A man had his hand on the doorknob. She held her breath, sweat trickled beneath her arms.
“Hold there,” said Johnson. A tense silence enveloped the ornate room. “We need to keep clear our heads.”
The man released the door. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief, thanking a higher power.
“We need men to serve with devotion. It is dangerous work and not to be considered an adventure, as the business is serious. It should be noted that under the auspices of a special agent in Washington, a further plot will end the Lincoln tyranny.”
“Here, here,” the men echoed their approval.
A young officer cleared his throat, nervous, pinned down by all eyes upon him. Rachel strained to catch every word.
“In this matter, one must not confuse seizing power and overthrowing the Lincoln government without being aware of outside forces at work. The Union spies are a great nuisance to us. The Saint and the embarrassment of losing Colonel Rourke have proved a great humiliation.”
Rutherford slammed down his glass, the contents spattered the table. “The myth of Northern intelligence is exactly that. It is a fable,” blustered Rutherford.
“Do not discount the Northern agents. They are crafty and with the Saint still about we are at peril,” said the young officer.
General Alexander scoffed. “You speak of this Saint as if he were the bogeyman, seeing through walls, shadowing every breath we take.”
“I do not take the Saint lightly. It would be unfortunate to do so,” said Johnson, the hard bitterness in his voice evident.
“Next, you’ll be saying General Grant is smarter than our General Lee. The Northern agents have not the enthusiasm for their work as we do,” said Rutherford.
Johnson pointed his cigar at the men, no doubt having enough of their trifling stupidity. “You underestimate them. They have successes. They can sow a million seeds and reap at least one potato. Do not fail to believe the northern agents will try to engage us. In reflection, I have decided to make a modest proposition.”
The men bent their heads low, allowing her to hear bits and pieces of their conversation. Her core froze. What was to occur was of utmost importance to the Union. She had to look at those maps.
“Our Trojan Horse will lie in the loyal northern states,” said Johnson. “With this war of attrition, President Davis will be fortunate to drive Lincoln to the bargaining table.”
“It is ambitious,” an officer remarked, followed by the nods of men around the table.
Johnson flicked a hand in front of his nose as if to get rid of a bad smell, and said, “If I should ever get my hands upon Colonel Rourke again, or my hands on the Saint,” he drawled, “I promise…I will take great pleasure in making them talk before they die.”
Rachel licked her lips, well aware of the evil Johnson reaped.
“With your permission,” said Rutherford, “leave the maps until President Davis arrives and has a chance to look them over.”
“One hour,” said Johnson.
After everyone left the room, Rachel slipped from the cupboard, massaged her foot to release the cramp and limped to the maps.
New York. Chicago. Baltimore. Several other northern cities lay detailed, charts on stored munitions and lists of names and addresses of those friendly to the Confederacy. The information was so voluminous, it made a gold mine look like a dump. Captain Johnson plotted revolution in the north.
Rachel had been born with a photographic memory. As a young girl, her father had seized upon this talent and drilled facts to expand her memory. Little did he realize the valuable resource her memory would support.
But what was the plot in Washington? A clock chimed in the hall.Hurry.Rachel scanned the pieces of information for names and dates. Nothing hinted at Washington. She lifted the maps and grasped every layout, absorbing every detail, leaving no possible information behind. One drawing of the new Capitol building caught her eye. Twenty-four Elm Street printed in barely visible letters.
The orchestra stopped. Loud applause discharged from people in the ballroom. President Davis had arrived.
She smoothed her dress over her hoops, hoping she didn’t look like she was pressed inside a cupboard. Opening the door a crack, she peered out. Her heart gave a lurch. No one guarded the long passageway, a wing of the house dedicated to Rutherford’s private office. Rachel closed the door behind her and moved down the hall, taking one soft step at a time.
Damn. A knot of men stood at the far end, the same group in Rutherford’s office. A lump clogged her throat, yet with the President’s entrance, they were distracted. If she hugged the wall she might slink by without being noticed.
One. Two. Three. She counted her steps. Captain Johnson stood four feet away. He swung to her, narrowed his eyes into dark slits.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
All eyes fastened on her. Rachel froze. Jefferson Davis approached, halted next to Johnson. The room grew smaller and smaller. Ignoring Johnson, she moved forward to address the President.
