The operatives gathered once again outside of Greenhow’s home at the appointed time. This time the night was clear, a pleasant breeze rustling the shrubbery Hattie had become acquainted with a fortnight ago. They watched as yet another well-dressed man exited the home and then made their move. A liveried servant answered the door. Pinkerton barged past him, Pryce and Bridgman, as well as John Scully, on his heels. Hattie stepped over the threshold a bit more cautiously.
A dark-haired woman in a splendid blue silk gown appeared behind the servant. Hattie recognized her as the one she’d been following for the past few weeks. Up close Rose’s features were finely lined, but she still had traces of what must have been a beautiful face in her younger years.
“Mrs. Greenhow, I presume?” Pinkerton’s words were more of a statement and less of a question.
“Yes. Who are you?” She got close to Pinkerton and peered up at him.
Hattie wondered if she was at all aware they had been tailing her. It did seem as though she recognized Pinkerton. As the two stood contemplating each other, Hattie marveled at their contrasting traits. Rose Greenhow had all the airs of an immaculately dressed Southern belle, albeit an aged one; Allan Pinkerton’s unruly brown whiskers and ill-fitting uniform lent him a disheveled appearance. Although Rose’s war-time proclivities went against the typical Southern ideals, she was heralded as a Confederate championess while Pinkerton was almost as staunch an abolitionist as John Brown himself.
“Major E.J. Allan,” Pinkerton finally replied. He did not bow. “I have come to arrest you.”
“You cannot enter my home without a warrant.”
“I don’t need a warrant—I have verbal authority from the War and State Departments,” Pinkerton told her before marching to a bold watercolor in an elegant frame placed prominently in the front hallway. He pulled the painting down and ran his hands over it. Rose stepped forward but Pinkerton paid her no heed. “Miss Lewis, please detain Mrs. Greenhow in the parlor.”
Hattie wondered if Pinkerton had meant for her to use force, but Mrs. Greenhow consented, though somewhat reluctantly, to lead the way to the parlor. She sat herself on a settee and gestured for Hattie to sit in one of the elegant armchairs she must usually reserve for her gentleman callers. The two sat in awkward silence, Rose watching Pinkerton and his men ransack her house.
As Bridgman and Pinkerton came into the parlor, Rose got up from the couch and glided toward the fireplace, her hoop skirts swishing. She extracted a piece of paper from a vase on the mantle and then flung it at Pinkerton. “You would like to finish this job, I suppose?”
Pinkerton pocketed the note without reading it. The action and his silence made it clear that he thought Rose eminently guilty. He nodded at Hattie before continuing his search.
Hattie probed her mind for a subject to converse with Rose. Timothy Webster, although reticent by nature, could become the most loquacious man when his role demanded it. However, Rose already knew their true purpose in being at her home and Hattie saw no use for a disguise. The constant opening of drawers and doors throughout the house kept the awkwardness out of the silence.
“You there,” Rose said, sitting straighter and adjusting her skirts as Pryce Lewis entered the room.
“Madam?” Pryce inquired.
“You are from England?” The surprise was obvious in her voice.
“I was born in Wales. Now I am from Chicago.” He sat in the armchair across from Hattie. Pryce had all the mannerisms of an aristocratic Englishman, from his lush sideburns to his carefully cultivated accent. “Mrs. Greenhow, there is another room upstairs—”
She held up her hand before he could finish. “My daughter Gertrude’s room. She passed away this March. I couldn’t bear to move any of her things.”
Pryce handed her a handkerchief, and Rose carefully dabbed at each eye before handing it back to him.
Hattie finally had something to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Rose began to pull at her collar. She reminded Hattie of a little bird, always fluttering. A bird that must have been racked with nervousness, knowing her evidence of her guilt was probably hidden in every room in the house. “It’s awfully warm in here.” She pulled out her fan and flapped it near her face for good measure. “I don’t suppose you would let me upstairs to change my dress.”
Hattie was about to refuse as Pryce replied, “I can let you leave for a few minutes.”
Rose gracefully arose from the couch as Hattie glared at Pryce. She followed Rose up the stairs and down the hallway. Rose must have heard Hattie behind her, but she shut the door in her face. Hattie heard the rustling of papers and then a clattering of what sounded like an iron stove.
I knew it, Hattie thought. She’s destroying evidence. Rose must have had papers hidden underneath her skirts, but Pinkerton and Pryce were too gentlemanly to search her body. Hattie tried the doorknob, but found it locked. “Madam?” Hattie began banging on the door. “Madam, your time is up!”
Pryce appeared. Hattie indicated the door, and he shoved at it with his full weight. The door burst open on a near-naked Rose. He paused and Rose reached for a revolver on her nightstand and then aimed it at Pryce’s face. He made no move as he stared down the muzzle. Hattie, still in the hallway, echoed his stillness, afraid of startling Rose into pulling the trigger.
Hattie’s heart leapt into her throat as Rose readjusted her aim. “If I had known who you were when you came in, I would have shot you dead!”
Pryce affected a smile. “Madam, in order to fire that pistol, you first have to cock it.”
Hattie breathed an audible sigh of relief as Pryce walked forward and fetched the pistol from Rose’s startled grip.
Hattie stepped into the room. “Since you’ve already started the task, I will ask that you finish undressing.” She nodded at Pryce and he left the room. Rose bristled, evidently weighing a refusal, but she relented and began handing Hattie garments one by one until she was stripped down to her linens and boots. Hattie ran her fingers across the fine garments, looking for any hidden papers. Of course, she could not find any remainders of evidence.
After Rose finished, Hattie retreated to the hall while the suspected spy redressed and then followed her back down the stairs.
Pinkerton announced that he was going back to the office to make a full report of what they’d uncovered so far to the War Department. He asked Hattie to finish cataloging the items they’d found. He also left Bridgman, Scully, and Pryce to guard Rose.
Rose sat down to tinkle on her ivory-keyed pianoforte while Hattie sorted the documents on the dining room table. Many were letters from prominent Yankee men, including one from an Oregon senator who “desired a visit as soon as possible.” More than a dozen were letters from the married Senator Wilson declaring his love for Rose. One, written on stationary belonging to the United States Congress, stated that he knew “nothing that would soothe me so much as an hour with you. And tonight, at whatever cost, I will see you.” Hattie picked up the letter, pinching it between two fingers, as if its sordidness was contagious, and put it into the “Political” pile of correspondence. John Scully came in to peer over Hattie’s shoulder. She was about to ask him to help her when he espied Rose’s liquor cabinet. After a brief inquiry into its contents, he declared, “Men, we’ve had a hard day. I think it’s time to reward ourselves.” He pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured it into three crystal glasses.
“Miss Lewis?” he asked, holding up another glass.
Hattie shook her head.
The men imbibed, Scully pouring them new glasses when they ran dry. Hattie ignored them. Presently they began slurring their words. When they lurched into the parlor, Hattie heard the music cease. She crept to the doorway, not wanting to miss Rose’s reaction. Pryce sat in the same chair he’d occupied not too long ago, although this time with much more unsteady movement.
Rose watched them for a moment before rising from the pianoforte. “Look at your wretched selves,” she commanded. “D
on’t you know better than to be in nothing but your shirtsleeves in front of a lady?”
Make that two ladies, Hattie corrected Rose silently.
Rose continued her tirade. “You have made me a martyr, on par with Marie Antoinette or Mary Queen of Scots. Would you get drunk at their courts? What am I saying?” she cackled. “Of course, you would. Your manners would be horrifying if you were a Southerner, but, being as that you are all slaves of Lincoln, I should expect no better.”
The men exchanged glassy eyed glances but did not reply.
“That abolition despot must have you trained like dogs to attack ladies such as myself.”
John Scully managed to focus his eyes on Rose’s bosom. “That may be so, but here’s to nice times we will have with you, Marie Antoinette… in your bedroom tonight.” He raised his glass, but no one returned the gesture.
“That’s it.” Hattie stepped into the room. “You are all a disgrace to the business that you conduct, and I will be having a word with Major Allen about what has transpired this evening.” She glared at each man in turn before marching back into the dining room to gather the evidence.
“Hattie, wait.” Pryce stood at the threshold between the two rooms. “The men were just having a bit of fun. Scully didn’t mean anything by it.”
“She might be a Rebel spy, but she is still a lady and we should treat her as such.”
Pryce pulled off his hat and fiddled with it. “You are right. And he should have never said anything. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he knew you were in the room.”
“That makes no matter.”
He stepped forward. “Will you not tell the Boss?”
Hattie sighed. She was still exasperated with him for his earlier negligence with Rose. He stopped swaying and gave her a pleading look. Although the men had clearly been out of line, she wasn’t sure if Pinkerton would appreciate her tattling on fellow operatives. “I suppose I can let it go this time,” she relented. “But don’t ever let it happen again. With anyone.”
Pryce nodded before putting his hat back on. “Thanks, Hattie.”
“I’m going to get going.” She shouldered the parcel full of documents.
Pryce nodded at the rest of the piles. “I’ll get the men to clean and sort the rest of this out. We’ll bring it to the office in the morning.”
“Thank you. Goodnight.”
“G’night.”
When Scully brought the rest of the evidence in the next morning, he looked even worse for wear than when Hattie left him last night.
“Is this it?” Hattie asked as he dumped the contents of the bags on the evidence table. She swooped around the table like a mother hen examining her nest. “There seemed to be more last night.”
Scully exchanged a glance with Pryce, who adopted the same sheepish look. Hattie was growing to hate that look.
“We found some ashes in the fireplace this morning,” Pryce finally offered. “Mrs. Greenhow might have burned some papers last night.”
“However did you—wait, let me guess. You men got even more drunk and passed out.”
Scully refastened the empty bag and put it under the table. “That’s none of your business.”
Hattie walked up to him and stared into his face, ignoring his wan complexion. “It’s my business when you go and muck with a case. Especially one so important to our cause.”
“Hattie,” Pryce reached out to touch her shoulder. “We all make mistakes. We’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and wanted to celebrate.”
Hattie shrugged off his hand and was about to continue to chew them out when Pinkerton entered the room. “Ah,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “at last, Mrs. Greenhow’s guilt is laid out for the world to see.”
Hattie folded her arms and glared at Pryce and then Scully.
Pinkerton used his detective senses to pick up on the animosity flowing through the room, dividing Hattie from the other operatives like the Mason Dixon line between the North and South. “What is it?”
“Nothing, sir,” Pryce replied. “It was a long night and my men are a mite tired.”
Pinkerton nodded. “The replacements arrived in the morning?”
“Yes, sir, right on time.”
Hattie wondered what they had thought upon arriving to see the men who were supposed to be guarding the suspect passed out.
“The General has already given permission for some of his Sturgis Rifles to assist us in guarding Mrs. Greenhow.” Pinkerton stated. The men of Sturgis Rifles were McClellan’s own bodyguards. “Great work last night, men. And Miss Lewis,” he added, turning to her.
Hattie gave him a half-smile. She could see the begging expression on Pryce’s face, but ignored it and went back to her desk. It was awfully tiring sometimes to be a woman in a man’s world.
Chapter 16
Mary Jane
September 1861
Mary Jane’s new place of business was a gray stucco house on the corner of Twelfth and Clay Streets, at the top of Shockoe Hill. She paused at the entrance to glance down through the trees, catching a glimpse of the slave auction blocks in Shockoe Bottom and the jails of Lumpkin’s alley beyond them. She steeled herself, remembering the reason why she was now standing outside the home of the Confederate President. There can be no slave jails if there are no more slaves.
She walked around the eastern side of the house to find a door underneath the portico, correctly assuming that was the servants’ entrance. A housekeeper in a pristine white uniform greeted her and introduced herself as Mrs. O’Melia. She looked to be in her middle forties, with a kind, round face. “What’s your name?” she asked in a thick Irish accent.
“Mary,” she replied, omitting her customary second name just in case.
“We already have one Mary,” Mrs. O’Melia replied. “We’ll just have to call you ‘Little Mary.’” She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the door wider. “Mr. Garvin?” she called in a louder voice.
“Yes, Mrs. O’Melia?” a black man with graying hair appeared from the side of a nearby building.
“Mr. Garvin, can you bring Little Mary’s bag to her quarters?” She flashed Mary Jane an apologetic smile. “I’ll show you around the big house, but right now I’ve got to get Mrs. Davis her tea. We’ve been a bit short-handed lately, so I’m glad that you are here.”
Mr. Garvin walked into the room and picked up Mary Jane’s bag before exiting again. He led her to a two-story log cabin, stating that it housed the servants’ living space. Once inside, he directed her through a small hallway. “Normally you’d have a roommate, but, as Mrs. O’Melia said, we’re short staffed as of late.”
“What happened to the rest of the help?”
Mr. Garvin flashed a brilliant smile. “A lot of them left when they heard the Union army was at Manassas.”
“They fled to freedom?”
He nodded. “I believe the Yanks are now calling them ‘contraband.’ But at least they ain’t returning them.” Mary Jane gave him a tiny smile, not sure what Mr. Garvin’s aim was in telling her this. In her opinion, most slaves, excluding herself of course, fell into two factions: those who were so devoted to their masters that they would never willingly leave them, and those who would run at the first opportunity. Mr. Garvin could be baiting her with the intent to tattle later to Mrs. Davis, but somehow Mary Jane didn’t think so. She wasn’t sure if it was the articulate timbre to his voice or the gentleness in his brown eyes, but she had an inkling that she could trust Mr. Garvin.
He paused outside a tiny room, gesturing for Mary Jane to enter. The room was bare except for two pallets laid out on the wood floor and a small dresser in the corner.
Mr. Garvin spoke from the hallway. “There’s a flushing toilet in the big house, but we don’t have those luxuries here.”
Mary Jane set her bag on the dresser next to the washing-up bowl and then followed Mr. Garvin back to the mansion. “How many servants are there total?”
“Right now about nine, bu
t there’s work enough for around twelve most days. I heard tell that the Davises owned hundreds of slaves on their plantation back in Mississippi. Only two of them followed them here: Jim Pemberton and his wife Betsy.”
Mary Jane avoided a mud puddle. “Are most of the people who work here slaves?”
Mr. Garvin opened the door of the main house. “Most are, although there are others who are paid for their services, including freedmen and white immigrants like Mrs. O’Melia, and Miss Catherine, the nurse. I belong to Mr. Thompson myself. He hired me out to be Mr. Davis’s coachman.”
Mary Jane nodded in recognition. It was customary practice in Richmond for slave-owners to let newcomers rent their slaves until they bought or hired new servants. Miss Lizzie had offered Mary Jane in the same way—the Davises would be paying the Van Lews for the use of Mary Jane. Miss Lizzie promised Mary Jane that she would give her the money she had earned, after, in Miss Lizzie’s words, “the whole affair was over.”
Mr. Garvin tipped his hat to Mary Jane before he walked back outside.
Mrs. O’Melia greeted her once again. “All right, Little Mary, let’s get you acquainted.” As she led her to the front of the house, the housekeeper regaled Mary Jane with the story of how she had been visiting friends in Richmond from Baltimore when the war started and she was unable to cross the lines to get back home. Alone in a strange city and separated from her children, she prevailed upon Mrs. Davis, who offered a job instead of a pass.
Mrs. O’Melia obviously took great pride in her position and pointed out to Mary Jane little details in the décor of the circular main hallway, such as the large plaster statues painted to look bronze and the wallpaper that mimicked white marble. She caught Mary Jane’s startled glance at a portrait of George Washington prominently displayed in the state dining room.
“Mr. Davis has a great respect for the man. He’s said multiple times that if Washington were alive, he’d be on the side of the Confederacy.”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 39
