Chapter Six
Charlotte heard a loud knocking at the townhouse front door and opened it.
“Miss Charlotte Liddell?”
“Yes, I am Miss Liddell,” Charlotte replied fearfully.
The chilly early morning air made her skin prickle.
She pulled her shawl tighter around her.
The man who spoke glared at her. His surly tone made her uncomfortable.
For some reason she didn’t like him. He wore stoic, drab brown clothing and spoke glibly.
The two men and a woman standing behind him remained silent.
“You are under arrest, Miss Liddell,” the man in brown continued, “for engaging in seditious activities against the Union”
“What?” Charlotte froze, her entire body went rigid, her nerves taut, throat so tight she could hardly speak.
“Who are you?” she demanded, noticing her voice sounded weak and ineffective. She forgot her charade, forgot everything but the sting of the words spilling from the mouth of this short plump-faced man.
“My name is Detective Samuel Bridgeman. I work for Allan Pinkerton. I have the full authority of the State and War Department to take you in for questioning about your secret, traitorous activities against the government of the United States.”
“No!” she cried out, but inside her, hysterical laughter was building, threatening to erupt in front of the detective and the two men and female accompanying him.
Unbelievable, but he was going to arrest her for spying for the Confederacy.
“What proof do you have?” Charlotte asked, trying to regain her composure.
“Mrs. Eleanor Sherman has told me that she saw you leaving her husband’s office during the Christmas Ball at Green-Meldrim house last evening. This aroused suspicion that you had been gathering intelligence relating to the Union’s military strategy,” he explained.
Although Mrs. Eleanor Sherman was said to possess a strong-willed nature, Charlotte couldn’t believe that the woman had fabricated such a malicious lie.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Deny everything. What solid proof do they have against me. Isn’t this the age before security cameras existed?
“You would have gotten away with your nefarious activities, Miss Liddell, if it were not for Mrs. Sherman’s observations. That gave me enough proof to open an investigation”
“I still have no idea what you are talking about,” Charlotte repeated.
“You’ve been passing information to the enemy ever since you came to Savannah. Before I take you into custody,” the detective said with a smug look on his face, “my female operative will search you for contraband.”
Charlotte wanted to run, but her instincts told her she wouldn’t get far.
“That won’t be necessary, Detective Bridgeman.”
Charlotte looked past him and his three operatives to see Spencer striding up the path leading to the townhouse. The stern look on his face warned the detective he would have to go through him first.
“I will vouch for Miss Liddell. She is innocent of whatever charges you are bringing against her,” he said, a grim determined expression on his face. Bridgeman smiled, his full beard wiggling.
“The lady is not your wife, Major, therefore she is not under your protection.”
Charlotte watched Spencer’s face twist with anger, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I said there is no need to search Miss Liddell to her undergarments, Detective,” Spencer said with assurance, daring Bridgeman to challenge him further.
Spencer took her arm and she felt a warm heat go through her.
She could still feel the pleasure of their lovemaking upon her skin when he touched her.
Why am I experiencing such sensual feelings now?
The crafty operatives could clearly see that they were lovers.
“Spencer ... you must believe me. I didn’t—”
“Don’t say another word. I will contact Francis Bartow, the best lawyer in Savannah to advise me on how to prepare your defense. You have nothing to worry about, my love,” he said before turning back to the detective.
“She is unarmed and carries no secret messages upon her person. I give you my word as a gentleman.”
The detective’s face reddened in anger, and he cleared his throat.
“You may wait inside the house for us, Major,” he said and then turned his attention back to Charlotte.
“You will come with us, Miss Liddell.”
Charlotte started to ask if she could pack a bag, but she changed her mind. She had to hope that Spencer would bring her things later.
Oh, Lord, my life is a mess!
“Miss Liddell, if you please?” Bridgeman said with an urgency in his voice, his three associates falling into step alongside her, escorting her out of the townhouse.
She didn’t stop, didn’t even turn her head to see if Spencer was watching from the doorway before she got into the enclosed carriage.
She didn’t have to. She knew he hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
And that was some comfort. But she knew she was going to the Old Capitol Prison in Washington City—a vermin-infested decaying jail, hastily refurbished to hold Confederate spies and others suspected of Confederate sympathies.
She had read that the verminous cells stank of open sewage drains.
Can anyone save me now?
****
She had never felt so alone. Not even when she was six years old and no one had come to pick her up at St. Andrew’s girls’ boarding school for the Christmas holidays.
Her parents had forgotten she was there, completely devastating her.
She had been left standing there in the drenching rain for hours waiting until they finally showed up. She prayed that wouldn’t happen here.
She was interred in the Old Capitol Prison in Washington City.
The winter storm had drenched the metropolis for the past few days, the incessant wind and heavy raindrops wreaking havoc with her mind, beating down hard on the windowpanes of her cell.
She spoke to no one except the guard, who brought her a tray of food twice a day.
She was so cold last night that she had begged him to bring her a blanket.
The prison was grimy. There was no doubt that it was lice infested.
Grumbling, he had tossed a Union blue coverlet through the door, its woolen fibers as faded as hope for better treatment there.
Nothing changed. She must bear the torture of loneliness which ate away at her soul, though she refused to let it wear her down.
She spent her day pacing up and down her cell, looking out the second story window.
Iron bars. Three-floor red brick prison.
In an odd way she had a room with a view.
––––––––
The next morning, she saw a lone sentinel standing outside on the unpaved road, gossiping with anyone who happened to walk by rather than guarding her or the other women imprisoned there.
Unfortunately, she was forbidden to speak to the other prisoners, but her actions didn’t go unnoticed.
After dark, she observed the same sentinel checking on her to see if she was standing at the window, signaling to anyone with candles.
She found it amusing. Who would I signal to? I know no one in Washington City.
The days dragged on. Steady. Never ending.
She thought she would go mad until she managed to secure writing paper and a pen and ink from the guard.
She was certain that Detective Bridgeman expected her to try to send out secret messages.
She had no idea how to use what he called a cipher wheel.
She was afraid he was going to be disappointed.
She merely wished to record what happened to her in hopes that her time there would be spent in a worthwhile pursuit.
She was determined to write down on paper what she saw as unjust treatment at the prison.
Prisoners were given only the scantest food to eat and a straw mattress to sleep on.
No opportunity to exercise in the yard, further isolating them.
For days, she’d proclaimed her innocence, her interrogators refusing to believe she wasn’t a spy for the Confederacy. She was angry, so angry she nearly blurted out she was a traveler from—
From where? The twenty-first century with cell phones and the internet? Then why not tell them that the spying on both sides didn’t affect the course of the war? Even if she did tell them, it was highly unlikely that they would believe her.
It broke her heart to know so many brave and dedicated women and men risked their lives as operatives, but no system to relay the information existed. Their attempts to get their messages to the right sources on time failed most of the time.
She paced up and down the cell, putting her hands to her head, trying to think.
Damn, I can’t stand this misery another minute!
She had no one to talk to or confide in.
They denied her all communication with anyone outside the prison.
Wasn’t she entitled to a lawyer? What has happened to my civil rights?
Was she kept in solitary because she was a woman and a Southerner?
In their eyes, she didn’t have any rights.
Even more degrading was the fact that they refused to give her any additional details about why she’d been arrested and what, if any, formal charges had been filed against her.
It was a crazy war, and it became more confusing to her every day.
Discouraged, she wondered if she would get the opportunity to see the outside world again.
She had read that leniency was shown toward female operatives, but she also knew that spying was a capital offense.
She had no guarantee that they wouldn’t hang her in the courtyard or, at the very least, make her spend the rest of the war in this filthy, miserable jail.
Even though that was less than four months away, she knew that a prisoner could easily starve during that time because of the meager rations they were given. Is this to be my fate as well?
Detective Bridgeman was determined to find something to charge her with that could be proved in court. From what she could surmise during her interrogation, too many female spies had already eluded him.
And she was his mark.
Charlotte wished she was a spy, just to prove she could do it.
Why hadn’t Spencer come to see her? That thought sent a disappointing emotion through her. She swallowed hard and pressed her fingers to her temples. She was certain that damned Bridgeman was behind it, another way to torture her. But he wouldn’t win, he wouldn’t!
Increasingly, Charlotte couldn’t differentiate between the two worlds. Alone, confined, at times she forgot she was back in 1864. At night she dreamed about a world filled with cellphones, SUVs and jets, fast food, and the internet.
Then, she’d wake up, and those memories of 2024 faded when she smelled the soot from the wood-burning stove and found bits of straw in her hair from the mattress.
She’d jump up, lunging forward, hampered by the strange clothing she wore, stumbling over to the window to peer out at the city waking up.
There, she’d listen to the sounds of the street.
Horses clip clopping, wagon wheels turning, and soldiers marching.
So familiar to her now, it was frightening.
She thought of that afternoon spent making love with Spencer in the meadow every hour she was awake and dreamed about it when she slept.
She would never forget how Spencer made love to her, sending her up to the highest part of heaven where she felt light and airy, then into a deep valley of pleasure where she felt warm and secure.
A thrill ride, wave after wave of excitement shooting through her, and then the most peaceful feeling she had ever known.
Teardrops gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision.
The memory of that afternoon remained fresh in her heart.