The Soul of a Stranger

By Phillip Otts

Now full-fledge spies for the Union, the brothers Martin McCrary and John Harvey are hiding in plain sight in their hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. Martin is a commissioned officer in the militia of the now independent state of South Carolina. As such he is privy to the plans they, and later the Confederate States of America, have towards Fort Sumter. While he works to get information to and from his contacts in the Union, it is his brother, a former slave, who organizes his own make-shift navy among the slave fishermen to aid the Union as they plan to defend the fort. In the end, Fate takes the reigns and our heroes can only hang on for the ride.

About the Author:
Phillip Otts retired from the CIA in 2006 to pursue a life-long interest in writing. A native of Alabama, he developed a deep appreciation for the remarkable handful of Southerners who recognized the evils of slavery and took tangible steps to end it. In addition to the Harvey & McCrary Adventures, he also the author of a contemporary espionage novel, The Sword of the Prophet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DX Varos Publishing
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781941072790

Book preview

The Soul of a Stranger

a Harvey & McCrary Adventure

Phillip Otts

Copyright © 2020, Phillip Otts

Published by:

D. X. Varos, Ltd

7665 E. Eastman Ave. #B101

Denver, CO 80231

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

Book cover design and layout by, Ellie Bockert Augsburger of Creative Digital Studios.

www.CreativeDigitalStudios.com

Cover design features:

Close up profile of handsome young black man against isolated white background By mimagephotos / Adobe Stock

Closeup profile photo of macho model guy perfect neat hairstyle looking empty space focused salon spa refreshment procedures naked torso isolated grey background By deagreez / Adobe Stock 

Fort Sumter on a cloudy day By Daniel / Adobe Stock

ISBN: 978-1-941072-78-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-941072-79-0 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Acknowledgements

About the Author

This book is dedicated to the millions of human beings who suffered under slavery in America, and to those who fought to end it. Their stories inspire current generations struggling with the lingering pain of our nation's original sin.

There is a terrible war coming, and these young men who have never seen war cannot wait for it to happen, but I tell you, I wish that I owned every slave in the South, for I would free them all to avoid this war.

—Robert E. Lee

You people of the South don't know what you are doing. This country will be drenched in blood, and God only knows how it will end. It is all folly, madness, a crime against civilization! You people speak so lightly of war; you don't know what you're talking about. War is a terrible thing…If your people will but stop and think, they must see in the end that you will surely fail.

—William Tecumseh Sherman

In the Southern States there are two entirely distinct and separate races, and one has been held in subjection to the other by peaceful inheritance from worthy and patriotic ancestors, and all who know the races, well know that it is the only form of government that can preserve both and administer the blessings of civilization with order and in harmony. Any thing tending to change or weaken this government and the subordination between the races not only endangers the peace, but the very existence of our society.

—Inaugural address, South Carolina Governor Francis W. Pickens (December 14th, 1860)

Chapter 1

The Volunteer

Major Robert Anderson, commanding officer of the federal garrison in Charleston, South Carolina, faced a difficult decision. It was Christmas morning, and his world was falling apart. It seemed odd that Christmas had fallen on a Tuesday, and stranger still that South Carolina had seceded from the Union on Thursday, rather than accept Abraham Lincoln as their president. The major was perplexed by the results of the election, as he knew Lincoln personally. Squinting, he trolled the depths of his memories, and recalled a gangly, pock-faced young man whose only achievement was winning election as captain of a militia company during the Black Hawk War. He remembered mustering Lincoln back into service as a private when his first unit was disbanded, because the rough country bumpkin had no other means of employment. Anderson found it difficult to wrap his mind around Lincoln’s election to the Presidency, because the gulf between a regular Army officer and a militia private in 1832 was as vast as the chasm separating the major from his future commander in chief in 1860.

Major Anderson stood and pushed his chair back from a small table beneath the walls of Fort Moultrie, on the north side of Charleston Harbor. He paced the room, trying to decide if he should demean himself by meeting with a negro who claimed to have information of value. This question led to other, more serious questions: Anderson was pro-slavery, yet he had taken a solemn oath to protect and defend the United States. Moreover, he had sealed his oath in blood during the Mexican-American War. His family owned slaves, but his father was an aide-de-camp to the great Marquis de Lafayette, one of General Washington’s most trusted friends and advisors. Where did his duty lie? With his family and the interests of property, or with the young nation he had served his entire life?

Major Anderson knew every officer in the regular Army faced the same choice, but it was especially real for him, at this time and place, at this moment in history. The decisions he made today could lead to war tomorrow, a bloody conflict that might otherwise be avoided. Could he live with himself if he made the wrong choice? Was the outcome predictable? The major had his orders, and it would be easy to fall back on that, but the burden of his command and the demands of his conscience required reflection on both duty and morality.

The choices narrowed in the shadows of his troubled mind, and the major made his choice:

If the rebels attack, we will defend ourselves. Let the blame rest on the souls of the aggressors.

With solemn resolve, Anderson adjusted his coat before emerging from his private chambers and entering his ceremonial office. Two men stood nervously on either side, one white and one black. His surgeon, Captain Samuel Crawford, approached:

Sir, this is the man I told you about. I believe I can vouch for his sincerity, as he presented me with a letter of introduction from a reputable British physician I met during my voyage to Bermuda last summer.

Captain Crawford, a distinguished graduate of the University of Pennsylvania medical school, sported an impressive set of mutton chop whiskers and spoke with a clipped northern accent. All three of these qualities were a source of irritation to the major, a clean-shaven graduate of West Point from the Great State of Kentucky.

Yes, yes - you told me about Dr. Satterwhite, Major Anderson responded casually as he took a seat behind a large mahogany desk, while gesturing for Captain Crawford to make himself comfortable in a chair on his right.

I’m listening, the major continued as he appraised the young negro standing on the far side of the room, wearing a freedman’s tag on his lapel.

John Harvey gathered his wits before approaching the major’s desk, with hat in hand. He wasn’t happy to be there, as he risked exposure and a painful death if his intentions were revealed to the rebels in Charleston.

Good morning, Suh. I’ll get straight to the point, as there’s no time to waste. Sometime tomorrow you and your officers will receive an invitation to attend a New Year’s Eve celebration at old man McCrary’s place in town, as a gesture of good will. The invitation is a trick, intended to distract you just long enough to seize all federal property in the city before midnight on New Year’s Eve. The rebels hope to achieve this objective peacefully, but they have resolved to use force, if necessary.

Major Anderson shifted in his seat and glanced over at Captain Crawford.

Why should we believe you? The major asked as his eyes narrowed. You wear a freedman’s badge. That means you enjoy a position of trust in your household. How do I know you weren’t sent here by your master, as part of some deception? Everyone knows the McCrarys are radical secessionists.

Harvey had anticipated the major’s reaction, but it rankled him still. He was risking his life to help federal forces maintain control of Charleston harbor, but his integrity was in question. As he had done so many times in the past, Harvey swallowed his pride and did what he had to do.

I bring proof, Harvey responded, while reaching into his jacket to retrieve an envelope, from friends in the city who still oppose secession and wish to avoid an armed conflict, as that would be bad for the cotton trade, and cotton is King down here.

Harvey abandoned the pretense of being a simple-minded servant and spoke with confidence, as a self-educated man. But he could only reveal so much, as he wasn’t prepared to tell the major about his partner and half-brother, Martin McCrary, or the fragile network of spies they were running under the noses of the secessionists.

Major Anderson opened the envelope and reached for his spectacles. The enclosed document was nothing short of sensational: It included a detailed report on the disposition of federal forces in Charleston, and an accurate assessment of the vulnerability of Fort Moultrie to a surprise attack from the landward side. The last sheet of paper was the most astonishing: It was a letter signed by South Carolina Governor Francis Pickens ordering the state militia to seize all federal property by the end of the year. The major recognized Governor Pickens’ signature, which meant the documents were genuine. Or was he the target of an elaborate deception?

The major’s head told him the freedman’s story was true, but his heart squirmed with discomfort. He was raised in a Kentucky mansion surrounded by slaves, with a mother haunted by fears of insurrection when her husband was away. How could he trust a black man who would betray the family that freed him? There was only one safe course of action.

I’m inclined to believe you, Mr. Harvey, but you must remain with us, at least until we can take action in response to this intelligence. Major Anderson rose from his chair and turned to face his subordinate:

Captain, the major ordered, tell Sergeant Hightower to keep this man in a private cell until further notice. Do not breath a word about this to anyone, do you understand?

Yes Sir, the captain replied as he turned to escort Harvey out of the room. Both officers were surprised by the black man’s dignified response:

I figured you might say that. Harvey spoke softly as he held his chin high. There is one more thing you need to know, and one request I need to make: First, your boats have been watched around the clock for several weeks, but the watch was removed at sunset last night, to allow the men to celebrate Christmas with their families. The watch will resume tomorrow afternoon, leaving little time to act.

The major exchanged glances with the captain and nodded with appreciation. Thank you, Mr. Harvey, that’s valuable information indeed. And your request?

Tell your sergeant I was caught spying on the fort. Have him rough me up a bit and leave me in the cell when you depart, to be found by the rebels when they discover you’ve escaped. That ploy may preserve my ability to be of service in the future.

Major Anderson was struck dumb by Harvey’s cleverness, awakening memories of successful reconnaissance missions directed against enemy positions during the Mexican American War. The memory reminded the major of the difference between peacetime and wartime service, and the awful consequences of failure or misjudgment. After weighing his options carefully, he spoke again:

Captain, the major ordered, make the necessary arrangements, to insure we have a means of staying in touch with Mr. Harvey in the future. Tell Sergeant Hightower to knock him around a bit, ostensibly to learn more about his accomplices, but not to break anything.

Of course, Sir! The captain responded, with a troubled look on his face. He was a competent surgeon, but well out of his depth today.

Mr. Harvey, the major continued, When next we meet, I expect to learn more about you, and how you came by this intelligence. Should your words prove true, my gratitude will be tangible. If not, I’m sure you know what to expect.

Well, Major, Harvey retorted, I don’t expect anything from you or anyone else. I’m doing this for myself, and my people!

Major Anderson nodded quietly before shouting, Sergeant!

Chapter 2

Fencing Lessons

Newly commissioned militia Lieutenant Martin McCrary sat quietly behind South Carolina Governor Francis Wilkinson Pickens under a veranda in the courtyard at the Citadel Academy in Charleston. His eyes scanned the surrounding balconies and alcoves, admiring the Doric columns and Roman arches. Looking calm and composed on the outside, his mind was swirling with the complications of his secret life, working as a double agent against his native state. Despite his best efforts, South Carolina had seceded from the Union and war seemed inevitable. He had accepted the fact that his life would be forfeit if his treachery was uncovered. To make matters worse, Harvey had failed to return from his mission on Christmas day. All the more reason to be discreet, to listen and observe. That task was made easier by his young age and low rank in a group of great men.

Governor Pickens was proud of the Citadel and enjoyed showing it off, even if he would rather be home with his family at Edgewood mansion. His state had declared independence, and armed conflict with Federal forces could erupt at any moment. He was obliged to seek support from abroad.

Sir Richard, the people of South Carolina believe Great Britain is our natural ally, as our mutual prosperity depends on the cotton trade. As you know, we prefer British goods over Yankee imitations and Federal tariffs. How will Britain react to secession? The governor glanced over at the famous British explorer and adventurer, feigning nonchalance.

Sir Richard Burton sat at the governor’s right hand. He had anticipated the question and was prepared to offer an opinion, hoping to elicit valuable information from the governor and his entourage in return.

Pausing for effect, Burton responded, ignoring the noisy cadets cheering the fencing tournament in the middle of the courtyard.

As you know, Governor, I’ve recently returned from a visit to the Utah territories, where many of the local settlers believe they would be better off forming an independent nation, rather than joining the Union. Having witnessed the vastness of North America during my travels, I must confess their argument was persuasive. It seems to me the people of this land would thrive if governance was dispersed at the state and regional level, where the people share the most in common. My acquaintances in Utah said they believe the United States will eventually dissolve into more natural parts, with separate nations forming in the South, the Northwest and perhaps Texas and the Southwest.

Sir Burton didn’t disclose the fact that he had done his best to spread this vision himself during his travels across the continent. Governor Pickens took the bait and responded enthusiastically.

Indeed. The people of South Carolina have no more interest in a Union with blasphemous Mormons than we did with Northern abolitionists and their hordes of Irish immigrants. Like many South Carolinians, Governor Pickens believed Irish Catholics were members of an inferior race. In his mind, Scots-Irish Presbyterians and British Anglicans were their natural overlords, in a system ordained by the Lord God Almighty.

Always aware of every person surrounding him, Sir Burton turned to elicit the opinion of Robert Bunch, the British Consul in Charleston.

Tell me, Robert, Burton said, using the consul’s familiar name to mark the difference in their social status, What is your opinion?

Robert Bunch was a small man with a gift for being both charming and forgettable. Internally, he squirmed with discomfort, having witnessed the horrors of slavery during his years of service in Charleston. He never hesitated to address those concerns in his private dispatches to London. Externally, he deflected, concealing his secret disgust with the secessionists and everything they stood for. He knew Sir Burton was a prominent if discreet voice among those interests in Britain that would be delighted by a peaceful end to the United States of America. They saw America as a potential threat to British hegemony and a competitor in the production and exportation of manufactured goods.

I won’t pretend to speak for Her Majesty’s Government without guidance from London. I can address Britain’s most pressing interests: First and foremost, protections for the mutual prosperity provided by unrestricted commerce. Second, a firm objection to any revival of the slave trade.

Bunch directed his response to Governor Pickens, not Sir Burton. Both Englishmen were well informed and recognized each other as potential enemies. Unbeknownst to Bunch, Burton had been secretly briefed on the British Consul’s scathing dispatches to the Foreign Office, which provided a harshly negative assessment of the leaders of South Carolina.

Yes, yes. Governor Pickens responded dismissively. We are well aware of your objections to the slave trade. Of course, Great Britain does not object to the profit generated by cotton, which depends entirely on slave labor. Your textile mills employ millions of wage laborers, living in conditions hardly better than that endured by our negroes. Meanwhile, the owners, financiers and great men of property in Great Britain, prosper. How will the South meet Britain’s growing demand for cotton if we cannot import labor?

The recently appointed Secretary of State for South Carolina, Judge Andrew Magrath, couldn’t resist an opportunity to express his opinion:

We South Carolinians believe the importation of labor that was already enslaved in Africa, Cuba or elsewhere shouldn’t offend British sensibilities. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Bunch?

Magrath was a former federal district court judge in the state capital of Columbia, notorious for dismissing cases against accused slave traders. This despite the fact that such offenses were punishable by death, under U.S. law. A sympathetic British journalist, William Russell of the Times of London, rescued Consul Bunch by asking a question of his own:

As you know, Governor, the editors of my paper have been very supportive of your state’s opposition to federal tariffs on British goods. They have also avoided any criticism of your peculiar institutions, which they perceive to be a domestic concern. Any proposal to revive the slave trade, however, might elicit a completely different reaction in Great Britain. Now that South Carolina has seceded from the Union, do you plan to review the Trade?

Governor Pickens wasn’t known for his cool-headedness. Feeling confident after his inauguration and the secession of his state from the Union, he answered openly, where discretion was needed. He spoke firmly, through narrow lips in a massive jaw topped by a flat nose:

Why, if a South Carolinian concedes the slave trade is wrong, we would be acknowledging slavery is wrong, when it fact the institution is blessed and ordained by God. Slavery is the natural condition of the Negro. Surely we can assume Great Britain will not object if we import much-needed labor that is already enslaved, rather than acquiring new slaves from abroad?

The governor scanned the group surrounding him, encouraged by murmurs of approval from his supporters. He took a deep breath, prepared to step deeper into controversy, when he was interrupted by George Trenholm, a South Carolinian with deeper connections in Britain.

Gentlemen, the distinguished-looking Trenholm interjected. None of these problems will be resolved overnight. Patience is required. In the meantime, may I suggest we turn our attention to the competition? I understand the formidable Royal Navy Lieutenant Walter Tisdale has offered a fencing lesson to the cadets.

The governor was willing to change the topic, but not without taking the opportunity to shine a bright light on his influence and connections:

No doubt your British friend is a skilled swordsman, but he would be no match for Tsar Alexander’s champion, whom I met in the company of his Imperial Majesty, when I was Minister to his court in St. Petersburg.

Pickens went on to tell a humorous story about a famous Cossack cavalry officer who was as skilled at love as he was with a saber, with lewd references to a ballerina who danced on the point of his sword. After sharing a ribald laugh, the governor and his guests turned their attention to the courtyard. A tall Englishman with dark hair, a chiseled jaw and deep blue eyes stepped out from behind a column and entered the arena. He stood erect and saluted his opponent, a fit-looking cadet and champion of the corps tournament. Both men wore padded white jackets and carried academic sabers, the preferred training weapon for military officers.

Wishing to curry favor with his hosts by concealing his natural aggressiveness, Lieutenant Tisdale began rather passively. He parried the determined young cadet’s thrusts and cuts without repost. Everything changed when the American judges granted an unearned touch to the cadet, which offended