Chapter One
Midnight September 1864
Richmond, Virginia
Night clutched the city with its treacherous dark talons. Inside an empty warehouse, Rachel Pierce pushed a wobbly cart that teetered then jolted over uneven brick. Farther and farther down a labyrinth of ill-lit corridors, she searched for the one she had come to free.
Her legs leaden, she stopped at a narrow window and pried it open. A shower of coal dust settled on her head. She peered out. Acrid smoke belched from the fiery forges of the Tredegar Iron Works, stinging her nostrils and throat. Down below violent rapids thundered on the James River while soot rose and fell from a slight breeze before falling as a filmy veil that coated every surface.
Rachel glanced at her hands, rubbed with butternut to darken her skin. Appearances did not concern her. Stooped in darkness and dressed in tatters, she masqueraded well disguised as a male slave.
She rattled her cart into a cavernous wing, jutting from the main building like the claw of a crab thrown on its side. Windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards. Ceiling moisture pattered onto the floor and dripped on her shoulder. Her nose twitched with the stink of ancient tobacco bales soured with mold. A rat scurried across her foot, and she squelched a scream. Bile rose to her throat. A second later, the crack of a whip ripped the air, followed by agonized moans. She wanted to run, to breathe the damp air of freedom. If caught, she would be hanged.
To improvise at the last minute? No time to plan implied high risk and greater odds of failure. She had eavesdropped on a conversation, had learned that the Rebs had secured someone of great importance and were interrogating him at the Oak Street warehouse.
Her quicksand feet refused to move. Seared memories of her father taunted her, beckoned her to go farther, to drown her fears, to do her God-given duty.
Rachel dragged her feet. Hot tears stung her eyes.
The moans rose louder. She followed flickering yellow lantern lights smudged by coal dust. She bundled the growing panic in her chest, took a deep breath and entered a large room. Two guards, too busy with their card play, ignored the slave who had come to clean and empty chamber pots. Her hands clammy, she pulled a broom from her cart and swept, making her way into the room opposite the groans.
A hole in the wall allowed her to spy. Two men loomed about their captive. His hands were tied above him and the ropes had cut the skin from his wrists. His toes barely grazed the floor. His dark hair lay matted to his nape and he was stripped of his clothing. Ugly welts across his muscular back and arms gleamed in the lantern light. Blood oozed from his wounds and ran down his buttocks. The whip sang through the air and slashed his flesh. The prisoner jerked and moaned aloud.
Rachel wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. She had to save him. He couldn’t end up like her father.
A Confederate officer, his back to her, raised his whip again and said grimly, “You’ll tell us soon enough. It might as well be now while you can talk sensibly.”
“You’ll roast in hell first,” his victim said in a deep vibrant voice that carried easily to Rachel’s ears. She did not recognize the voice or him. Under the circumstances, the prisoner’s demeanor astonished her, but his underlying stress touched her heart. His southern accent, she noted, seemed incongruous with the Union uniform on the floor. But then again, many in the south wanted the nation whole.
“You realize my skill,” boasted the one with the whip. “You screamed before. You dare test me further?”
The prisoner’s muscles clenched.Snap.The lash descended. The man’s cry of agony pierced the air. Rachel shuddered.
“I admire your courage so much I have ordered one hundred lashes. Half of that will kill a man,” boasted the captain.
“Do your worst. You won’t get anywhere,” the captive growled.
“There won’t be any flesh on your bones when I’m done with you. However, I have the power to make your stay more comfortable. Just give us the names of all the spies in your network.”
When the prisoner remained mute, the officer ordered him dropped to the floor. They pushed his head into a bucket of water until Rachel thought he’d drown. She bit her knuckles to keep from screaming. Three separate times she counted. The officer kicked him. The captive retched. They pulled him up.
“Are you going to give us the names? The Saint says you have them all. He’s the one who helped us trap you.”
Rachel’s breath burned from the lie.
Again, they let the lash fly. The prisoner crumbled.
“He’s unconscious. Give it up for now, Captain. Go out and get some air, free from this stinking Yankee. We’ll revive him when we return. I’ve never seen a body take so much.”
“He’ll die by inches if I have my way about it,” the captain said and pushed out the door.
She waited until their footsteps fell away to distant echoes and disappeared altogether. Rachel shifted into the hallway. She tried the rusty handle on the prisoner’s cell. Locked.
“Hold on there. Where do you think you’re going?” With angry stares, both guards turned from their cards. These were not the best of the Confederacy. Straw-haired and shaggy faces like unshorn sheep, they glared, fleshy mottled brutes in filthy uniforms with large bloodshot eyes.
She held back in the shadows. Ice shot through her veins. Her legs shook. Attempting to sound nonchalant and in her best imitation of a slave boy’s dialect, she said, “Captain ordered me to clean out this here cell. I have to hurry ’cause master wants me home.”
Rachel kept her head bowed, still had them in her line of vision. The saw-toothed guard swore and threw down his cards. He hit her with his bulk, throwing her against the wall. “Serves you right, nigga, for getting in the way.” He growled a strange raspy noise that imitated laughter and set his key into the lock.
