smell filled the hall, along with a faint fizzing sound. Rose waved her hand in front of the door, trying to dispel the fumes. Worries cycled through her mind as she counted to one hundred, giving the metal time to cool. She kept glancing at the stairs, making sure Stella wasn’t eavesdropping again. But even so, she felt good. It was thrilling, directly helping the Union cause again.

  “Hold the candle a little closer.” She leaned as far forward as she could in her chair, peering into the lock. The exterior portion was completely melted, and most of the tumblers, too. She twisted the handle cautiously open. “It worked!”

  “Bravo!” Pauline squeezed Rose’s shoulder and pushed her inside. They searched the library quickly, Pauline checking the upper shelves while Rose took care of the lower ones. Opening books, shaking pages, pulling open drawers, sorting through cabinets.

  “Nothing!” Pauline whispered.

  Outside, the first light of dawn broke on the horizon.

  Frustrated, Rose gripped her chair’s wheels and rolled backward, but misjudged the slope of the floor and rolled right into the umbrella stand. She cringed, expecting a crash that would wake her relatives, but it landed on the rug with only a soft thud. She let out a breath.

  Pauline knelt to straighten it. “Rose, look!”

  Amid the canes and umbrellas were a handful of long paper rolls. Pauline untied one and they gasped at the same time.

  Maps.

  “Quick!” Rose whispered, wheeling hersel
f to the desk. “Get some paper. We’ll make copies.”

  They worked under the light of the single candle, Rose tracing the nautical lines, Pauline filling in the place-names in her small, precise handwriting. Dawn continued to rise outside. Something thunked in the kitchen.

  Pauline straightened. “That must be May, making breakfast. I think we can trust her — I’ve overheard her and the scullery maid talking about sneaking food to a man who runs a safe house at the docks. But the family will be up soon.”

  “Almost done . . .” Rose said, tracing the last route. “There. Finished!”

  Pauline rolled up the maps and shoved them back in the umbrella stand. Rose shuffled the papers on her uncle’s desk and pocketed his silver paperweight, hoping that would convince him that the broken lock was caused by a thief.

  Footsteps sounded over their head. Someone upstairs was awake. Pauline pushed Rose down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door just as someone came stomping down the stairs. Breathless, they looked at each other in satisfaction.

  “Lord Firebrand strikes again.” Rose grinned.

  Pauline grabbed a handful of hairpins from Rose’s vanity table and crouched at the foot of the wheelchair. “I’ll pin the maps to your petticoats, like we used to do in Boston.”

  Because of the wheelchair, Rose couldn’t wear the same bell-shaped hoopskirts as most Southern belles; she wore a modified corset and thick padded underskirts. Pauline lifted Rose’s dress — a soft pink cotton that, like everything else at Drexel, had been fine once but was now worn around the edges — and experimented with securing the maps to the copious folds of Rose’s petticoats.

  “There,” she said, smoothing Rose’s skirts over the maps. “You can’t tell. Though you won’t be able reach them yourself, which means Henry’s going to have to root around beneath your skirts to free them.”

  Rose patted the ruffles of her skirt. “Goodness. Well. We must all suffer in times of war, right? I suppose if an attractive young captain must root around in my skirts for the sake of a Northern victory, then I simply must allow it.”

  Pauline gave her a pinch on the arm. “You always were a shameless flirt. Some things never change.”

  All that morning, Rose waited anxiously on the front porch for a glimpse of Henry’s carriage. Pauline did the wash and the mending, a chore she loathed. Rose wished she could spare her that much, but she had no choice if they wanted to avoid suspicion that Pauline was anything but Rose’s maid. Rose wore a blanket over her lap despite the early-summer heat, to further disguise the rustle of papers hidden in her petticoats. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of Henry crouched in front of her, lifting her cotton dress, fingers sliding among the silk petticoats. For the past few weeks, she’d come to enjoy his visits more and more. The last time she’d seen him, he had let his fingers rest too long on her wrist, his lips close to hers as they had whispered plans. Would he ever kiss her?

  Her thoughts darkened as she realized that, while unpinning the maps, he would see how thin her legs had become from lack of use. Would he be repulsed? No. He was the kind of man who would find every part of her beautiful. She started to imagine writing a letter to her father. Papa, I’ve met the most wonderful man. . . .

  Noon came, and Henry still hadn’t arrived.

  Rose pretended to read her Bible, her gaze darting anxiously to the road every few moments, but the only person who came was the post boy. Shortly after the clock chimed one, Stella came charging out the door like some wild creature, tears streaming down her face.

  “Stella!” Rose called, alarmed.

  But the girl ran through the live oaks, wailing.

  The front door opened again and Aunt Edith rushed out. “Child, come back here!”

  “What happened?” Rose asked.

  Edith shook her head. “You know how she’s always hiding? Well, a moment ago a letter arrived from Fort Sumter, saying Captain Austin was arrested as a Union spy. Stella overheard your uncle and me discussing it.” She patted her rouged cheeks offhandedly. “Hard to believe. Such a polite young man. Most impressive jawline.”

  Blood roared in Rose’s ears, and her heart started to pound. Surely she hadn’t heard right. “Captain . . . Captain Austin?” Her voice sounded strangely distant.

  Aunt Edith gave her a sideways look. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. Oh, of course you did — what girl wouldn’t? Well, he’s being held in the Old City Jail until his trial. Cornelius was suspicious of him; he was a bit too rehearsed. Too careful in his words. And Stella had seen him acting oddly.”

  Rose listened in a stunned silence, terror snaking up her back. She closed her eyes. Stella couldn’t have told about the money, about Pauline’s mission. She couldn’t . . .

  “Stella told us she’d seen Captain Austin sneaking around the house, testing out a door on the first floor. It must have been the library, because this morning Cornelius discovered the lock had been broken and a valuable paperweight was missing. It must have been Captain Austin. Cornelius wrote to the general immediately.” Her voice dropped, heavy with lurid excitement. “He’s Lord Firebrand, don’t you see? He was likely trying to rob us to gain money for the Union.”

  Rose felt the air catch in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

  She had stolen that paperweight, not Henry. And the room Stella had seen Henry trying to enter secretly — had it been her own bedroom, perhaps, instead of the library? Had he been intending to find her, to talk in private? About the mission — or to finally share that kiss?

  Aunt Edith turned and called back into the house. “May, we’ll have two fewer places for lunch. Stella’s run away, and Captain Austin certainly won’t be joining us!”

  Rose rolled up and down the hallways, calling Pauline’s name. She found her in the wash yard, hanging up dripping sheets in the sun. As she managed to choke out the story, Pauline’s eyes went wide and she reached down to clutch Rose’s hands.

  “Shhh.” Pauline nodded toward the four slaves at the well, only ten yards away. They were older women, their sleeves pushed back over brown skin further darkened by sun, their faces shining with sweat as they struggled to haul up buckets of water by hand, since the military had taken the pump handle for its metal.

  “Not here.” Pauline pushed Rose’s chair through the gardens to the empty stables.

  “It’s because of me,” Rose gasped. “Pauline, I can’t abide it! Henry isn’t Lord Firebrand — we are!”

  “The last thing he’d want is for us to give up. He was going to take the maps to a contact in Milford, right? At the inn by the river bend? We’ll go there ourselves.”

  “How?” Rose whispered. “I’m in a wheelchair, and you can’t walk to Milford alone in broad daylight. We can’t trust that your papers will keep you safe.” She glanced at the sun, still high. “If we could wait until night, you could go under cover of darkness in the Lord Firebrand costume.”

  “It would be too late.” Pauline paced the length of the barn, looking at the big old draft horse in the next stall, the only one that hadn’t been conscripted. “We have to go now. Do this together, like we used to.”

  “That’s impossible.” Rose followed Pauline’s gaze to the horse. “We can’t steal a carriage. We’d be found out immediately.”

  “Not a carriage. Just the horse. We’ll be back in half an hour. Your family’s napping; we won’t be missed.”

  “But you don’t know how to ride a horse, and I . . .” She clutched her knees. Bitterness rose again in her throat.

  “Do you remember the military parade in Boston last January?” Excitement brimmed in Pauline’s voice. “There was a soldier whose legs had been amputated; he rode in a special saddle that kept him upright. He must have figured out how to modify it.”

  “But we don’t have a saddle like that. Nor anyone who could make one.”

  “We don’t need it. Not if we both ride. I’ll sit in back and hold us on, and you take the reins and command the horse, and tell me how to signal him
with my heels. You won’t need use of your legs.”

  Rose’s lips parted, ready to insist it was madness, but she paused.

  Ride a horse again, after the accident?

  Could it be possible?

  She pressed her hands against her legs, kneading them beneath her skirt. Pauline’s plan sounded dangerous — Pauline could fall, or Rose could fall again. Would she hurt herself even more?

  She swallowed down her fear and thought of praying with her father by the light of a candle. And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth. It was Acts 17:26, the verse that always reminded her that all people were created in God’s image and all deserved justice.

  She took a deep breath. “I suppose it could work if I tell you how to signal him with your legs. He’s an old horse — that’s why the army left him. There’s no danger of him bolting and throwing us off.”

  Pauline squeezed her shoulder. “We need May’s help. Hold on.” Pauline disappeared to the house and soon returned with the cook. At six feet tall, May stood even-eyed with most of the men of Drexel Hall. When they explained to her what they intended to do, May shook her head.

  “Miss Rose riding a horse, when she can’t walk? Are you girls crazy?”

  “It’s for a good reason, though we can’t tell you why.” Rose added slyly, “If it works, it will hurt my aunt and uncle’s pride.”

  May clapped her hands together. “Up you go, then.”

  Rose gripped the base of the horse’s mane in one hand and the back of the saddle in the other, and with Pauline and May lifting her, she was able to pull herself up so that her stomach rested on the saddle. Then Pauline helped her move one leg around the horse’s back, so that she was straddling it and could sit upright. Pauline arranged her legs in place, setting her boots into the stirrups. As soon as May had returned to the kitchen and they were alone again, Pauline lifted Rose’s skirt and refastened some of the maps that had come loose from the petticoat ruffles.