My Love, My Enemy

By Joe B. Hewitt

An anomaly for her time, Cassandra although a Virginian, hates slavery and is an avowed abolitionist, an unpopular view in Huntsville, Alabama, in 1858. Fairfax and Cassandra become intimate at an early age. They marry after Fairfax’s graduation from West Point. She longs for a child.
When the Civil War breaks out, Fairfax resigns his US Army commission and joins the Confederacy. He is ordered on detached duty as a Confederate spy. He assumes the identity of a Union officer named William Wiley and establishes himself in the War Department in Washington. William Wiley looks exactly like Fairfax.
Cassandra volunteers to spy for the Union. She takes advantage of her position as the wife of a Confederate Army major to attend social functions and gather intelligence.
Fairfax and Cassandra are totally in love, and long for each other, but are separated ideologically and geographically, and unaware of the other's wartime activities.
Both go through narrow escapes in action scenes. Both are totally convinced of the rightness of their cause, and use the same slogan, "Our cause is just. Continue we must."
Fairfax gets caught, escapes Washington, and twice more gets into traps, which he escapes by assuming the identity of William Wiley, Captain, US Army. Eventually he is found out and sent to the notorious Camp Douglas in Chicago where one out of four Confederate prisoners died.
After the War Between the States ends the war between Fairfax and Cassandra begins as they learn one another’s secrets. Cassandra learns that Fairfax had been unfaithful and fathered a child. In an armed truce, with love and hate, they stay together but only in a physical sense.
Complicating things further, Union occupation forces arrest Fairfax, thinking he is Captain William Wiley, U.S. Army, and charge him with desertion. The real William Wiley’s wife shows up and claims Fairfax is her husband.
At the same time they accuse Colonel Fairfax Cole, CS Army, has committed war crimes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe B. Hewitt
• Release date: Oct 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310836824

Joe B. Hewitt

About the AuthorJoe B. Hewitt, BD MAAuthor Joe B. Hewitt started writing as a newspaper reporter for the Lima, Ohio, News. He covered the police beat, courthouse beat, and was an investigative reporter. He went under cover for three months and published an expose of vice and crime. He served as national and international news editor and “slot” man on the city desk.He owned and published the following Texas weekly newspapers, Throckmorton Tribune, and Springtown Review, and was a stockholder, editor and publisher of the Richardson Digest.His newspaper career ended when he was called into the ministry.. He served the Richardson church 13 years.He resigned that pastorate to go into vocational evangelism. However, during those four years he was called by Christian leaders in many communities to lead special election campaigns. Of 13 major campaigns, he won 11. He turned down an offer to manage a US Congressman’s re-election campaign.During those years in the pastorate he wrote a nonfiction book on personal experience that has sold 45,000 copies. He wrote curriculum for Bible study teachers and teachers commentaries for LifeWay, the publishing arm of the Southern Baptist Convention as well as the youth devotional guide, and Open Windows the 1.1 million-circulation adult devotional guide. For 10 years wrote columns for the Rockwall Success, and Rowlett Lakeshore Times, local newspapers. His magazine articles were published in Mature Living, The Baptist Standard, and Leadership magazine (published by the Baptist General Convention of Texas), Faith for the Family, Reproduction Methods, and the Christian Crusader. Photographs have been published by Associated Press, United Press International, Popular Mechanics, and several detective magazines (from the days when he was police reporter.).His travel articles and pictures have been published in The Dallas Morning News, and the Houston Chronicle's Sunday Magazine. Guest editorials have been published in The Dallas Morning News and Spirit of 76, publication of Fort Worth, Texas, Mensa.Hewitt served as a temporary missionary in Mexico, Brazil, Russia, Oregon, Idaho, New York, and pastored a church in England for a month in an exchange with the pastor of the English church. He served as volunteer chaplain and coordinator of jail ministries for the Rockwall County Sheriff’s Department for 10 years. I also served two days a month as volunteer chaplain at Lake Pointe Medical Center in Rowlett for 10 years.On one of his three trips to Russia, Hewitt preached in Muravlenko, Siberia, a city of 40,000, built on 600 feet deep permafrost located 1650 miles east-northeast of Moscow. The nearest airport was 100 miles south at Nyabresk where the Aeroflot plane broke down and Hewitt and his wife were stranded two days.In addition to the mission trips, Hewitt visited Cypress, Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, Israel, Greece, Italy, France, Spain, Belgium, Holland, Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and many Caribbean islands. Hewitt has traveled extensively throughout all 50 of the United States, Mexico and Canada.After retiring from the Pastorate in 2001, Hewitt began training as a mediator and has served Dallas and area courts as a court-appointed mediator to settle lawsuits.Hewitt received a BD degree from Bible Baptist Seminary, and an MA degree in Biblical Studies from Dallas Baptist University. He is a member of Mensa, the high IQ society.

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CHAPTER 1

Fairfax County Virginia, July, 1861

Major Fairfax Cole’s gray uniform had its share of brass, but General P.G.T Beauregard’s had more. Sit down, major. The general motioned to a leather covered side chair, and walked around his desk. The high backed chair squeaked as the general’s weight settled. He pointed the hot end of a cigar toward Fairfax. You are to go onto detached duty.

Fairfax sat upright on the edge of the smooth leather. Where? We’re ready to go to Manassas tomorrow, sir.

Washington.

Washington? Fairfax exclaimed. Have we taken Washington?

Sorry to say, no. A slight chuckle came out of the General’s mouth with cigar smoke. Then he continued in a serious tone, Washington is still heavily fortified. Your mission will be to send information to me from the very heart of the Union War Department.

That sounds impossible.

You are to assume the identity of a Union army officer, go into the War Department there and send back intelligence information.

Fairfax envisioned himself, with a week’s beard and his usually well-trimmed moustache ragged and drooping, standing in front of a brick wall, blindfolded and listening to a sergeant bark orders to a firing squad, ready to shoot him as a spy. Then a picture of his beloved wife, Cassandra, dressed in black and weeping, raced through his mind. She’d make a beautiful widow, with those blue eyes and blonde hair framed in black lace.

Sir, I’m a field commander, not a spy. Fairfax stood to his feet. My men have trained for this operation and are raring to go. We walked, floated, and rode trains to get here from Alabama. I had to leave half of my men behind after their train’s boiler blew up at White’s Mill. Those able to walk the 20 miles should be here tomorrow, ready for the attack. Afraid he sounded insubordinate, Fairfax stepped back to his chair to appear less confrontational.

The opening door admitted the late afternoon sun. A man’s silhouette filled the bright opening, and then closed the door. With the bright light gone, the silhouette materialized into a military surgeon carrying a tape measure.

Here he is. The general motioned toward Fairfax, who quickly stood again.

Stick out your arm. The surgeon stretched the tape measure on Fairfax’s arm

What’s this for? Fairfax wondered aloud.

The measurements are for positive identification. You can change your appearance but you can’t change the length of your bones, the surgeon answered.

I really don’t want to do this, Fairfax protested.

The surgeon knelt down on a knee and stretched the tape measure from Fairfax’s knee to his ankle.

Major Cole, these orders came from the highest authority of the Confederate States of America. They don’t suggest you go. You are ordered to go. It’s a mission only you could accomplish. The general pointed his cigar to emphasize the words.

General, as you know, my West Point education did not include spying, engineering yes, but not spying.

The main thing you learned was to follow orders. Now listen, a squad of our scouts captured a Union officer that turned out to look enough like you to be his twin brother. He carried orders to report to the assistant to the Secretary of War in the military police section.

The general pointed the cigar to emphasize his point. We prepared to take the prisoner’s measurements out to the entire army to try to find someone his size that we could send in his place, but before we could get the search started, you came in, looking like the prisoner’s twin brother. He’s about your age too, 33.

I’m 27.

Damn young for a major. No matter. You look just like him.

The surgeon threw the tape measure over his shoulder and penciled something in a ledger book.

This Yankee officer looks just like me? Fairfax asked.

Well, with one exception. His left ear lobe had been shot off.

Another picture raced through Fairfax’s mind, his wife playfully biting his ear. Since I still have both of my earlobes I don’t qualify, sir.

No. But you shall.

The surgeon jotted notes. He’s almost identical in size, general.

Good. Could Major Fairfax Cole, CSA, pass for Captain William Wiley, USA?

Yes. The Yankee officer is five feet eleven and a half inches tall. Our man is five feet eleven. That’s no problem. People shrink a little as they get older. Their hair is the same color of dark brown, brown eyes, fair complexion, all alike. He should have no trouble passing physically as the Yankee. However, there is a little difference in their voices. Major Cole’s is a little deeper. Then there’s the shot off ear lobe, but we can fix that.

That night the July heat gradually lifted so Fairfax could relax and try to sleep. His mind left the fears of being shot as a spy and he almost drifted off to sleep. Then a warm ache arose in his heart. I miss her so. Why didn’t I become a farmer and stay home with her? Now the bed that had felt so hot began to feel cold. He longed to feel Cassandra’s body next to his.

The next morning General Beauregard summoned Fairfax to his office. Security on this one is so tight we are limiting the number of people who know about it. The general introduced Fairfax to an officer from military police who would be his coach in memorizing a cover story.

You will meet a man going by the name of Ebenezer Armstrong who is already ensconced in the War Department, the instructor said. But he has limited access to important information. The instructor pointed a finger at Fairfax. You, however, will be masquerading as Captain William Wiley, lately a company commander in the Pennsylvania 5th, who is an expert in counterintelligence and will be privy to confidential information.

The instructor drilled Fairfax on his name, rank, military history, names of family members, dates and other details of William Wiley’s life. After 10 hours, the exhausted instructor quit and another took over.

Don’t I get a respite? We’ve been going all night.

Sorry. No rest for you. Now answer my questions. What is your name?

Wiley, William, Captain United States Army. Fairfax spoke the name automatically. I’ve said it a thousand times.

I want you to be able to say it in your sleep. What is your name?

After 24 hours of straight training, the exhausted Fairfax collapsed on his bed and sank into a deep sleep. An hour later two men grabbed his arms and jerked him upright. What is your name?

Wiley, William, Captain, United States Army. Fairfax answered automatically.

Every hour the instructors jarred him awake with the question, Who are you? or What is your name? or What was your mother’s maiden name?

The training continued until Fairfax had momentary doubts about who he was.

After a month of studying to be Captain William Wiley, Fairfax stood before General Beauregard. Fairfax touched a white bandage on his left ear. The doctor said the wound is healed sufficiently for me to go on the mission, so I can get started. He also had me trim a quarter inch off the ends of my moustache to match the Union officer’s. Very exacting, that doctor.

Fairfax felt a tinge of panic thinking he might never again see Cassandra. Maybe she’ll forget me. Maybe she’ll get used to not having me around and not want me when the war is over.

CHAPTER 2

Huntsville, Alabama, July, 1861

In the quiet of night when most people were in bed, a dozen people descended squeaky steps into the basement of a large home on the outskirts of Huntsville, Alabama. Three coal oil lamps provided feeble yellow light as the men and

women, some young and some old, gathered in a circle. Some sat on old chairs and others on boxes. After a muddle of small talk, the group of somber men and women hushed, and then took turns introducing themselves.

The last one to speak, said, My name is Cassandra Cole, Mrs. Fairfax Cole. I never expected to find abolitionists in Alabama.

A woman next to her turned in mock surprise, Well, just because we’re Southerners and Alabamans, doesn’t mean we have to approve of slavery.

A sturdy fellow with a short beard, the apparent leader of the discussion group, they called Seth, asked, Where did you grow up, Mrs. Cole? He brought one of the three coal oil lamps that flickered dim light on the group and set it on a table near her.

I grew up in Virginia, north Virginia. My family had a tobacco plantation and 40 slaves to work it, but from early childhood I believed slavery to be wrong. Cassandra paused and looked around. No one else spoke. All eyes on her looked expectant, which indicated to her that she should elaborate. The questions seemed an interrogation, which she resented, but she continued.

Like many other families of planters in the South, we had house servants, maid servants, and I had a Negro mammy. I was closer to her than my own mother. My mother loved me, I know, but with four other children, and all her social duties, she didn’t have much time. Mammy, however, had time and lavished love and affection on me. She put my hair in curls and told me it was fine gold. My mammy was the best Christian I knew. When a field hand would sneer and call her a house nigger, she never retaliated, but kept her kind demeanor. When our white foreman gave one of the field hands a whipping, mammy always cared for him. I decided good character has nothing to do with skin color. Cassandra looked around. The dozen people remained quiet as if waiting for her to continue speaking.

Cassandra continued, At the age of eight, I began to understand the concept of slavery and I hated it. I hoped that someday I could do something to free those poor people kept ignorant by force. I heard my family talk about abolitionists like they were enemies. I kept quiet about my feelings.

A woman in the back spoke up. Doesn’t your husband own slaves?

My husband’s parents gave him two slaves as a wedding present. He freed them. They chose to stay on with us and we pay them. They have continued to work for us these past seven years.

‘Abolitionist’ and ‘recently deceased’ are synonymous terms in Alabama, an older man on the periphery of the group announced. If we’re going to survive this war we have to be discrete and lay low. Otherwise we’ll be the main attraction at a hanging.

For a half hour, the circle batted back and forth the horrors of slavery and their helplessness to do anything about it.

I feel helpless as you do, but I think we should look for ways to help the cause of freedom, Cassandra said.

A man stood, yawned and stretched. Another followed suit.

I think we’re getting tired, Seth said. Another man stood and stretched. I think we are agreed that there is little we can do at the moment. We need to continue to try to find ways to help free the slaves without getting hung ourselves.

There is something we can do. A middle aged woman between two yawning men said. We can pray.

The meeting ended with the group standing in a circle, holding hands, while one of the older men, a deacon, led in prayer.

Cassandra climbed the squeaky steps, leaving the cool basement for a hot kitchen. As she stepped into the back doorway to go outside, Seth called after her.

Mrs. Cole, can you stay a minute? After she came back in, he asked, You know where the new Memphis and Charleston Railroad Station is?

Of course.

A man who is working hard against slavery wants to meet you there.

Cassandra waited for him to continue.

Good night, he said with a smile and stepped back into the house.

After a troubled sleep, thrashing out the statements made the night before, Cassandra ordered her carriage. Her employee, former slave Prince Albert, waited in front of Fairfax and Cassandra’s home.

On level ground near the canal on the River Road, Fairfax and Cassandra’s house had been built by his paternal grandfather long before Alabama became a state in 1819. A row of pine trees planted across the front yard when the house was built overshadowed it. Two stories high with a large attic lighted by four dormer windows, the house’s wood siding needed paint. Six white Doric columns supported the house’s wide front porch roof. Behind the house near the stable a brick outhouse stood as a majestic status symbol.

Under the kitchen a root cellar provided cool storage for potatoes, onions, eggs and apples. A sloping cellar door had been a toy slide for Fairfax when he was small.

Cassandra boarded the carriage. Prince Albert popped a whip, and the horse leaned against the load and pulled the carriage at a fast walk. Motion of the carriage brought cool air across her face that felt good. It’s only nine o’clock and hot already. Well that’s summer in Alabama, she thought. The breeze caused reflected sunlight to pulsate as it gently caused wavelets on her long yellow dress.

Prince Albert drove her through quiet streets to the Memphis and Charleston Railroad Depot. She found the double front doors wide open and the waiting room empty. A shaft of bright sunlight shone through the door and onto the bench seats, making her long dress and parasol an even brighter yellow. She sat on a bench near the door, folded the parasol, and watched. She saw her carriage outside. The horse blubbered and stamped a foot. Prince Albert had apparently wandered off somewhere. The morning sun continued to stream through the door, but no one approached.

Ma’am. The ticket clerk’s voice echoed off the shiny benches and broke the golden silence.

Yes? Cassandra stood and cautiously approached the ticket window.

Ma’am, are you Mrs. Cole?

Yes.

The person you are to meet left a message for you. He asked that you meet him at the Cotton Patch Café.

Somewhat perturbed, Cassandra had Prince Albert, drive her to the café. Inside, as she approached a small round table, she saw a middle aged man walking toward her. He wore an expensive suit and puffed out red silk tie with a pearl stickpin.

Mrs. Cole, please have a seat. Waiter, two coffees. The man held up two fingers. The waiter nodded and hurried toward the kitchen.

Mrs. Cole, I’m John Smith. He extended a hand.

Cassandra shook the hand. Sure you are. She eased her body down to the small chair and arranged her long skirt.

John Smith ignored the retort, and spoke in a low voice. I have it on good authority that you want to serve your country, the United States of America.

I thought that might be what this was about. I guess you knew I attended a meeting last night.

The waiter brought coffee cups and saucers, sat them on the little table, and placed a spoon in each saucer with a musical clink.

That coffee smells good, doesn’t it? Yes, I received a full report of the meeting. One of our people thinks you would be willing to risk your life to help your country and end slavery.

I would indeed, Cassandra said.

Did you ever drink coffee that tastes as good as it smells? John Smith asked. Then not waiting for an answer, continued quietly, I understand that your husband is a major in the Confederate army. Would that be a problem for you?

Cassandra abruptly set down her coffee cup, spilling some into the saucer. Of course it’s a problem, she said emphatically. My husband is a patriotic Confederate and doing what he believes best for his country. It would break his heart to learn I am supporting his enemy.

That is not the only problem. If you are caught you may be tortured. Your fellow southerners will consider you a traitor.

I appreciate the South’s cry for states’ rights, but even greater is the cry for freedom of poor Negros who have been brought here against their will and forced into slavery. And even worse, their children are born into slavery. She picked up the coffee cup again. I’m prepared to take my chances.

After this meeting, we should not be seen together. I will be in contact through the Post Office. Rent a Post Office box. Get a copy of Moby Dick by Herman Melville, 1851 Edition. Go to every function you can that involves Confederate officers or their wives. Listen to what people say. Report to me anything you hear of a military nature.

Do you mean I just send you a letter?

No. You will have to put it in code. You will have to memorize the code, but that shouldn’t be hard. Each word you send me will be made up of numbers, page number followed by paragraph number, followed by line number, followed by the numerical position of the word in the line. It’s slow and cumbersome, but is impossible to break without knowing which book is used.

You have given me a big assignment, Mr. Smith. I’ll do as you say. By the way, like coffee smells better than it tastes, the hope of glory in war smells good, but the stench of death overcomes it.

CHAPTER 3

Fairfax, Virginia, October, 1861

Tomorrow is it, Fairfax said as a young corporal pulled off Fairfax’s boot. Flickering yellow lamplight accentuated the black leather’s shine accompanied with a faint odor of boot polish.

I understand you’re going on a secret mission. That’s the reason for the civilian clothes.

Listen corporal, those words could earn you a firing squad. This is secret. Utter not a word. Fairfax’s words barked authority.

Yes, sir.

Not a word to anyone, not your best friend, not your wife. Don’t even tell God.

The corporal quickly changed the subject. Major, I been wondering for a long time. How did you get the name Fairfax? He pulled off the second boot. That’s the name of this county.

My mother was a Fairfax and she wanted me to carry on her family name, so she named me Fairfax.

Did your schoolmates call you ‘Fair,’ or ‘Fax.’?

I’m sorry to say, it was ‘Fax,’ but don’t you get any ideas.

Yes sir, Major Cole. The orderly started to leave and stopped. By the way, major, is that Yankee prisoner any relation to you? He looks enough like you to be your twin brother.

Do you not remember what I told you? Fairfax admonished.

Yes, sir, don’t tell anybody, don’t even tell God.

On his way for a last look at the man he was to impersonate, Fairfax walked down a hallway toward the man’s cell. Violin music drifted by. The closer Fairfax got to the cell, the louder and clearer the music. A jailer’s heavy keys rattled as he unlocked the cell door. Fairfax stepped back out of sight. Another inmate stepped into the cell and picked up the prisoner’s slop bucket. The music continued as the prisoner left carrying the slop bucket and the jailer locked the door. William Wiley, the Union officer Fairfax was to impersonate, expertly played a portion of George Handel’s Messiah.

Fairfax waited for the jailer, Where did he get the violin? Fairfax asked quietly.

I sold it to him, sir.

He wasn’t allowed to have any money. Where did you get the violin to sell him? How did he pay for it?

It was my daughter’s. She took just a few lessons and quit. The violin hadn’t been touched in years so when the prisoner asked for one, and he was willing to give his gold Masonic ring for it, I traded it to him for the ring.

The realization that this part of Wiley’s life Fairfax couldn’t duplicate sank down into his gut. I can’t play the violin. If someone knows him they might ask me to play. Then will come the firing squad or hangman.

Fairfax hurried back to headquarters and stood before General Beauregard. General I’ll have to delay my departure.

You can’t do that. Everything is arranged for you to meet other agents and get across the Patawomeke River and into Washington City.

I just now learned that the Yankee captain plays the violin. I’ll have to take some lessons, at least enough to cripple by.

Sorry, major. You have your orders. It would be more dangerous to delay your departure.

That evening in the Officers’ Club, General Beauregard stood at the end of a long table and addressed a dozen officers. Gentlemen, while food is being served, I want us to recognize Major Fairfax Cole who is going on detached duty tomorrow for a very important mission. I can’t say what the mission is about, but I know you will all want to wish him well.

Here, here, several officers cheered, and raised their wine glasses.

Do you have a word, Major Cole? the general asked.

Fairfax stood and surveyed the crowd. Thank you, general. Thank you, gentlemen. Since this is a secret mission I can say little more. I feel like a condemned man getting his last meal. The mess officer knew that I love pecan pie. And here it is. I hope it’s not the last time I can enjoy it. Thank you all for your good sendoff. I’ll be detached, but on duty as will you all.

Fairfax raised his wine glass. May God bless us as we serve. May God bless the Confederate States of America.

As Fairfax took his seat, a young officer announced, And God bless this pecan pie.

Dawn revealed a heavy frost on gold and red autumn leaves. A squad of Confederate cavalrymen escorted Fairfax and a music teacher, a gentleman with long white hair dressed in a black suit. General Beauregard had arranged for Fairfax to learn something about the violin and meet his schedule at the same time. As Fairfax and he rode abreast, the teacher began explaining basic music theory between sleepy yawns. Although Fairfax knew the basics, he refrained from saying so.

Each evening for 10 days, around their campfire, the teacher played soothing music on the violin and Fairfax screeched out attempts that continued on into the night.

Mr. Wiley, a young Confederate soldier called out. Mr. Wiley or whoever you are. Can’t you let up on that fiddle for one night? We’re about screeched out.

Shut up, soldier, the squad leader said abruptly. Then to Fairfax: Sorry about that, sir.

The