When strangers insisted on inquiring after her occupation, Hattie told them she was a dressmaker. Most people assumed she was a widow, like her supervisor Kate. She did not correct them, for they would think it impossible for “a respectable married woman” to remain virtuous in such work. Pinkerton did not agree with such musings and told Hattie so when he encouraged her to stay in Chicago and work for him, stating that “the position of a lady operative is as useful and honorable of employment as can be found in any walk of life. It is no less respectable or honorable than that of a lady copyist or clerk.”
When Hattie was clearly still hesitant, he added, “And actually, your virtue would be even more safeguarded than those aforementioned jobs, since the operatives in my company know that their conduct is under constant surveillance.”
Pinkerton knew the value of a beautiful operative, having employed Kate Warne for six years. After being left destitute at a young age upon the death of her husband, Kate sought work from Pinkerton. She managed to convince him that he needed her type of tact and discretion as well as her uncanny ability to read anyone’s inner motives, which indeed he did need. After a successful trial run—and her subsequent hire—Pinkerton sent Kate out on various assignments. The Pinkerton Detective Agency’s largest clients were the railroad companies, who hired the agency to guard their rails and prevent theft on the trains. But the Pinkerton operatives also solved fraud and counterfeiting claims, and even murder cases. Kate’s duties usually involved becoming a mistress to suspected criminals—in that way she could achieve the confidences of difficult subjects and get them to divulge information they would not to a male operative. Once Pinkerton realized the advantages of having a woman on staff, he quickly promoted Kate to head of the female unit and hired more female detectives.
Kate had reopened the murder case she’d been working before she left for Baltimore. She had befriended the murder suspect’s girlfriend and, a few days after returning to Chicago, came into the office with a quickened gait and a thoughtful expression. She disappeared into Pinkerton’s office and emerged several minutes later. “Hattie! Are you ready for your next undercover role?”
Hattie dropped her pen. “Of course!” Hattie followed Kate into the back “disguise” closet. Kate began tossing women’s clothing all around until she found a flowing silk scarf. “Miss Davis just told me that Mr. Pattmore believes in fortune tellers.” She draped the yellow scarf over Hattie’s head and they both gazed at her reflection in the mirror. With Hattie’s dark eyes and hair, she already had an exotic look to her, made even more so with the scarf.
Pinkerton paid for Kate and Hattie to go to a fortune teller that night. Kate pretended to be interested in having her fortune told while Hattie memorized the soothsayer’s rhetoric and jerky movements. The woman foretold that Kate would soon be pregnant.
“But my husband is dead,” Kate replied.
Undaunted, the woman stated, “You will be married again within the year.”
Kate cocked an eyebrow but did not say anything as she rose from the chair. “Your turn, Hattie.”
“That’s okay. I think we’ve learned enough tonight.”
“Come on, Hattie.”
Hattie shrugged. As close as Hattie and Kate were, Kate was, after all, still Hattie’s boss. She sat down and placed her hands palm up on the table.
As soon as the fortune teller laid her hands over Hattie’s, she pulled them back, as if Hattie’s palms were red-hot pokers.
“Is something wrong?” Hattie asked. She looked down at her hands, fearing they had betrayed her past to this strange woman.
“I’m tired,” the woman replied. “It’s been a long day, and my third eye has closed.”
Hattie glanced at Kate, whose eyebrows were furrowed.
“That’s fine,” Hattie said, grabbing her purse. She threw a few dollars on the table and the two operatives left. They headed to the “office” located across the street from Pinkerton and Co. Pinkerton had purchased it a few years ago to utilize for various cases—its most recent use had been acting as an accountant’s office for another undercover operative. Kate and Hattie worked late into the night to cover the windows with dark drapes, creating an atmosphere more akin to a fortune teller’s place of business.
“Do you believe in any of that stuff?” Kate asked once they were on the street again.
Out of habit, Hattie checked to make sure her revolver was secure in her handbag. “No.”
“Me neither. I don’t ever want to marry again, let alone in the middle of the war. The only man worthy of my love would be fighting for the Union, and I don’t want to spend my time worrying if he lives or died in battle.”
Hattie gave her friend a tiny smile. “Agreed.”
As Hattie climbed the steps to her apartment, she reflected on what Kate had said. There had only been one man that Hattie had ever met that she felt would be worthy of her love. And it wasn’t her husband.
After Hattie had unlocked the door, she was grateful to note that her landlady was not home. She headed to the room that she leased and pulled a small box from the upper corners of her closet. The box contained papers from her past life: mostly newspaper clippings of her brother’s exploits, but it also included her marriage certificate, the train ticket from Iowa City to Chicago, and a small folded paper, which she removed before replacing the lid. The paper was a sketch of one of the men who had accompanied them on the journey from Kansas: Captain Lawton. He was the bravest man Hattie had ever met, refusing to give in to the slaves’ fears that they would be caught and whipped, or, worse, sent to the gallows. Hattie traced her finger along the etched lines. She’d completed it by memory after she arrived at the Chicago safe-house. The woman of the house had made up a guest room for Hattie while some of the slaves were herded into a small room off the basement to await the next leg of their expedition. The others went to various other refuges—called “stations” in terms of the Underground Railroad—located throughout the city.
The owner of the safe-house happened to spot the drawing amongst her things while Hattie was packing. “Did you draw this?” he asked, picking it up to examine it closely. Even that early in their relationship, Hattie could tell that his sharp eyes did not miss much.
Hattie suppressed the urge to snatch the drawing back. “Yes sir.”
He set down the picture and turned his penetrating eyes on her. “You intend to go to Canada with the rest of them.”
“Indeed, sir.” Hattie tucked some clothing into her carpetbag.
“Are they relatives of yours?” His finger pointed downward, referring to the slaves hidden away in the lower reaches of the house.
“No, sir.” Hattie refused to meet his eyes.
“Then why? As I’m sure you’re aware, the journey is exceedingly dangerous.”
Hattie could have laughed aloud. Of course it was dangerous: she’d already spent weeks traveling the frigid prairies, traversing creeks swollen with ice-cold water, and dodging armed bands of men intent on murdering their leader—in their words, “that damned nigger thief” John Brown.
“Why then?” he demanded when Hattie did not reply.
Hattie blew out a breath of air. There was something about this man’s demeanor that coaxed the truth from her. “Aaron Dwight Stevens is my brother.”
She assumed correctly that he was aware that Aaron was one of the warrior abolitionist Brown’s most devoted followers. “That does not answer my question.” His voice softened. “While I agree with Brown’s viewpoints on slavery—I personally despise it and see it as a curse upon all Americans—I disagree with his vigilante methods. The pro-slavers wouldn’t hesitate to kill him and his disciples on sight. Including your brother.”
“I know,” Hattie said softly.
“And Captain Lawton as well. None of them are long for this world if they keep up their escapades. Which puts you in the same danger as them.” He once again picked up the drawing. “I own a detective agency. Your artistic gifts would be of
great use in capturing criminals.”
Hattie refrained from gasping aloud. She knew the safe-house had been owned by a Pinkerton, but she didn’t realize it was that Pinkerton. Hattie was an avid newspaper reader; she’d developed the habit at an early age, sneaking the paper into her room and scouring it for any word of Aaron. Later, she’d search through the obituaries, hoping that news of her husband’s death would make it into the Chicago papers. She’d come across stories on the exploits of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency many times. “I read about how you solved that post office robbery.”
“Yes,” Pinkerton scratched at his beard. “I was undercover, working as a clerk, and I saw that rascal Dennison sneak envelopes into his waistcoat. We did a thorough search of his apartment but turned up nothing until I had the idea to look behind the many pictures he had on his walls. There we found thousands of dollars.” He met Hattie’s eyes again, and this time Hattie didn’t turn from his gaze. “It’s that kind of quick thinking that helps solve cases. Your brother must be a quick-thinker to have survived this long. Surely you are as well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pinkerton must have realized that Hattie was intent on continuing to Canada because he tried a different tactic. “I managed to scrape together some funds to help get the slaves to freedom. But it’s not much money and it could go further if there was one less mouth to feed along the way.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “The party plans on leaving tomorrow night. You have some time to think it over.”
Indeed she contemplated Pinkerton’s words after he’d gone. Now that she’d left her husband once and for all, Hattie knew that she would not have a lot of options for earning an income on her own. Jobs for women were few and far between, mainly consisting of three options: factory worker, which offered little job stability; house servant, which meant that Hattie would have to live in her employer’s household and give up her freedom of movement; or prostitute, whose drawbacks needed no further explanation. But it was the mention of the slaves that did her in. She knew of the hazards they had faced in their old life, especially from Hattie’s own husband, who treated his slaves even more brutally than he treated his wife. One of the men on the journey had been a free man until captured under the Fugitive Slave Act and brought to Kansas. Although Hattie’s husband had never owned him, he said that he did anyway, and beat the man senseless as a lesson for the other slaves never to run. Hattie had been shocked by the scars on the man’s back—revealed the day he’d removed his shirt to serve as a makeshift blanket for a baby—and couldn’t imagine the wounds he carried on the inside.
And so Hattie stayed in Chicago, reconciling with the fact that she’d never again lay eyes on Captain Lawton, who represented everything a man should be and everything her husband wasn’t: an abolitionist who wasn’t afraid to stand up for what was right. That fall, John Brown organized the doomed raid on Harper’s Ferry in an attempt to trigger a slave uprising. Although Aaron was shot four times, he managed to survive and was arrested along with Brown and his other followers. Aaron wrote Hattie one last letter from his prison cell. In it, he stated:
I do not feel guilty in the least, for I know, if I know anything, that there was no evil intention in my heart. I thought I should be able to do more good for the world in this way than I could do in any other. I may have erred as to the best way, but I think everything will turn out for the best in the end.
I do not expect to be tried until next Spring, when I expect I shall be hanged, as I think all the rest will, as Slavery demands that we should hang for its protection, and we will meet it willingly, knowing that God is Just, and is over all. There seems to be no mercy for those who are willing to help those who have none to help them.
My heart feels like bleeding to think how many thousands are worse off in this land than I am now. Oh, that I could see this country free, I would give a thousand lives if I had them to give.
Hattie wrote to him, vowing to help him see that goal of a free country in both the North and the South, but her letter was returned to her. Aaron, Brown, and the others were sent to the gallows in March of 1860. Hattie pored over every paper she could get her hands on, but she found no mention of Captain Lawton.
The next day, Kate’s suspect, Mr. Pattmore arrived with his mistress, Miss Davis, at the makeshift fortune teller’s place of business. Although unduly nervous in her fortune teller disguise—she’d worn a flowing silk dress and the requisite scarf and carried an oddly carved wand donated by one of the other operatives—Hattie was determined to prove once more that she could be a successful operative.
Mr. Pattmore was a well-dressed, rather handsome man, with dark hair and eyes.
“What do you seek to know?” Hattie asked.
“The outcome of the war,” Pattmore replied.
Hattie tried to meet the man’s gaze in order to ascertain what side he had allegiance for, but his eyes shifted in every direction but hers. Unable to get a fair impression, she rotated her head, mimicking the fortune teller’s movements from last night. In this way, she was able to make momentary eye contact with Kate, who stood behind Mr. Pattmore, half-hidden by a black curtain.
“Rebs,” Kate mouthed.
Hattie moved the wand back and forth. “The Confederacy fights well. And though they are outnumbered—”
“Yes?” Pattmore leaned forward.
“The outcome is favorable.”
He nodded and sat back in his chair.
Hattie refrained from frowning. “Do you wish to know your own future?”
“She is a fortune teller,” Miss Davis cut in. “Isn’t that what you paid for?”
“Indeed,” Pattmore placed his hands on the table.
Hattie pretended to take her time examining the inside of his palms while recalling what Kate had told her about her suspect. “Your parents are dead. You had one brother, who died at an early age. Most of the money your father left you is gone.”
Miss Davis gasped. “You can tell all that from the lines on his hand?”
“Shh.” Pattmore directed his attention back to Hattie. “What else?”
“There was a man.” Hattie shifted her eyes to Miss Davis. “Your husband, I believe?”
The woman, clearly under Hattie’s spell, nodded.
Hattie turned Pattmore’s palm over. “He is no longer with us as well.” Hattie focused once again on Miss Davis. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“It was no great loss on anyone’s part,” Pattmore muttered.
“Indeed not, although she got a great amount of wealth upon his death.” Hattie widened her eyes. “But it seems that you had something to do with his death.”
“Of course he did not.” Miss Davis stood. “What kind of soothsayer are you? You know nothing.”
“Quiet, Cecile,” Pattmore commanded. “I want to hear more.”
“These are just lies.”
“Oh, but they are not, my dear.” Pattmore gestured for her to sit. “I did have something to do with his death.”
“What?” Miss Davis fell back into her chair. “How?”
Pattmore seemed more angry than agitated now. From behind the curtain, Kate rapidly circled her hand. Keep going.
Hattie traced a line on his palm. “You paid someone to off him.”
“No, he didn’t.” Miss Davis said. She faced her fiancé. “You wouldn’t do that, would you Benny?”
He removed his hands from the table and stood up. “How else would you have gotten your inheritance from the old man?” He puffed out his chest and looked down at Miss Davis with cold eyes. “He was onto our relationship. It was just a matter of time before we were discovered and you were disinherited.”
Miss Davis gasped as Kate and Sam Bridgman, another Pinkerton operative, appeared from their hiding places. “You’re under arrest,” Bridgman said as he bound the criminal’s wrists in handcuffs. “Nice work, Lewis,” he told Hattie as he escorted a protesting Pattmore out.
Kate pulled off one of the window c
overings, flooding the room with light, before turning to Pattmore’s bewildered mistress. “You are free to go, for now. But Miss Davis, make sure to choose your beaus with a greater amount of prudence from now on. Your future husband’s life may depend on it.” After Miss Davis promised to be more careful, she left.
Kate hugged Hattie. “Thank you. This is the second time you’ve proven yourself a worthy operative.”
“Hopefully now the Boss will give me other work besides drawing and being his secretary.”
“He will,” Kate said as she gathered an armful of sheets. “I know it.”
Pinkerton had summoned a meeting to begin at 7 am the next morning for all of his employees in the Chicago area.
As Hattie walked down the hall to the offices of Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, she was surprised to see a new logo painted on the frosted glass: a realistic drawing of an eye. Underneath were the hand-painted words, “We Never Sleep.”
“Bizarre, isn’t it?” Kate asked when Hattie entered the office. She must have caught Hattie staring at it in the hall.
“Yet somehow fitting,” Hattie murmured. The unblinking eye seemed to watch Hattie as she yawned. She indeed had been up all night, feeling at once exhilarated about her role in the murder case, and anxious about today’s meeting. Hattie hoped it would be a big case, and that she would have an integral part in it.
Pinkerton ran his business with an iron hand: all operatives—despite his agency’s official name, he refused to refer to his employees as “detectives” because he thought it carried an overtone of dishonesty—were required to make daily reports and then to wait for his reply either by mail or telegraph. None in his employ were to make their own decisions unless the nature of the circumstances demanded it, and even then, the agent who acted would have to face a lengthy inquiry by Mr. Pinkerton. Pinkerton had written a reference book, or, as Kate referred to it, a tome, of the edicts his employees had to adhere to, which he presented to every new hire. His operatives were never to stoop to immoral means to complete their investigation, nor would the company take on cases involving divorce or other “scandalous affairs.” All employees and their subsequent actions must be “pure and above reproach.” Hattie often wondered how much Pinkerton knew of the reason she’d fled to Chicago in the first place, but he never asked and Hattie never offered.
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 34
