by Jane Singer
Then, one night, when Nellie and I were serving dinner, a tasteless one of boiled turnips and mutton, Aunt Salome was nattering on about how both sides in the war were doing no fighting.
“The Yankees are stuck like hogs in the muck all around the city. Mr. Lincoln sure doesn’t know how to run a war.” Aunt Salome bustled off, muttering about quicksand.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically, not realizing she had gone. I was distracted and anxious. Was there a mission for me, and why did it seem to be taking so long?
Now I’ve learned to understand that spy missions do not materialize just because you want them to. The waiting can be endless and boring and—
Finally, as I was emptying the dirty washbasin water into the alley, I heard the tread of boots on the cobblestones. I grasped my gun. I’d been in the habit of taking it along whenever I ventured out.
Mr. Webster jumped off a horse and headed straight for me. He looked weary. His boots were mud stained. “A hard night’s ride lashed to the devil’s tail, I’ve had,” he said. “But it’s not time to rest. Not time.” He was speaking quickly and rubbing his eyes.
“Have you any news of Jake Whitestone?” I asked. “I think he’s gone to Richmond.”
“He arrived safely, that’s all I know,” Webster said, studying my worried, flushed face. “Don’t fix your heart to anyone, Madeline. It’s not the time or the place. We’ve a task for you. But first I must speak with your aunt.”
Is that what I had done? Fixed my heart to Jake Whitestone? And had Mr. Webster sensed it? Would that weaken me in his eyes? Or in my own? I’d never had any of these feelings before. No time then. I’d ponder them later, or never.
We found Aunt Salome just as she was retiring to her room.
“Mutton doesn’t sit well with me,” she said. “What I’d give for a lovely beef roast. Mr. Webster, take your rest. You look like a ghost.”
“We’ll all feast in style when the Yankee lays down his sword,” he drawled.
“Oh, my, with you at my table, Mr. Webster, it will be a fine feast indeed,” she said, smiling like a dazzled schoolgirl.
“My dear Mrs. Hutton,” he said, “I’d truly like to take Miss Madeline here to stay a day or two with my dear cousin Juliet in Georgetown Heights. She is a fine lady and a friend to our great cause. The air is so much cooler there, and poor little Miss Madeline is looking so pale and thin.”
I didn’t think I was the least bit pale or thin, but I sighed loudly just the same.
“What with typhoid fever in some parts of the city, I’m sure her father would be so grateful,” Webster said.
Grateful? If my father knew that I was probably headed for a spy mission instead of Mr. Webster’s “cousin” Juliet’s house, he’d be anything but grateful.
Aunt Salome looked relieved. Perhaps the poor lady would be glad to have me out of her keep for a bit.
“That is so kind of you, Mr. Webster,” Aunt Salome said, sighing. “I suppose we’ll manage somehow. Isn’t that kind, Madeline? Of course it is.”
“Come walk with me, young miss,” Mr. Webster said. “Just a brief stroll. The air will do us both good.” That was for Aunt Salome’s benefit. The days were muggy, and the air was still and hot.
I was dying to ask him what was happening, but I dared not. It was a lesson in itself to walk with him. Knowing how rapidly I took in what was around me, he’d task me over and over. That day his stride was brisk, his eyes straight ahead.
A group of black-faced men in top hats and coattails ambled by. One blew a trumpet loudly, and another crashed a pair of cymbals. A third leapt off his feet and somersaulted to the ground.
“Who are they?” he asked, not breaking his rapid stride.
“I’m not sure, sir, but I do know this: true Negroes they are not. Their faces are painted over with some kind of makeup. But I saw glimpses of white skin around their necks.
“Excellent! They are a band of Mr. Callie’s Minstrels, a popular form of entertainment here. Crowds come to see them dancing and singing Negro songs, making a mockery of those good folk for spectators’ coins and all the beer they can drink.” And as if he’d read my mind, he said, “Did you notice the third man on the left, the tallest of them? He works with us on occasion. That’s how our fine agent Mike started. When he was with the organ grinder, sometimes his owner would lend him to a minstrel show. Don’t ask Mike how many times he was pelted with beer bottles and oyster shells. Do ask him how much information he gathered about certain Rebels from a few choice moments in the minstrels’ dressing rooms.”
The image of Mike being hit with bottles made me cringe.
“He’ll have much harder times than that. Don’t worry for him. He’s braver than brave.” He did stop then. “You will learn from his example.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have been spying. Each time we’ve walked about, you’ve been spying. Do you realize that, Miss Bradford? That is what we do, and how we do it. Sometimes it is simple observation. Very good.”
I think my grin nearly split my face.
When we’d passed a good few blocks from the boardinghouse, Mr. Webster stopped in front of a storefront, a photograph studio with a hand-lettered freshly painted sign.
Wishing Well Portrait Makers. Soldiers welcome!
The store was shuttered then, but by day, I’d seen soldiers crowded into the place to sit like statues in front of the draped camera, while the photographer poured black powder into a pouch, gripped a rubber pump and froze their faces into a victory smile with a flash and a pop.
Mr. Webster rapped twice on the door, then twice again. The door opened. I followed. Strong odors pervaded the room: burnt powder, harsh chemical acid and cigar smoke.
Mr. Pinkerton appeared from behind a curtained doorway and shuffled over to a counter that was piled with glass plates and rolls of paper. He seemed extra preoccupied, extra serious.
“We are placing you inside the Greenhow house, Miss Bradford. We’ve got word that she has asked for help with her child. You are to be a temporary governess for her daughter, an eight-year-old terror called Little Rose.”
Me, take care of a little kid? I had no experience with tending children. And the daughter of a dangerous spy at that!
“Here is how it will work,” Mr. Pinkerton said. “Mr. Webster, Mrs. Warn and Mrs. Smith have cultivated Rebel contacts across the river in Maryland and Virginia, even in Kentucky. Most productive, it has proved to be. They’ve joined their treasonous organizations, dined at their tables and passed for one of them.”
The pride in Mr. Pinkerton’s voice and face when he spoke of Mr. Webster and Mrs. Smith was obvious. Would I ever be thought of in such a way?
Mr. Webster and Mrs. Smith clasped hands. She leaned close to Mr. Webster. I’d never seen men and women display affection like that in public unless they were married or courting. They must have known each other very well indeed. Before I could think too much about such delicate matters, Mr. Pinkerton motioned for me to sit down.
He perched on the arm of my chair. Thankfully his cigar was at that moment unlit so I didn’t start choking.
“Some Rebels are known as double agents, helping either side when it suits them. For the right price or some measure of conscience, they sometimes work with us. One of them has done just that in the case of Mrs. Greenhow.”
His eyes fixed mine in a gaze so intense, it sent a shiver through me.
“Even though Mrs. Greenhow can’t leave her home, knowing she is under constant surveillance, her couriers are passing Union troop intelligence to Confederate officers, as you well know. Mrs. Greenhow will never disclose her methods. She is like a pie safe locked tight. But the daughter, well, we suspect that she has passed on certain codes her mother gives her. You may be able to get information from her.”
His expression was one of such loathing that when he lit his cigar with a phosphorous stick, it seemed the very air around him might catch fire too. “Listen well, lass,” Mr. Pinkert
on said. “File away all we tell you in that powerful organ of memory you possess, understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Pinkerton.” My brain, my ‘powerful organ of memory,’ was making a difference!
“Your name is Lucy Swinton, daughter of Travis Swinton of the Fifth Virginia Cavalry. He was gravely wounded at Manassas, and you came to Washington City when you heard he died of his injuries. You were raised in Falls Church, Virginia, right across the Potomac. You have boarded for the past year at Mrs. Elsa Stewarts’s Ladies Academy in Richmond, where your late mother, Eliza Swinton, was a distant cousin to Betty Duvall’s family. And while you will claim you don’t know the courier Betty Duvall, you’ll show Mrs. Greenhow this letter from Betty’s father, Willard Duvall.”
“Mr. Duvall is working with you?” I was beginning to understand how complicated loyalties were, and how Mr. Pinkerton’s spies worked to infiltrate the enemy.
“In a manner of speaking. After you identified his daughter Betty to us—and never underestimate how important that was—we were able to find out about her family and use that against her father. We told him we would do our best to see she does not come to great harm.”
“He agreed?”
“Oh, yes. He loves his only daughter, yet fears her as well. She shot him in the arm when he prohibited her from joining the Rebel underground. She called him a Negro-loving Lincoln man and left the house.”
A girl shooting her own father? I must have looked as shocked as I felt.
“Betty Duvall is a dangerous woman, Miss Bradford.”
“How will her father help you?”
“He has agreed to write a letter of introduction to Mrs. Greenhow on your behalf. His late wife was a cousin to Mrs. Greenhow, a woman she’s not seen in years.”
Mr. Pinkerton handed me the letter.
My dear Madam Greenhow,
Permit this familiarity. While you do not know me, a cousin, my dear late wife, Eliza O’Oneal Swinton by name, was related to you by marriage.
I have been an ardent admirer of your patriotism, so to speak, and your bravery.
Let this note introduce a fine young woman, Miss Lucy Swinton, a young orphan who has suffered the loss of her father, my old friend Mr. Travis Swinton, at Bull Run.
Miss Swinton is well mannered and well educated, and while she is on this solemn and sad visit to Washington City, she would benefit from your support and, perhaps, your guidance. We heard of your desire to have someone as a companion to your precious little Rose while you are enduring such hardships at the hand of the Yankees.
Please know that the gentle folk of Falls Church pray for you daily.
Time compels me to write in haste.
With my own fervent prayer for your continued well-being.
I am most sincerely,
Willard Duvall
“There is something else you must know, Miss Bradford,” Mr. Pinkerton said, looking even grimmer, if that was possible. Mr. Webster put his hand on my shoulder as though to prepare me for what was to come. “The real Lucy Swinton died three days ago of typhoid fever.”
I gasped.
“According to Mrs. Smith, who has, in her spare time, volunteered to nurse the sick and wounded at hospital wards around the city, Miss Swinton was utterly alone when she died. Her father was buried where he fell in Manassas. With any luck, Mrs. Greenhow would not know about her passing.”
“With any luck,” Mr. Pinkerton echoed.
I felt really, really sorry for the real Lucy Swinton, dying among strangers. And to know that her father had perished while she was so ill. My own father’s face flew into my head. I was awash with such love for him and felt such a rush of relief that he was alive that it nearly took the breath out of me.
“How old was Lucy Swinton?” I asked.
“Only sixteen,” Mr. Webster said softly.
A cold chill passed through me. A girl so close to my age! Of course, Mr. Webster took notice.
“Do not dwell on that sad event. Not now, or in the future, do you understand? You are to be her,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Webster.” And I thought, you are my fine tutor, my almost mind reader. Could you read my fortune in a gypsy globe as well? And would you tell me if you knew?
“If Mrs. Greenhow accepts you,” Mr. Webster went on, “she may well try to recruit you. She uses and discards young women like soiled handkerchiefs. If they vanish, she finds other zealous, angry souls who would die for the Confederate cause.”
“And if she does try to recruit me?” I asked.
“Do not refuse,” he said.
I felt a rustle of fear and excitement. These two quicksilver feelings were to become familiar. I learned to deal with them in time. They were like new friends dueling with my emotions.
“We will make every effort to protect you,” Mr. Webster said.
“Have you got hold of all of this, Miss Lucy?” Mr. Pinkerton asked. I understood what he was doing and did not look startled when he called me by my new name.
“Oh, yes, sir.” I dipped in a little curtsey I’d seen the girls on the street do as a gesture of respect. I’d never curtsied to anyone before, and it felt clumsy. I’d practice the silly movement, I promised myself.
Mr. Pinkerton rang a little bell that sat on the counter desk. At once, Mrs. Smith hurried in. She was holding a gleaming blonde wig in her hands.
“Undo your hair, please, Lucy,” she said.
I did as she commanded. I have really long hair and curls that pop out like loose springs, remember? When I let it down, it tumbled over my shoulders and down my back.
She handed me pins with hooks at the end. “Pin it up.”
I tried to roll my heavy tresses into a large chignon.
“No, hold your hair with your right hand. With your left, sweep it into a tight twist and secure the pins. Feel around it to make sure none of your own is peeking out. Don’t remove the wig, even when sleeping.”
I winced.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said, handing me a bright blue porkpie cloth hat. “If you are in trouble, leave the hat upside down in the window of your room. If the drapes are drawn, leave enough room to display the hat. Greenhow will likely put you in the top floor nursery with her little daughter. If you change rooms, we will be watching the house from all sides.”
Good, I thought with relief, there will be help if I need it. My relief was short lived.
“Only in a true emergency, Lucy, should you signal for help,” Mr. Webster said. “We need to make this arrest as soon as possible, and make it stick. Mrs. Greenhow has many friends, many gentlemen of authority who would swear to her innocence.”
“Yes, lass, even a Congressman enjoys her, um, favors. We believe she is worming Union secrets from him, the brazen hussy!” Mr. Pinkerton said, glowering.
“You will be messaged as Dragonfly, your code name within the organization. Do you understand?”
Dragonfly. Wide winged. Able to soar away.
The wig was pinching my ear, and my mind was swarming with all I’d heard. Was I to be a sacrifice to the cause they so passionately believed in?
“May I see a looking glass, Mrs. Smith?” I asked, feeling around my head for stray hairs. They were all over the place.
“No. You have to be able to change in the dark, if need be.”
Mr. Pinkerton handed me a carpetbag. “The rest of your attire is within. It is fine mourning garb. Of course, you will dress that way for as long as you are there, in memory of your departed father.”
I shuddered. I wore black for Mama not that long ago.
“You’ll manage the dress for yourself,” Mrs. Smith interrupted my memory. “Before you leave here, secrete your weapon in the bottom of the bag, under the velvet material. The Greenhow woman might well have your person searched.”
Before he left, Mr. Pinkerton quizzed me again, feeding me more facts about Lucy. When he was satisfied that I had retained all he wished me to know, finally, he said, “Be at the flower stand at daybreak.
Watch Mr. Riley. He’ll signal you. Two bouquets of violets mean the couriers have not been spotted. One bouquet? Leave immediately, return here and wait for instructions. Are you ready?” Mr. Pinkerton asked.
“I am ready.” I meant it. My nervousness was lifting. I imagined I saw myself—a lost little outsider with facts and names diving circles in her brain—the girl I used to be. She was applauding.
“Godspeed, Lucy,” Mr. Webster said.
“Watch your back, Miss Swinton,” Mrs. Smith added.
She led me to a small room. There was a cot, a blanket and a pillow. A piece of chicken and a bowl of soup sat on a table by the cot.
“Eat, rest here for a few hours, Lucy,” she said. “You’ll leave in the morning. Get used to lying down with the wig on.”
She closed the door.
I looked at the black mourning dress, and the bonnet that looked like a rotted flower. Death, two deaths, actually, of two complete strangers made the air heavy with its presence; filled the room with shadows upon shadows. I ate what I could and tried to fall asleep. As I drifted off, I pictured myself in my new identity. Seventeen-year-old Lucy Swinton of Virginia. I said her name over and over.
Twenty
I awoke early, or rather Lucy Swinton awoke early, this Southern orphan, and had a few last bites of leftover chicken. Then, holding a carpetbag of meager belongings, with my gun stored in a hidden compartment under a fold of leather and horsehair at the bottom, I straightened her dress and washed my face.
Before I left the empty photography studio, I paused for a moment at the door, adjusting her bonnet over the wig that had itched like the dickens during my sleep. I slumped a bit, my head bowed, as would have been Lucy Swinton’s demeanor in this time of grief. Then I walked into the new morning.
