At Harper's Ferry
by Paul Westwood
Additional Text by Ann Robinson
Copyright 2011 Paul Westwood
Book cover source is from a
November 1, 1862 Harper’s Weekly illustration
Prologue
Lawrence Hanson gently closed the back door to the office building and craned his neck to look both ways. The flame of the gas streetlights reflected on the puddles of the lifeless street. His pulse quickened with the fear of what he had just done. He held a satchel tightly in his hands and felt the dampness of his palms slide against the leather. Anxiety sent the blood rushing to his cheeks, and he felt sick to his stomach as his eyes continued to dart across the gloomy shadows.
Out of nowhere, a sudden shaft of light struck Lawrence squarely in the face. He froze in panic from the voice that came from the darkness.
“Hold it right there! What are you doing here?”
Lawrence’s heart beat so quickly that he could hear the blood rush through his ears. He uneasily turned to the direction of the voice and saw it was a watchman holding his lantern. They patrolled the grounds of the War Office Building at night, keeping it safe from intruders. Lawrence had the bad luck of meeting one making his rounds. “I-I-I work here,” he finally stammered.
This watchman was a pudgy man with a sloppy cap hiding a bushy mess of gray hair. His voice was hard and doubtful when he asked, “Do you now? And who exactly do you work for, my lad?”
“Mister Forsythe.”
“I see,” the watchmen’s voice softened. “Why are you out so late? The office was closed hours ago.”
“I was asked to work late,” Lawrence lied easily as his pulse began to return to normal.
“Well then, be on your way. And make sure to be careful out there since you never know who is prowling around this time of night.” He touched the brim of his cap in respect and returned to walking his rounds. His footsteps receded into the night, the shaft of light bouncing along the wooden boardwalk.
Lawrence let out a pent up breath and wiped his sweaty brow. Fighting the urge to run, he forced himself to slowly continue along his chosen path. “In another hour,” he thought to himself, “I will finally be free.”
He turned onto the main road. As the sound of his footsteps died away, a tall man in a ranger coat stepped out of a shadowy doorway. He silently followed in the same direction as his quarry. The man’s steps were quiet and sure as he stayed in the shadows, far enough behind to remain undetected. A smile crossed his thin lips.
*
Lawrence arrived at the Gay Lady Saloon a little later than he had hoped. The normal crowd of workmen was only just beginning to thin as they began to stagger home for the night. However the air was still thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer. He pushed past the crowded bar and looked in the back corner toward a row of high-backed booths. There sat the man that he was supposed to meet.
The man was impatiently drumming his fingers against the table. Lawrence made his way to the back corner and remained standing. The tall man, who had been following him, came through the door and quickly caught up.
As Lawrence stood there, the man in the booth finally stopped drumming his fingers. He looked up and slowly smiled. He nodded at the tall, dark-haired man coming from behind. “You can go now, Stevenson,’ he murmured with the same lazy smile.
“Yes, Mister Abbott” the man called Stevenson replied. Before turning away, he quickly looked Lawrence over again with cold, dead eyes.
“So you came after all,” Abbott said to the young man with a smirk. “Now go ahead - sit down and join me in a drink.” He poured out a shot of whiskey for the young man and one for himself.
Lawrence sighed, shrugged his shoulders in resignation and sat down across from Abbott. “I didn’t mean to be late,” he started. “It just took a little longer than I expected. My office is staying busy late into the night with the news of Fort Sumter. I just had to wait until everyone else left.”
Abbot waved his hand, dismissing the tardiness. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just not used to meeting in such an establishment as this, but places like this do have their uses. Who’s going to remember seeing us here out of this crowd?” His hand loosely held the whiskey glass, and the bottle next to it was none too clean and nearly half empty. “Your lateness didn’t bother me much, though I was beginning to doubt your courage in this matter. I just hope you brought what I requested. Otherwise, you won’t be receiving your – ahem – payment.” His smile widened and his voice was thick with innuendo as he continued.
Lawrence’s eyes shot daggers at Abbott, his brow lowered. “My courage should never be doubted. And I assume that you would get money out of her if you could, unfortunate woman.”
Abbott grinned. “Men in your position should be more careful before they fall in love with a married woman. And especially if it’s a woman who sold those letters to me.” He gestured lightly to himself, his hand resting on his chest.
Lawrence’s face flushed. “It’s none of your business who I fell in love with,” he said. “If you had any decency, you would have left me well alone.”
“Yes, but it became my business. Perhaps you shouldn’t have written all of those letters to her in the first place,” his face cracked into a nasty grin. “It was only a matter of time before they were in my possession. Little did I know how useful they would end up being.”
The young man’s face was red with anger and his voice trembled as he spoke. “I’ve paid for those letters once before, and I’ve got what you requested here as well. This had better put an end to it all,” he said loudly. He corrected himself and lowered his voice, hoping they hadn't been overheard.
Abbot leaned closer towards him and spoke almost gently, “I think not, Mister Hanson. There are several other small matters you can help me with.”
“I’m not certain that I know what you mean.” Lawrence replied. His anger was rising while the cool words escaped Abbott’s mouth.
“Let’s not continue to play games. We will need even more secrets from your office. The Secessionists will come to rely on plans such as this, and how better to get them than from the War Department?”
Lawrence’s hand slipped off of his glass in surprise. He jerked to his feet and his voice once again rose in anger. “I’m in enough danger as it is. You just can’t expect anything more from me. I have taken more than enough risks already. What I have done is traitorous. If I am discovered, it will be the end of me. I will be sure to take you along on the ride to the gallows.”
“Be quiet you fool!” Abbott warned him before looking over the saloon, checking to see that the young man’s words had not been overheard. No one appeared to be paying them any attention. He continued, “Now sit down and listen to me. This business of selling documents could be quite profitable for all of us. I don’t intend to let all that money be had by someone else, and your frail conscience will not stop me. If you don’t do what is suggested, it may be a mistake you will live to regret.”
Lawrence sat back down, looking miserable. “The only mistake I made was hoping that you could be reasoned with like a gentleman. I will not give you these papers, and by my honor, I shall give you nothing else. I will report this to the Under-Secretary in the morning and will take whatever punishment they mete out.”
“Let’s think a bit more carefully before we do anything rash,” Abbot protested. “Now give me those plans right now, and we can talk about this at a later time.” He filled the glasses again and watched him intently.
He looked at the glass for a moment and then slid it away. “No, I’ve made my mind up.” His voice still trembl
ed slightly but had a determined tone. He slammed the table with his palms, stood up and walked away. He was quickly out of the saloon with the satchel and its contents still in his possession.
As the young man departed, Abbott shook his head and then found the eyes of his man Stevenson. He gave him a quick wave of his hand. With a nod in return, the man walked out through the mass of revelers and made his way to the front door to follow Lawrence into the night.