Alias Dragonfly

by Jane Singer

  Not if Mrs. Greenhow stabs me though the heart with a hatpin, you aren’t, I thought. I ran back to the house.

  Mrs. Greenhow was pacing in the entryway.

  “Were you stopped?”

  “No. It went fine.”

  “Thank you, Miss Swinton. You are a true daughter of the South.”

  “God save them all, ma’am,” I said.

  She parted the curtain of the front window and peeked out. I stood behind her with enough room to see as well. A tall, slender figure in a hooded cloak was walking quickly back toward the dogwood tree. Before she rounded the corner to the privy, two dark figures took hold of her. One wrapped his hand over her mouth. It was Betty! I recognized her walk, and saw the side of her face.

  I turned to hurry away. Mrs. Greenhow grabbed me by the hair.

  “It was a trap, wasn’t it.” Her grasp tightened. My head was forced back.

  “You will pay for this. Above all others, you will pay,” she said.

  I felt the sharp point of the hairpin in my ear.

  “If you resist, I’ll pierce your brain,” she hissed.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

  “Shut up. Of course you did. No one knew when my courier was arriving. They were lying in wait for her. Because of you! Damn you!”

  She forced me up the staircase. It was high and the way narrow. I had nowhere to go.

  She was about to thrust me into a closet when Little Rose woke up.

  “Don’t be afraid, my darling,” she said. “Miss Swinton,” she snarled my fake name, “Miss Swinton and I are playing a little game. Come with me now. We’re going away for a while!”

  “I want to play the game!” yelled Little Rose, jumping into the closet with me just as her mother was about to lock me inside.

  “No!” Mrs. Greenhow cried. “Come out, Little Rose, now!”

  “I love games, Mama!” The child screeched.

  I yanked her away from her mother and jumped into the closet with the child against me. “I’ll hurt her if you come any further,” I yelled. I slammed the door in Mrs. Greenhow’s face and locked it.

  “I don’t like this game,” Little Rose whimpered.

  I heard loud voices then. Mrs. Greenhow screamed curses at whoever was there.

  “It’s all right!” a woman shouted. I didn’t answer. How did I know who was really out there?

  “Fiona!” I heard her call out.

  Okay, that name did fine. I unlocked the door. Little Rose ran screaming into her mother’s arms.

  I saw a group of soldiers posted in the hallway, their rifles pointed into the room. And there was Mr. Pinkerton himself with Mrs. Warn and Mike.

  I watched as a soldier dragged Little Rose and her mother, cursing, damning all Yankees, including me. And to make more of this raucous muddle, Mr. Pinkerton pushed a young, disheveled woman in front of me. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders and tumbled down her back. She was sweating heavily, her face twisted, making sounds like a snarling animal. Even though her hands were bound, she raised both in the air. “God save the South, and may you all rot in hell,” Betty Duvall hissed.

  Twenty-One

  “What made you come just then, sir?” I asked Mr. Pinkerton when I was taken to the photography studio soon after the capture of Betty and Mrs. Greenhow.

  “When Betty took the packet, we grabbed her. Mrs. Warn kept a steady eye on your room—from a tree, I might add—well, she noted the blue petticoat in the window, and we waited for Betty. A doll, my God, a doll, right under our noses!” he exclaimed.

  I do believe a wrinkling appeared at Mrs. Warn’s lips. A smile? No, not yet.

  He handed me the paper I’d copied from the child’s room. “What do you make of this, Miss Bradford?” he asked. “Although this dispatch was already delivered by Betty to Colonel Jordan, this is not encoded. This is different.”

  I studied the pattern again. I blocked out everything else.

  A circle with a dot in the center. Center, Center, Centreville. I remembered the woods behind the town Jake and I had encamped. Centreville. Yes.

  Next: Mc. Mc, Mc. Who or what would that be? Who was at Centreville before the terrible Union defeat? Mc, Mc . . . McDowell, the Union general.

  Next, the initial B, and the cow head sketch.

  But was it a cow? No, it had horns. A bull. Bull Run.

  “The Confederate General Beauregard was to meet McDowell’s troops at Bull Run!” I looked at the agents gathered around me.

  “Is this how it happened?”

  “Yes, the Rebels knew of the Union movement to Centreville, as did the newspapers, but because of Greenhow’s courier, the Confederates were able to get word to Beauregard in time for him to reinforce with many more men.”

  “McDowell’s men left Centreville with no idea they’d be met by a wall of Confederate soldiers who far outnumbered them,” Mr. Pinkerton said, and added, “I must tell you, Miss Bradford, that Mrs. Warn came to the same conclusion. You are both to be commended.” This time, Mrs. Warn shook my hand.

  “Bravo, kid,” Mike said, clapping me on the back.

  “The Greenhow ring has been broken . . . for now,” Mr. Pinkerton said. “But you, our exceptional young agent, will be in the gravest danger. Do you understand? We don’t have Colonel Jordan. We don’t have them all.”

  If I hadn’t had Betty’s sharp, loathing glower stuck like a nail in my brain, I’d have grown a foot at least, right in front of them. And if I hadn’t wished to hold my father in my arms, or longed to rush to Jake Whitestone, wherever he was, and have Mama back, and transport Isaac and his frightened souls and Nellie to a safe place, I’d have been able to feel true happiness. There is no pure joy, Madeline Eve Bradford, I told myself. Was I right? Of course I was.

  When I got back to my aunt’s house, that’s when I read about Jake.

  Special from the New York Tribune

  Alarming News!

  Our young scribe known to you as PAN has been captured by the Rebels!

  Of his own volition and with the blessing of this newspaper, he’d secured an exclusive post with a band of Union scouts, an elite force that moves ahead of our troops and relays critical information of the enemy’s movements to their superiors.

  Despite his companion’s efforts to free him from Rebel hands, PAN was taken away. We are told that PAN resisted mightily, but to no avail.

  Word has it that he has been transported to a Confederate prison in Richmond.

  These are alarming tidings. The prisons in the Confederate capitol are in the keep of General John H. Winder, a most cruel and hard man, hated by his own people. This is dreadful news indeed.

  Pray for PAN, for Mr. Greeley’s great paper and all who represent it. We are considered the mortal enemies of the entire South.

  Pray.

  The paper fell from my hands. I felt a whirling in my head. My mouth was dry, my heart thudded against my ribs. Jake in a prison! What would they do to him? Would he survive?

  Then, I got really angry. Why did he put himself in such danger? Was he a fool? Or someone who needed the high excitement, needed the risk to feel like he was alive and a part of this terrible war—

  Wait a minute, I told myself. Who are you thinking about? Jake Whitestone or yourself? Are you not risking every part of your being? Are you not in grave danger every time they send you on a mission? Every time! Will any of us, my father, Jake and I, survive this? Was it worth it?

  “Is it worth it?” I shouted really loudly.

  My aunt, who’d been dozing on the sofa, sat straight up, knocking a pile of needlework from her lap. It fell on the floor, along with her reading spectacles. “Oh, saints to goodness, Miss Madeline. You nearly stopped my heart with that scream.” She fanned herself wildly with a pillow.

  I just stood there breathing hard. I must have looked like a madwoman. “I’m sorry, Aunt Salome.” I couldn’t help it; a shrill voice came from my throat. “I’m really sorry!”

  I
headed straight for the cellar, down the stairs, and ran smack into Nellie. And Isaac. They were huddled together by the trap door. A large grain bag was on the floor between them. The top was open. I walked straight up to Isaac. He reached into his shirt, brandishing a knife. “No, Isaac!” Nellie said. “She’s a friend to us.” Nellie whispered, “Child, get away from him!”

  “Is it worth it, Isaac?” I was close enough to see a crosshatch pattern of scars under his mouth. “Is it?”

  He didn’t raise the pistol he now held in his hand. “What do you think?” he said. He lifted his shirt to reveal a horseshoe-shaped mark that looked like a cattle brand. The scar was red and raised, like the devil himself had seared it there. Mr. Washington had a similar mark on his arm.

  The grain bag heaved of its own accord. A woman’s brown arm reached out. Isaac took her hand. “It’s okay, Suzanne,” he said gently, “we goin’ now.”

  With that, he hefted the bag to his shoulders and pushed past me. Nellie opened the cellar door, and motioned to him. “Get gone, son. God go with you and the girl.”

  I sat down on the floor, exhausted, and sad, and proud of us all.

  Yes, it was worth it.

  Nellie moved about the kitchen, never speaking to me. Next thing I knew, she handed me a piece of cornbread with honey butter dripping down the sides. At that moment, it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted.

  Twenty-Two

  The next day was a Sunday. Usually the bells of Mt. Olivet Church pealed loudly. Something was louder, drowning them out. Someone was screaming.

  “An escaped lunatic! Lock the doors!” my aunt cried out as she peered through the window of the front parlor. A man was lying on the street, tearing away pieces of clothing with his teeth, growling and groaning, rolling in the mud. His head and face were bound with bloodstained bandages, nearly covering his nose. A bit of a gray-brown beard was barely visible. The man’s cries were so loud they penetrated the heavy glass. As he thrashed, two policemen dragged him to his feet.

  I opened the door a crack, hoping hard the man in the street wasn’t Mr. Webster forced to quickly act this part to avoid detection. Because he posed in the Confederate capital as a trusted Rebel courier, I could only imagine what would happen to him here in Washington City if none of Pinkerton’s men were alerted and could help him. There would be no way to tell what side he was on.

  “If you are captured, Miss Madeline, you are on your own, as there is no certainty we can rescue you without exposure for us all,” Webster had told me.

  One of the soldiers kicked the man in the mouth. Blood spurted on the ground.

  By now the man was squalling like a skinned rabbit. The bandage on his face had fallen off. It was not Mr. Webster, thank God. And he would not have screamed or squalled.

  “No, for the love of God,” the man cried, “I escaped from Saint Elizabeth’s lunatic hospital! I swear it. Cock a doodle doooo!”

  My aunt pressed against me at the door. It opened wider. She shouted to them. “Our cousin Herbert is in that asylum. He swears he’s the King of Spain. Poor soul!”

  “Shut it, ma’am,” a soldier snapped. “This one ain’t no king. He’ll hang sure. He was nabbed just outside Georgetown sitting pretty on a Union officer’s horse. The poor officer lay dead at his feet, see? Now close the door. Now!”

  I watched with a cold hand gripping my heart as the man was hog-tied face down, and dragged over the cobblestones. What if he’d been a spy? What if he had to kill the Union officer to protect a mission?

  “Madeline! Help me pack up Mr. Whitestone’s belongings. I’m placing a notice that his room is available,” Aunt Salome ordered as she came toward me.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said. “It’s not his fault he’s not here.” I had little patience for her now.

  “What do you mean? He’s gone derelict on me. What does he do, anyway?”

  “He writes, Aunt Salome.”

  “Writes what?”

  “For a newspaper. He’s been captured by the other side.”

  “And you know this because you saw it in a dream, Madeline?”

  “I saw it in print, Aunt.”

  “Of course you didn’t, Madeline. Don’t fib.”

  I was hardly able to control my anger. But if she knew I was devoted to the “Abolitionist Paper,” as she called Mr. Greeley’s New York Tribune, I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Yes, in a dream, Aunt.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Nellie! Bring wood for the fireplaces. It is fall, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  I had, and a chill settled over me that no fire could warm.

  Twenty-Three

  I woke to the sound of a gunshot, loud and close. Just after that, a wailing echoed throughout the house. I grabbed my revolver and ran toward the sound. When I reached the cellar, I saw Isaac lying on the floor, his head in Nellie’s lap. Blood was everywhere, staining her apron and her hands. Before I could move toward her, a man lifted me off my feet, twisting my arms behind my back. My revolver dropped to the floor.

  “No! No! My boy!” Nellie moaned.

  “Shut up, Mammy!” a voice from the darkness called out.

  “Frank! There’s three over there.” Another voice, ragged and harsh.

  “Then get the ropes, fool. Truss them.”

  I struggled against the third man, but was no match. I bit his hand. Hard.

  He dropped me to the ground.

  “Damn you! Whoeee, little tiger! Ain’t you something.” He aimed his boot at my head. On the ground now, I kicked back at him. He sat down on my legs, chuckling. “Whoeee.”

  The other two men tied up four Negroes: a man, two women, and last, a tiny boy-child. But the man, small and wiry, thrashed free of the rope and crawled to the door.

  “Run, Hulbert!” the woman screamed.

  As the man dove for Hulbert, he butted the slave catcher with his head. The man went down. They wrestled there as I groped for my gun. All the while, Nellie cradled her son. Isaac’s head lolled, his mouth not moving.

  The man stepped on my hand as I sat up and grasped the revolver. Sharp pains ran down my arm.

  One threw open the kitchen door while the other slammed the butt of his gun into the slave’s head. He lay still.

  They retied him and dragged them all out into the alley. “Bounty on all three. Praise be!” the slavecatcher shouted. I got a good look at them then. One was fat and clean-shaven, with an anvil-shaped face; another was burly, with long whiskers and a red scar running over his cheekbone. The last was small and skinny with a hank of black hair that hung over his close-set eyes. I would not forget their faces.

  By then, Aunt Salome had rushed down the stairs.

  Nellie was silent, rocking her son like an infant.

  Aunt Salome went to her.

  Nellie did not look up. She was shaking all over, tears streaming down her face.

  Aunt Salome knelt next to Nellie and Isaac.

  “Did you think I didn’t know what was going on down here, Nellie?” Aunt Salome asked. “Of course I did. Though you may think I hate your race, slave catchers and their kind make me sick. I’ve seen too much cruelty, though my slaves were treated like family. And what’s more, I didn’t fear discovery. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what happens to me. I told no one. I swear on my life—not that it is worth much.”

  “It is, Missus Salome,” Nellie said though her tears.

  I could hardly believe my ears. My aunt knew about Isaac’s activities!

  I couldn’t reason it then in all the chaos, but realized that nothing and no one are what they seem.

  “He’ll get a proper burial. I’ll see to that,” Aunt Salome said. “Anything broken, Madeline?”

  I shook my head no. “Some cuts, that’s all, Aunt.” I was okay. It was Nellie who needed us now.

  We wiped the blood from Isaac’s face and then from the floor. We wrapped him in a blanket.

  Finally, Nellie spoke. “I had got me the money enough
to get my grandson. That’s what I was fixing to tell Isaac. That’s why I hung the quilt. I didn’t know he’d come right back here. He wasn’t supposed to. He changed it up. He changed it up.”

  I held out my arms to her. We wept together.

  Twenty-Four

  My aunt, Nellie and I buried Isaac in a colored cemetery, of course, as Negro folks couldn’t even lie dead next to the whites of this city. How many times will I be dressed in mourning black? I shuddered.

  We knelt before a headstone with Isaac’s name etched on it, paid for by my aunt, a gift of sorts she could hardly afford. As we walked from the gravesite, I spotted a familiar figure over by a clump of trees.

  “I’ll catch up with you, Aunt Salome,” I said, “I want to linger here for a moment.” I pressed my aunt’s hand to my lips. I had no words for what she had done and how I had misread her.

  I watched the two women leave. My aunt’s arm was around Nellie’s shoulders.

  When I was sure they’d gone, I hurried to Mr. Webster. I’d learned to spot my teacher from afar. He looked so tired, and much, much older. He moved stiffly—rheumatism, he said.

  “Miss Madeline, Mr. Pinkerton wants you to know he was most saddened to hear about Nellie’s brave son. Isaac’s work will continue until all his people are free. Mr. Pinkerton promises that. That is the great task of this war.”

  “I know it is, sir.”

  Mr. Webster got up very slowly. His back was hunched. He grimaced in pain. “You are an able agent now, Miss Bradford. When I first met you, I saw a youngster of rare abilities. Now I see that you are becoming a strong woman.”

  “Thank you for being my teacher, sir. I could not have asked for better.” I was flooded with emotion and pride. “Are you going back to Richmond?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, sighing.

  “I’ll go with you!”

  “You cannot. Mr. Pinkerton is sending Jane Smith with me. We will be posing as husband and wife. I’ve prepared my Confederate contacts there for the arrival of my ‘wife.’ I’ve gotten her a job as a clerk in their war department. It is a complete infiltration, as Mr. Pinkerton would say.”