Mary Jane gave Miss Lizzie a heated look.
Miss Lizzie set her fork down. “You will not refer to my servants as ‘niggers,’” she spat the word out with obvious distaste, “ever again. The Negroes in this house may have black faces, but their hearts are white.”
John focused his soft brown eyes on his wife. “We treat our servants here as though they are family.”
“Servants, indeed,” Witch Mary returned bitterly. “They should be slaves. This is Virginia. How dare you question an institution that was good enough for George Washington and my own cousin, Thomas Jefferson, true Virginians if there ever were such a thing. Both the niggers’ hearts and brains are smaller than ours. They were destined to serve the white men.”
Mary Jane again glared at Miss Lizzie, but her mistress discreetly held up one finger. Mary Jane knew that Miss Lizzie gave Mrs. Mary a wider berth than normal because of their prison visitations, but it was getting to be too much for Mary Jane. She was tired of living in a nation full of bigots like Witch Mary—it was time for Southerners to learn to do a true day’s work of labor and let her people be free to live their own lives.
When Mary Jane bent to pick up a plate, Witch Mary pinched her. Mary Jane looked to the other diners, but no one else had seen. She was well aware that Witch Mary, with all her connections, could make Mary Jane’s life miserable in revenge should she dare to confront the woman. Concluding that it was wisest to disappear, Mary Jane deposited the plates in the kitchen and then retreated upstairs.
“You must forgive her,” Miss Lizzie said later, appearing in Mary Jane’s doorway. “Slavery is as much a part of her life as the water she drinks or the air that she breathes. She knows no different, and someday people like her will need to be educated.”
Mary Jane looked up from her desk, where she had been coding another message to the prisoners. “She would never willingly learn the errors of her ways.”
Miss Lizzie reached out and grabbed Mary Jane, her claw-like fingers wrapping around Mary Jane’s skinny brown arm. “Mary Jane. I alone know what you are capable of, but we must keep that a secret and not let anyone, or anything, threaten that. We both know that your intelligence can be a great help toward a Union victory. Richmond will rise from its intolerant ashes and once again become a great city of the United States. But none of that can happen if Mary finds out what we’ve been doing.”
Mary Jane rubbed at her arm. There were splotches from where Miss Lizzie’s fingers had dug in. “So I must keep my mouth shut while she berates and insults everyone around her?”
“It won’t be forever,” Miss Lizzie promised.
The next day, Mary ventured into the kitchen while Mary Jane was preparing Mrs. Van Lew’s tea. She watched Mary Jane for a moment before stating, “I know who you are.”
Mary Jane looked hopelessly around but they were alone. Resolved in her decision that the best way to deal with Witch Mary was to try to speak to her as little as possible, Mary Jane picked up the tea tray. As she started to head out of the kitchen, Witch Mary suddenly stepped in front of her, causing a stream of tea to spill out of the kettle.
Witch Mary folded her arms in front of her chest. “Haven’t you ever wondered why your skin is so pale compared to the rest of the Van Lew darkeys? Aren’t you curious as to why the Van Lews treat you like family?”
Mary Jane set the tray down and fetched a rag to wipe up the spill. From the parlor, the wavering voice of Mrs. Van Lew called out, “Mary Jane? Is that tea on its way?” As Witch Mary stepped away from the doorway, Mary Jane picked up the tray and headed to the parlor.
“You know you have white blood in you, don’t you, girl?” Witch Mary’s voice followed Mary Jane out of the kitchen.
Mrs. Van Lew eyed Mary Jane as she arranged the tea tray. “Was that Mary you were speaking with?” Mary Jane returned the old woman’s searching look. Mrs. Van Lew’s hearing was bad, but the thought occurred to Mary Jane that she’d indeed overheard and was pretending she didn’t.
“Yes’m.”
“Well,” Mrs. Van Lew sat back on the chaise, tea cup in hand. “Mary likes to fill people’s heads with gossip and rumors. Pay her no heed.”
“Yes’m,” Mary Jane repeated.
Mrs. Van Lew’s gaze fixed outside the window to soldiers marching by on the street. “That’ll be all for now, Mary Jane.”
Mary Jane headed up to her room. It was true that she was lighter than most of the other servants, lighter than many of the Richmond slaves she had interacted with over the years. Of course she had heard the rumors of her parentage—the other slave children had often teased her when she was a little girl that her daddy “musta ben white.” It was a fact of a slave woman’s life that their masters saw them as property and could have their way with them, in the process creating more slaves for their collection or to sell off. Mary Jane saw the prospect of her paternity as an advantage: she knew that some white folks held mulattos in a higher esteem than pure negroes because of the white blood in their veins. Mary Jane’s mother never confirmed nor denied the rumors. They had come from another plantation in Virginia to the Van Lew Mansion when Mary Jane was a baby. Right before she turned ten, her mother had died, taking the secret of who Mary Jane’s father was with her to her grave. Mary Jane assumed it was someone on that old plantation, possibly the master, the overseer, or even one of the half-breed children of the master. She suspected both Miss Lizzie and Mrs. Van Lew knew who it was, but they denied so whenever Mary Jane had asked. At this point, Mary Jane figured it didn’t matter: she was who she was and knowing her father’s identity wouldn’t change that. And Witch Mary’s conduct in the kitchen only served for Mary Jane to ignore the narratives even more.
“I want out,” Mary Jane told Miss Lizzie the next day.
“Out? What do you mean, out?” Miss Lizzie’s head swiveled around the parlor before she bent in toward Mary Jane. “How shall we continue our aid to the prisoners if you leave?”
“Helping the prisoners is not enough for me.”
“Is this about Mary?”
“Somewhat. But it’s more about this.” She tossed a newspaper onto the parlor table. On the front page was an article about Jefferson Davis and his family’s new residence at the former Brockenbrough house.
Miss Lizzie picked up the paper. “It says that Mrs. Davis is hiring qualified servants.”
“Indeed. She’ll be in need of discreet maids, maids that would need to dust the President of the Confederacy’s office, with all of his papers and plans in plain view.”
“Mary Jane, although this is a brilliant idea, it is also an exceedingly dangerous one.”
“Miss Lizzie, think of how this information could help our cause. Remember what we read about Rose Greenhow and how she got information from those men in Washington City?”
Miss Lizzie’s face wrinkled in concentration for a moment before
she spoke again, a twinge of hesitation in her voice, “I think I will pay a social visit to Mrs. Varina Davis, and recommend a wonderful servant for her new house.”
Chapter 15
Hattie
August 1861
Pinkerton rented a house on I-Street, out of which he established both his Washington City office as well as the living quarters for him, his wife and three children. Pinkerton’s first order of business was to assume a new nom de guerre as his own had become synonymous with detectives. “I will now be referred to as E.J. Allen,” he informed the travel weary operatives as soon as they had arrived.
According to Pinkerton, the main duties of the Secret Service of the Army of the Potomac was to gather military intelligence as well as ferret out any suspected counterespionage activities, hence Timothy Webster was sent to Memphis, beyond enemy lines, in order to retrieve the desired information. The experienced detective needed no instruction regarding the delicacy of his mission. The rest of the Washington staff settled in to contribute to the war effort.
One dismal rainy afternoon, none other than the assi
stant secretary of war, Thomas A. Scott, himself visited the I-Street office. He and Pinkerton were sequestered in the inner office for over an hour. After Scott finally left, Pinkerton asked Pryce Lewis and Sam Bridgman, the former soldier, to conference with him.
“And you, too, Miss Lewis,” he said as he passed by her desk.
She grabbed her sketch book and a small notebook before she walked into his office, expecting more secretarial work.
Pinkerton put his hands behind his head. “It seems that the widow Rose Greenhow has fallen under official suspicion.”
Hattie nodded, recognizing the name. She’d read several wires in which Webster mentioned her as being a possible spy for the Confederacy.
“Scott has requested that we arrange a surveillance team in order to pass on any information that might be of use.” Pinkerton rose heavily from his desk. “Miss Lewis, we will need you along as an intermediary.”
Hattie got eagerly to her feet, tucking her books behind her skirts. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, boss?” Pryce asked, his eyes focused on the pouring rain outside the window, darkening the already dimming light of late afternoon. Hattie had to stop herself from glaring at him. Don’t you ruin this for me, she commanded him silently.
“Indeed.” Pinkerton grabbed his hat and coat off the rack. “I will accompany you to find a good place to set up watch outside her home.”
The three men and Hattie started out from the office and walked toward the White House. The miserable downpour could hardly dampen Hattie’s spirits, however. She paid no heed to the lightning that streaked the sky, nor the thunder that boomed overhead. All she could focus on was that she’d finally been included on a mission with the boss himself.
They passed numerous large and stately homes, pausing in front of a beautiful mansion at the intersection of I and 13th Streets. Pinkerton stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle, though the sound was nearly eclipsed by yet another boom of thunder that sounded a second later. Pinkerton stood back from the house, rubbing his chin in his customary way, as he took stock of their environs. Mrs. Greenhow lived in a dignified three-story brick building with carefully tended landscaping. A veranda extended off of the elevated first floor, which was accessed by a flight of stairs in the center of the exterior.
The trio followed as Pinkerton walked to the side of the house, finding a narrow path that led behind the shrubbery and passing in front of the portico.
“Well boys,” Pinkerton addressed Lewis and Bridgman once the group had assembled behind the bushes. “Those windows are a bit too high to peer into from this level.” The rain let up for a few brief moments. “No matter.” He shed his shoes and then motioned for Lewis and Bridgman to bend down. In a moment, a shoeless Pinkerton stood on each man’s shoulder. Rain dripped off of Pinkerton’s hat, adding to the deluge that soaked the men underneath him. Pinkerton edged up to peer between the Venetian blinds. No hint of gaslight was discernible in the fading light outside. “It doesn’t appear that anyone is home,” he whispered loudly.
“Shh!” Hattie commanded, too occupied with watching someone stroll down 13th street to notice that she just chastised her boss. Pinkerton climbed off the men and all of them bent down, hiding amongst the branches before them. It was too dark for Hattie to discern anything about the person, but the lack of a skirt and his walk made her think it was a man. She heard him climb the steps and then ring the bell. Presently they could hear the door close and a beam of light illuminated the bushes directly behind them; Hattie assumed it was more lightning until she realized someone inside had lit a lamp.
Pinkerton resumed his perch and peered in. “I believe that’s Captain Elwood, of the Union army. He looks nervous,” Pinkerton added, but then fell silent. Hattie could not hear any of what was happening inside, but Pinkerton’s hands were cupped around his eyes in an attempt to read their lips. “He’s pulled out a map of Virginia. The miscreant.” Pinkerton added a few more choice words, which were probably not of the nature for a lady’s ears, but luckily another clap of thunder sounded. “They’ve gone.”
“Gone?” Bridgman asked, his eyes on the vacant porch. “Gone where?”
“Out of the room. They must have walked upstairs.” Pinkerton got down, but they stayed at their perch. An hour, perhaps more, went by in silence before they detected movement again. A vague rectangle of light fell on the sidewalk as the front door opened. Hattie heard the couple murmur their goodnights and then what sounded like a kiss.
As night had fallen, the operatives did not have to worry as much about being seen and they maneuvered themselves to get a better look. Elwood’s legs descended the front steps, and they watched as he walked down 13th Street in the same direction he had come. Pinkerton, still without shoes, set off behind him.
The three remaining members of the agency exchanged bewildered looks. “What now?” Lewis asked. “Should we head back to the office?”
“You go,” Hattie told them. “I’m going to see if she has any more gentlemen callers tonight.”
Hattie lingered for another hour or so, finally leaving after the last light had been extinguished at the Greenhow residence, retiring to the small room she shared with Kate, wet, tired, but elated.
The next morning, Hattie arrived at the office early, only to find Bridgman and Lewis already in the Old Man’s inner chamber. Hattie pulled a package wrapped in brown paper from her reticule and marched in.
“Ah, Miss Lewis,” Pinkerton swept his arm around in a welcoming gesture. “I was just telling these gentlemen what happened when I took off after Mrs. Greenhow’s visitor.” As the men occupied the only chairs in the room, Hattie stood and listened as Pinkerton recounted how he’d pursued Captain Elwood at a distance, until the man disappeared into an office building at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. “I had just opened the door when I felt the tips of a bayonet pointed at my chest. ‘Halt or I’ll fire,’ the bayonet wielder shouted.”
Pinkerton went on to say that, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the shapes of four sentries facing him, wearing Union uniforms. He immediately felt the futility of trying to explain who he—the man standing in his socks, with water dripping down every inch of his mud-splattered clothing—really was. “One might have more readily imagined that I had been fished out of the Potomac than I was the chief of the secret service of the government.”
The men gave a hearty laugh as Hattie smiled.
Pinkerton gave Captain Elwood his alias but refused to answer any other questions. He didn’t want to give the probable traitor any more information than necessary. After they’d put him in a prison cell with a multitude of drunken men, Pinkerton became friendly with the guard and asked him to pass on a note to Assistant Secretary of War Scott.
The guard agreed and soon Pinkerton was escorted to Scott’s home. Pinkerton gave up Elwood, and Scott agreed that Greenhow was a dangerous character and must be kept under surveillance.
Pinkerton put his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “And if we detect that she is trying to convey any intelligence to the enemy, we have authorization from the assistant secretary of war to arrest her immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Lewis replied. “Shall we set on a course of 24 hours outside her home?”
Pinkerton nodded before readjusting his position and picking up his pen. Lewis and Bridgman rightfully took that as a sign to take their leave, but Hattie remained.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Hmm?” Pinkerton replied.
“I just wanted to deliver these to you.” Hattie set the brown parcel on his desk and left the room, hiding a tiny smile behind her hand. As the Old Man’s hearty laugh filled the office, Hattie no longer felt the need to hide her grin.
“Miss Lewis, what was in the bag?” Bridgman asked.
“Oh, just the Old Man’s shoes,” Hattie said as she sat at her desk and got ready for the day’s tasks. “I thought he might need them.”
Word eventually reached
Pinkerton and Co. that Elwood had been escorted directly from Scott’s house to Fort McHenry, where he used a penknife to slit his own throat.
Hattie felt sorry for the man: the more she tailed Rose Greenhow, the more she saw the woman as a seductress who used men as pawns to garner information. Several prominent men from the House of Representatives and Senate would call on her in the evenings, not that Hattie ever witnessed this. She had daytime duty, as Pinkerton felt that the nighttime surveillance should be conducted by a man, both because it was dangerous and because it wasn’t ladylike to be observing what he termed “illicit affairs.” At any rate, Hattie enjoyed her duty: the pleasant spring air made for a good excuse to be outside, and Hattie would often sit on a bench across the street from Greenhow’s mansion, pretending to read.
One morning Bridgman came into the office unusually early, before Hattie had left. He was visibly angry and declared it was time to “arrest the whore.” He’d seen Senator Wilson, the man who had replaced Jefferson Davis as chairman of the Senate Committee on Military Affairs, being received by her the previous night.
Pryce Lewis waved his hand. “If being intimate with Mrs. Greenhow was a federal offense, our prisons would be full to the brim by now.”
Pinkerton, who had come out of his office to retrieve a file, paused. “What would Mrs. Greenhow want with a known abolitionist like Wilson other than his knowledge on army movements?” He nodded at Pryce and Bridgman. “I think we have enough. We’ll arrest her tonight.” He started back before pausing at Hattie’s desk. “Miss Lewis, I believe we will need your presence as well. Greenhow residence, eight o’clock sharp.”
“Yes, sir.” Hattie could barely keep the pleasure out her voice.
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 38
