All Other Nights (15 page)

The image of the two of them, naked on their knees, burned itself into Jacob’s body. He left the building and circled the town madly, trying desperately to erase it from his field of vision. After a while he turned down an alley and stepped into an actual horses’ stable, retching wildly. He forced himself to think of Harry Hyams, willing the dark bile within him to pour itself out, but he could not vomit it away. It was branded onto his gut forever.

With Rose’s message in his pocket, he proceeded to the bakery.

J
ACOB STOOD IN FRONT OF THE BAKERY, THE IMAGE OF DORRIE AND
Dabney on their knees seared into his stomach. He glanced at his reflection in the door’s window and reached for the doorknob. But just before pulling the door open, he paused. The naked women on the platform burned in his mind’s eye, and suddenly he pictured the only other woman he had ever seen without clothes. In his memory he saw Jeannie as she had been just the previous night: lying naked on their bed as he unbuckled his belt, her bare body breathing before him in the dim candlelight, waiting for him. He understood what he was selling. His hand slid from the doorknob, and he walked away.

He hurried back toward Philip’s office as he tried to justify his choice. At least, he told himself, he might already be serving his country simply by not delivering the message to Jackson as he had promised. If the Federals really were about to march on Richmond again, imagine the devastation to them that he would be preventing just by keeping Rose’s message safely in his own hands! If that were the case, then he had already saved thousands of Union lives—even, perhaps, the lives of his own fellow soldiers from the 18th New York. Besides, he reasoned, might he be even more useful to his country by simply
accumulating
more evidence of this type? After all, if Jeannie and Lottie were to be arrested, some other chain of spies would surely spring up in their place. But here he was stopping the damage at the source, like the little Dutch boy who saved his country with a single finger in the dike. Why not let Lottie and Jeannie continue passing their information to him, so that he could
continue
stopping them? Yes, he decided, that was the best approach. He retreated to the office and quickly buried Rose’s message in the lining of his hat. He sat down at Philip’s desk and composed a vague message in code for the bakery:
ACTIVITY DETECTED IN HOUSEHOLD; CURRENTLY INTERCEPTING ENEMY COMMUNICATION; ESSENTIAL NOT TO INTERRUPT MISSION AT THIS TIME
. When he was finished, he went back to the bakery to deliver the goods.

Jacob’s contact at the bakery had the ridiculous name of Achilles Fogg, and his surname suggested the atmosphere in his shop on that humid afternoon. The air in the bakery was thick, heavy with flour and heat. Jacob found it difficult to breathe.

Fogg was used to it. He was an old man—fat, as any good baker ought to be, with a thick mustache and a perpetually reddened face, his forearms scarred and singed from too many accidents by the ovens. Jacob often wished that he could really speak to him, if only to alleviate the sheer loneliness of what he had been doing for these past months, but also to find out what it was about him that made him do what he had agreed to do. Jacob assumed that he was motivated by some sort of idealism, imagining that he must be a secret abolitionist hiding runaway slaves in his cellar, or a practical philosopher who believed that union was the only path to peace, or a pious Christian who wanted nothing more than to help the needy and serve his God. Or it might just as easily have been the money. Jacob would have loved to ask him, but he had been instructed never to speak with him more than necessary, and Fogg had apparently been taught the same. The baker was the only person in the shop when Jacob finally entered, though there was always a risk that another customer might appear at any moment; they usually said little to each other, almost nothing at all. Fogg saw Jacob through the heated haze, and grinned.

“Thought you’d be comin’ before,” he said. “Saw you out there ’bout a quarter past.”

“Oh, yes,” Jacob stammered. “I was about to come in, but I—I left something behind at the office.”

“Not much business these days, I reckon,” he said. The phrase was a code, a reprimand from the commanders. Roughly deciphered, it meant:
RAPPAPORT, WHERE IN HELL HAVE YOU BEEN
?

“No,” Jacob replied, and then thought he would test him. “It seems like the auction house is the only success left in town.”

This wasn’t part of their script. The baker smiled again, but Jacob couldn’t read anything in his expression. Something told Jacob that the baker wouldn’t say anything more; he was far better at this than Jacob would ever be. Perhaps, Jacob thought while watching the man’s creased red face, this wasn’t his first war.

“What’ll it be today?” Fogg asked, and rubbed his thick hands together.

“The usual, thank you,” Jacob said.

“I got it all ready for you,” Fogg replied. “Good you don’t come in before. Ellis only jes’ deliver ’em.” Ellis was a Negro boy about Rose’s age who ran deliveries of flour and other supplies to the bakery. Of course, Ellis must have been working for them too.

Achilles Fogg brought out a small sack filled with rolls, exactly as he always did. “That’ll be seven cents,” he said. “Sorry we done raised the price. Money’s gone way down these days.”

Jacob reached into his pocket and passed him his message, along with a handful of pennies. The paper disappeared into the baker’s thick, sweating palm. “Thank you,” Jacob murmured, and quickly turned to leave.

“We’ll be expectin’ y’all agin soon,” the baker called as the door swung shut behind him.

That meant the commanders needed more than Jacob was giving them, and were getting impatient. Well, Jacob thought, they would have to keep waiting. He returned to the office, where he shut himself up in Philip’s private study before picking and eating his way through several of the rolls. The rolls, as always, contained what Jacob expected—and what Jeannie and her sisters needed. When the day wore thin, Jacob went back to the Levy house, filled with an intense feeling of happiness. For the first time in his life, he would be feeding his family, all on his own.

SUPPER AT THE
Levys’ house since Philip’s imprisonment had become even more stultifying than before. The girls refused to speak to the boarders, and Jacob couldn’t manage to make conversation with them the way Philip always had, not with the four sisters watching him. That evening the meal limped along until everyone was done eating, at which point Lottie loudly announced that she was embarking on a new project to sew socks and shirts for needy Rebel soldiers, which she would be working on upstairs, and excused herself. The three boarders of the moment blushed darkly—war profiteers, all, who seemed to welcome Jacob’s presence, and particularly his accent, at the head of the table in the Levys’ house. But in the wake of Philip’s departure, Lottie was making it clear that the girls would stand on their own, their pride and contempt intact. The boarders looked to Jacob for sympathy, but he avoided their eyes. They quickly left, heading for the tavern. Once they had cleared the table, Phoebe and Rose hurried upstairs to join Lottie, leaving Jacob and Jeannie in the front room, alone.

Jeannie rushed toward him as soon as they were by themselves. “Did you give them the message?” she asked.

“Of course,” he lied. To his surprise, the lie was easy to tell. He knew he had saved her, and that was enough.

“Oh, Jacob, thank you!” she cried, and threw her arms around him. Her soft cheek against his was enough to erase his doubts.

“And this is what they gave me,” Jacob said, and presented her with his snuff box. It was the one that Phoebe had carved for him, “from Jeannie.”

Jeannie took it in her hands, knowing immediately what Jacob meant. She opened the lid, dipped a finger in to push the snuff aside, and carefully lifted the floor of the box until she could reach the secret compartment. Out of it she withdrew a single bill, folded into a tiny rectangle. It was still moist from the bakery roll from which Jacob had extracted it that afternoon, but when she unfolded it, it was legible enough.

“
A hundred dollars
?” she asked.

“Quite deserved,” Jacob replied. But his stomach fluttered. The currency, he knew, was depreciating by the day; should there have been more?

He watched as Jeannie shook her head. “This is much more than they ever gave us before. Twenty at a time, maybe. Never this much.”

Jacob had simply thought of it as Rebel money, which was worthless as far as he was concerned. But no one in Virginia saw it that way then, not yet. And now he was worried.

“Did they mention anything about it when they gave it to you?” she asked.

Jacob maintained his actor’s face: straight, candid. “No, nothing in particular,” he said.

“How odd,” she said, running a finger over the box’s carved lid. She gave the box back to Jacob as she examined the bill in her other hand. “When William paid us, there was never more than—”

Suddenly she stopped speaking and looked up, eyeing Jacob. Jacob watched as she screwed her face into a sneer. “What a fool I’ve been,” she announced.

Now it was over. In another instant Jacob would have fallen at her feet, begging her to save his life. But just as he was about to open his mouth, she said, “William must have been keeping the rest for himself all this time. Papa was right. He was pure scum.” Then she smiled. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Jacob sucked in his breath, trying to hold back a gasp of relief. “I only did what you asked of me,” he said. The lie was harder this time, but still not painful. The jealous triumph over William made him unaccountably proud, though Philip deserved the credit. And Jacob knew what he had really done for her, even if she never would.

“Jacob, you don’t know how good you are,” Jeannie said with a sigh. She tucked the money into her dress, and enfolded him in her arms.

If he were a better person, he would have turned away, excused himself, told her he couldn’t hold her now, that it would have to be another time, or another life; he would have vanished from the world entirely, poisoned forever with dirt and shame. But instead he started kissing her, and soon he found himself reaching up under her dress. He had every right. He had paid in full.

P
HILIP LOOKED BETTER THE SECOND TIME JACOB SAW HIM. IT
was just over two weeks since Jacob had decided not to turn in his evidence when he was finally granted permission to return to the jail for another visit. This time he was brought to a different room, one with a table and stools instead of benches, and a chair along the wall for the guard. It was the same guard from his first visit, the old drunk. But this time he was awake, if inattentive, yawning over a copy of the
New Babylon Intelligencer
. And someone—Philip’s lawyer?—must have alerted the jail to the bad impression Philip’s cell had made, because instead of showing Jacob to Philip’s cell, the warden brought Philip directly into the room where Jacob was waiting. Philip was still shackled, but he seemed to wear his chains more lightly now. When he first saw Jacob, he almost smiled.

They spoke for a time with a merciful lack of passion. Philip told him what the lawyer had said about his chances with the judge, which the lawyer apparently did not find as dire as Jeannie had predicted, though Jacob suspected that Philip was merely making the picture rosier for his sake. And Jacob in turn briefed him carefully about the business, lying even more than usual. He saw no reason to damage Philip’s good mood. Things were practically jovial between them until Philip suddenly leaned his shackled hands across the table toward Jacob and frowned.

“Jacob, I have a favor to ask of you. A large one,” he said.

Jacob glanced at the guard, who was lighting a pipe. It must be something about the lawyer, he guessed. With the guard ten feet away, there was a limit to what else Philip could possibly ask. “You know I would do anything for you,” he said.

Philip looked at him. “I’d like you to buy Caleb. Bill my account.”

At first Jacob had no idea what he meant. His initial thought was that this was some elaborate delusion about the business; perhaps Philip’s time in the jail was driving him mad. Jacob spoke slowly, as if to an imbecile, and asked, “You’d like me to buy what?”

“Caleb, my cellmate. If you give the warden seven hundred dollars, he’s yours.”

Now Jacob was certain that Philip had gone mad. “Why? What for?”

“I know it sounds like a lot, but trust me, he’s a bargain,” Philip said loudly, in response to no question Jacob had asked. “At auction he would be over a thousand dollars. But this is a foreclosure sale. It would make an excellent investment.” Philip paused, and watched Jacob.

Now Jacob saw that Philip was speaking for the benefit of the guard. “I mentioned him to you last time,” Philip said, emphasizing each word. “Do you remember?”

Suddenly Jacob understood, though he found it almost impossible to believe. “Yes, I remember,” he said slowly. “I shall consider it.”

“Don’t consider it,” Philip told him. “Come back with the money and do it. As soon as possible. Today or tomorrow, if you can.” His voice was even, but urgent. “Use my account. This is a business opportunity that you must not miss.”

The guard had actually been listening, it seemed. He chuckled, a snorting sound, and as Jacob looked at him, he looked away and shook his head. “Always money, money, money,” he muttered, ostensibly to himself. “Even in jail, they still tryin’ to make a buck.”

Philip blinked twice, then glanced at the guard. The guard was still grinning, but now he was pretending to ignore them, looking down at his newspaper and deliberately rustling its pages. Then Philip turned back to Jacob, and smiled.

He raised his shackled wrists and wiped his eyes, awkwardly moving one thumb and then one wrist along the edge of the other wrist’s shirt cuff. Then he rubbed at his shirt cuff a bit more, wiping his eye with his other fingers. Jacob almost offered to help him, but before he could decide whether Philip would appreciate his help or be ashamed of it, Philip lowered his hands back to the table, the irons clanging on the wood. A second later he clutched Jacob’s hand firmly and quickly let go. Jacob felt something small and light, a tiny bit of cloth, folded into his fist.

Jacob nearly unfolded his fingers to look, before he thought better of it. Instead he slipped whatever it was into his pocket. Then he looked up at Philip again, and he saw for the first time that his smile was strikingly, beautifully familiar. Jacob couldn’t help but laugh. Apparently Jeannie had inherited her talent for sleight of hand.

“That’s the sort of thing the baker would appreciate,” Philip said as Jacob laughed.

“The baker?” Jacob nearly swallowed the words.

“Jacob, don’t be tiresome,” Philip said. “I’ve known Achilles for years, though he has never respected me much.”

How much did Philip know? Jacob was still speechless when Philip finally spoke again. “Of course, by now I hope you know that respect isn’t in the cards for us,” he said. “But you can make your way through life without it. All you can hope for is a bit of honor now and then—private honor. No one will ever give it to you, no one will ever congratulate you for it, no one will ever even know you have it, but you earn it, and it’s yours.”

The last time Jacob had heard this was from the mouth of the Confederate Secretary of State, as he stood behind a latrine in a swamp. Now he was hearing it from a man in chains, and this time he already knew it was true. He could say nothing; there was nothing left to say.

“Are the girls all right?” Philip asked.

Jacob started to ramble about Rose and Phoebe ignoring the boarders, and about Lottie knitting socks for the troops, but Philip drummed his fingers once on the table and glared. Jacob knew what he really wanted to know. “I’m keeping Eugenia under control,” he finally said.

“I am depending on you,” Philip said softly. “Please protect her. I know you have the ability to protect her.” The voices of the officers echoed through Jacob’s mind:
We know we may depend on you. With no exceptions.
“It will be very dangerous for her. And for you, too. If she doesn’t turn around, she’ll be shot in the back.”

Jacob didn’t know whether or not this was a metaphor, and he didn’t care to find out. But now he was torn, and terrified. “I am already doing more than I can,” he said, almost pleading. “What else can I possibly do?”

“Buy Caleb,” Philip said.

Then the warden came in, and took Philip away.

JACOB LEFT THE JAILHOUSE
and made his way toward the office. The day soon grew long, deadened with sorting through fruitless accounting, correspondence about canceled plans, and the growing pile of notices of debt. After too many hours of watching him pretend to work, Jacob even sent the secretary home, wondering how soon he might have to let him go. Alone at last, he pulled the rag of paper out of his pocket.

It was a little square of cotton cloth that must have been cut from a shirt, covered with words written out in block letters. The words were written in an odd, brownish-looking ink. Only after quite some time did Jacob realize it must have been blood. It read:

HOME MORNING RIGHT MOVING FOR VENUS EIGHT TO GLORY LOVE HILLCREST MILO ASHTON MARS LIZA TOMORROW TRUTH.

As soon as Jacob saw the word
HOME
, he froze in Philip’s chair. Could it possibly be?

He wouldn’t, couldn’t believe it until he tried. He took out a piece of paper and a charcoal pencil and set to work.

The word
HOME
meant four columns with four words in each, routed from bottom to top in odd-numbered columns and top to bottom in even-numbered ones. He reassembled the words after
HOME
according to the route, in a way that had become commonplace to him from deciphering the command’s messages during the past few months:

Now, reading horizontally from left to right, some sense emerged. VENUS was a code word for “Colonel,” MARS was General Longstreet, MILO meant “thousand,” LIZA meant “troops,” and RIGHT meant “east”—this much Jacob had already filed in his memory. The last three words, GLORY, LOVE, and TRUTH, were column-fillers. As he had long suspected, they meant nothing at all. Which left:

FOR COLONEL ASHTON. LONGSTREET MOVING EIGHT THOUSAND TROOPS EAST TO HILLCREST TOMORROW MORNING.

This was almost unfathomable. Jacob sat rereading the words for a long time, unable to understand. How on earth could Philip’s cellmate have known any of it? Perhaps it was a ruse, but it was difficult to imagine what incentive the slave would have to lie. No, Jacob was confident it was true; the slave had gotten the information legitimately, even if the information itself was somehow fraudulent or imprecise. But how had he found out? Hadn’t he been sitting in jail? If Philip had hardly been allowed any visitors, surely a slave wouldn’t have had any at all. Through what magic had he done it? Still pondering, Jacob read it again, until the last two words jumped out at him. He stopped thinking, pocketed the bloodstained scrap again, along with a few coins, and ran to the bakery as fast as he could. Once he had slipped the message into the baker’s fat hand, he ran back to the office to see what more could be done.

He consulted the account books and went to the safe, where he removed seven hundred dollars in Rebel cash for the following day’s purchase. He would have gone back to do it that day, if it weren’t already so late. The investment, he saw, was worthwhile; there was no time to waste. He was nearly frantic as he walked back to the Levy house, wondering how he would ever be able to face the sisters that night. Then on his way home, he remembered something else, and bought a newspaper.

He scanned the headlines, but there was nothing but the regular carnage and body counts, and the lists of casualties by name on the inside pages, as usual. One blessing of living in New Babylon was that the newspapers did not report the names of casualties for the Union. If everyone Jacob knew had already been killed, he did not want to know. But despite the ordinariness that had bled itself out of what used to be horror, that day’s paper was something strange indeed.

He flipped back to the front page, reading the headlines again, and looked once more at the date, calculating in his head. Exactly two weeks and one day had passed since Lottie’s rendezvous with Major Stoughton. Yet even when he read through the entire paper, and bought every other paper available, Jacob could not find a single word about the Federal navy increasing its force at Norfolk.