They met for breakfast and afterward retired to the large barroom with its French-plate mirrors and gas chandeliers, where they read the day’s papers and listened to their fellow guests lament the fall of Nashville.
After an hour Scully got to his feet and told his companion he was going for a stroll. Lewis nodded and continued reading the paper, aware that Scully was heading to the Monumental and a rendezvous with Webster. Lewis would visit later in the day, and then first thing the next morning he and Scully would check out of the hotel and head their separate ways.
Lewis heard the brazen lunch gong and went to enjoy another extravagant meal. Afterward he climbed the stairs to the hotel’s observatory and gasped at the view. He counted the hills, seven in total, and observed the capitol from a different angle. Over in the southwest he could make out the melancholic walls of the giant Hollywood Cemetery, and to the east was the Confederate navy yard. But the vista to the south was most stunning, beyond the flour mills, tobacco factories, cotton mills and ironworks that lined the banks of the James River. There, far away, Lewis watched “the river winding along and losing itself amongst undulating hills.” For a moment he could have been back in Newtown.
By three o’clock Scully still hadn’t returned, and Lewis was becoming concerned. He left the hotel and started to walk in the direction of the Monumental. Up ahead he saw Scully coming the other way. Lewis let him know he had been gone too long, but Scully assured his colleague that “there was no occasion for uneasiness.” He then explained that Webster had asked him to carry some letters from his Richmond friends to their contacts in Maryland, and he would return in the evening to collect the letters. Lewis told his accomplice to return to his room and wait there; he wouldn’t be long. He was going to call on Webster and check that all information had been communicated.
Lewis entered the Monumental and went directly to Webster’s room. Hattie Lawton opened the door, and Lewis saw the unease in her eyes. Her “husband” was propped up in bed, talking to a squarely built gentleman with a dark complexion. The man looked up at the visitor and then turned to Webster in anticipation of an introduction. Webster explained that Lewis was “an old friend, an Englishman from Manchester.” Pleased to meet you, said Lewis, extending a hand. The man got to his feet as Webster presented Captain Samuel McCubbin, head of the city’s secret police. McCubbin smiled and informed Lewis “that he occupied the room adjoining that of Webster.”
For a while the three men “had a pleasant chat upon indifferent subjects.” Then Lewis pulled his watch from his pocket and declared it was time he was on his way. Suddenly McCubbin asked the Englishman if he had “reported to the military governor.” Was that necessary? asked Lewis, with an innocent smile. He had been led to believe by the soldiers at Westmoreland that such protocol was superfluous.
Unfortunately not, said McCubbin, who explained that all persons who crossed the Potomac must report to General Winder’s headquarters. But it’s not a problem, he quickly added, flashing a grin at Lewis. If he and Mr. Scully would be good enough to visit General Winder’s headquarters at four o’clock, the matter could be quickly dealt with. Most kind, replied Lewis, who said that as it was already nearly four o’clock he’d best go and fetch Scully right away.
McCubbin was waiting patiently when Lewis and Scully arrived a little after four at the general’s headquarters on the corner of Ninth and Broad streets. McCubbin led his guests into Winder’s office and introduced them to Richmond’s provost marshal general. John H. Winder was sixty-two years old, a veteran of the Florida and Mexican wars and an instructor of Jefferson Davis when he had been a callow West Point cadet. Winder was “short and compact in frame and curt in act and speech,” and despite his correct appearance he reeked of menace the way Richmond stank of tobacco. Among the Union soldiers languishing in Richmond’s prisons, a visit by Winder was “a feared and fearful thing … leading to an inevitable roughening of our confinement.” Winder’s punishments were cruelly creative. There was the old favorite, the lash, whereby a prisoner would receive upwards of fifteen strokes on his bare back, sometimes as many as fifty, at which point the miscreant would be either unconscious or crying for his mother. If Winder ordered a man to be “trysted up,” the prisoner was “tied up by the thumbs to a cross-piece overhead” and suspended with his feet above the floor for however long Winder thought fit. To be “bucked” and “gagged” entailed a long period lying on the damp stone floor with a wooden gag in the mouth and the elbows tied, or “bucked,” to the knees. Then there was the ingenious “barrel shirt,” reputed to be a trick Winder picked up from an old naval friend. The shirt was “made by sawing a common flour barrel in twin and cutting armholes in the sides and an aperture in the barrel head for the insertion of the wearer’s head.” A couple of days wearing the “barrel shirt” was enough to reform the most recalcitrant of men.
Even among his own people, the name Winder made men tremble. A careless remark about the government, a thoughtless joke about a general, and a man was liable to find himself festering in the cells, a plaything of Winder and his military police. John Beauchamp Jones, the diary-keeping clerk to the secretary of war, was aghast at the antics of Winder and his “Plug-Ugly Gang,” his name for men such as Samuel McCubbin, the worst of the lot in Jones’s caustic opinion. Not only was McCubbin “wholly illiterate,” wrote Jones, but he was also “a Scotch-Irishman though reared in the mobs of Baltimore.”
Jones considered them all to be unfit for the job, just “petty larceny detectives, dwelling in barrooms, ten-pin alleys, and such places. How can they detect political offenders, when they are too ignorant to comprehend what constitutes a political offense? They are illiterate men, of low instincts and desperate characters.” They even seemed incapable of catching Richmond’s pro-Unionists who crept out in the dead of night to daub the walls of buildings with slogans such god bless the stars and stripes and union men to the rescue.
Unfortunately for Jones, life was about to become a great deal more unpleasant under Winder and his Plug-Uglies. On the day Lewis and Scully arrived in Richmond—February 26—Congress had sat in a secret session at the capitol and “authorized the declaration of martial law in this city and at some few other places.”
President Davis was still putting the finishing touches to the proclamation that would come into effect on March 5, but Winder had been told its main points: the suspension of habeas corpus; the prohibition of liquor and the closure of all distilleries; the surrender of all private sidearms; a curfew from ten o’clock at night until dawn and the requirement of a passport for all journeys outside the city line.
This last order brought an ironic smile to the face of Jones, the man who two months earlier had refused to issue a passport to Tim Webster. Webster had still obtained a passport, and Jones suspected it had come from Winder and his Plug-Uglies. He had told his diary that they “seem to be on peculiar terms of intimacy with some of these [letter carriers], for they tell me they convey letters for them to Maryland, and deliver them to their families.”
Winder was a Marylander; so too McCubbin and a couple of his colleagues. They had given private letters to Webster to carry north, including correspondence between Winder and his son, William, a Union artillery officer, who was in Washington waiting to be posted. Winder Junior had just returned from duty in California and was reluctant to become a combatant but realized nonetheless where his duty lay. The letters revealed that General Winder was urging his son “to resign his commission if he could not find the means of certain escape by desertion and come south.” In the end the young Winder neither deserted nor fought; McClellan posted him back to California. The thought that Webster had read this intimate exchange was painful enough for General Winder, but the realization that he had been fooled was too much to bear. The desire to nail Webster was personal as well as professional.
Winder shook hands with Lewis and Scully, telling them with a broad smile that he was “very glad to meet any friends of Captain Webster’s
as he is a noble fellow, a most valuable man to us.”
Lewis agreed, adding that that was why he was in Richmond, to pass a letter to Webster “warning him if he ever came north again, not to go by Leonardtown for, if he did, he would be captured [as] United States detectives were watching for him.”
Winder nodded gravely and thanked the pair for undertaking such a perilous task. The three men talked for a while longer. Winder was eager to hear their impressions of the North. What was their opinion of the government? Would Great Britain come to the Confederacy’s aid? For his part Winder made it plain “he regarded Lincoln as a mere figurehead” and instead charged William Seward “as most to blame for … the ‘war on the South.’”
When Lewis asked Winder “for something from you to show that we have reported here and are all right, so to avoid interference from the guards,” he was told that no pass or permit was required, not for two such stalwart friends of the Confederacy. In fact, said the general, as he escorted Lewis and Scully to the door, “call and see me whenever you feel like it.” He was determined to make their brief sojourn in Richmond as pleasant as possible.
Lewis and Scully breathed a sigh of relief as they left General Winder’s headquarters. The Monumental Hotel was only one block away, but they agreed to make their final call on Webster in the evening. First, now that they were “perfectly secure from any mishap,” they would return to their hotel, freshen up and then enjoy a generous supper.
It was dark when Lewis and Scully walked out of the Exchange and Ballard Hotel. The banks and stores were closed, but Richmond’s nocturnal business was about to begin. Behind the pair’s hotel was a row of houses “occupied by parties of a dubious and uncertain character,” with the “sinful abode of Ella Johnson” particularly notorious. Meanwhile in among the linden trees in Capitol Square the two men were subjected to what James Cowardin’s Dispatch described as the “smirks and smiles, winks, and, when occasion served, remarks not of a choice kind … of the prostitutes of both sexes.”
Lewis and Scully politely declined all services on offer and strode across the square and up to Webster’s room. There was no Captain McCubbin, but there was the irritatingly solicitous Mr. Price, insisting once more on a trip to the theater. Mary Partington was playing in The Hunchback at the Franklin Hall. It would be a crime to miss it. Price suggested supper first, but Lewis told him they’d just eaten. In that case, said Price, he would nip out for a quick bite and return in half an hour.
Alone with Webster, Hattie Lawton and Scully, Lewis explained that he intended “to leave the following day and carry out my instructions to go to Chattanooga.” Webster agreed and “said Scully, too, ought to be off as soon as possible.” Unfortunately the letters from his friends had yet to arrive, but he expected them to be ready for Scully to collect in the morning.
They had been “conversing in low tones for perhaps fifteen minutes when there was a knock at the door. Webster called ‘come in’ and a gentleman, a stranger to Scully and [Lewis] entered, followed by a young gentleman about nineteen years of age.” The light by the door was gloomy, and it wasn’t until the second man had stepped forward that the gaslight revealed his face. It was Chase Morton.
Scully got to his feet, mumbled something incoherent and rushed out of the room leaving behind his overcoat. Lewis made a weak joke at his friend’s expense and “betrayed no sign of recognition” as Webster introduced him to George Clackner, another one of General Winder’s men.
Clackner shook Lewis’s hand but didn’t turn to introduce his companion. Instead he and Webster “began a commonplace talk, like old acquaintances,” with Lewis chipping in the odd comment from time to time. Morton contributed nothing to the conversation. He stood and watched.
Lewis had an urge to ask Morton how the family was, just to see his reaction, perhaps surprise him with his nerve. Now that he “knew the game was up,” Lewis felt strangely relieved, unshackled of suspense. His only concern “was to avoid being arrested in the room with Webster, for in his feeble state it would be a great shock.”
After a few minutes Lewis got to his feet, put on his soft felt hat, collected Scully’s overcoat and wished everyone a good evening. At the top of the stairs he found a fretful Scully. “The dog is dead,” said Lewis, handing him his coat. He heard a door open, then a voice say “excuse me.” Lewis turned. Clackner asked him and Scully to confirm their names. Then Clackner said their presence was required in General Winder’s office. But we saw the general in the afternoon, replied Lewis. Too bad. Clackner’s orders were to escort the pair to his chief’s headquarters.
Lewis and Scully were led downstairs and into the hotel bar, where Samuel McCubbin and four other policemen were leaning against the counter drinking whiskey. Lewis asked McCubbin what was going on. The detective shrugged and said that all would soon be revealed.
*This was the figure recorded in the 1860 census, making it the country’s twenty-fifth-largest city, but with the outbreak of war and the influx of soldiers, and civilians from other parts of Virginia, the population increased by several thousand.
*Richmond also had the Täglicher Anzeiger, a German-language newspaper, popular with the city’s Jewish population, and in 1863 a fifth English-language daily, the Sentinel, was published.
C H A P T E R S I X T E E N
“I Suspected You All Along”
IT WAS A SHORT WALK from the Monumental to General Winder’s office. As Lewis and Scully were escorted up Ninth Street George Clackner asked if they had ever been to New York City. Lewis said they had. So then you know Mayor Fernando Wood? No, said Lewis. But he’s the mayor of New York, replied Clackner.
Lewis gave a small puff of laughter and asked “if I ought to know the Lord Mayor because I had lived in London?” Clackner motioned for someone to come forward and the next instant Lewis was face-to-face with Chase Morton. He asked the Englishman if he recognized him, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Lewis shook his head. Why, should he? Chase couldn’t believe it and exclaimed, “Good heavens, don’t you remember examining my father’s papers in Washington?”
Lewis looked dumbfounded. Washington! He had only once been in the city, and that was a fleeting visit. Lewis gave a condescending smile and suggested Morton had him confused with someone else. Morton glanced nervously at the detectives. He wasn’t wrong, he assured them, honestly. “It is impossible that I can be mistaken!” he cried. Morton pointed at Scully and said he too had searched the family home.
McCubbin intervened and ushered them all toward General Winder’s office, where they found the provost marshal general waiting. He got to his feet and with a beaming smile asked Lewis if Secretary Seward was in good health.
Lewis continued to feign bemusement. He had never met Secretary Seward and implored the general to explain what was going on. Winder sat back in his chair and regarded Lewis, the silence as interrogative as the questions. “Mr. Lewis,” he said, finally, “you are a smart man. If you were not, they would not send you on this mission. But we are smart enough for you this time. I suspected you all along.” Lewis protested his innocence. It was all some frightful error, a ghastly case of mistaken identity. Winder heard him out and told Lewis he would be given an opportunity to state his case when his trial began.
Soon other detectives arrived with Lewis’s and Scully’s valises from the Exchange and Ballard Hotel. Lewis was outraged. Such behavior was preposterous, but Winder’s men ignored his cries and began “spreading out our clothing, ripping out the lining of the trousers and feeling along all the seams.” They removed and admired the men’s revolvers and then turned their attention to Lewis and Scully themselves, who were ordered to shed their coats and shirts. And the pants? McCubbin inquired. Winder told him not to bother, saying the pair were too smart to have any incriminating papers about their persons. He instructed his detectives to hand back the pair’s money and valuables but not their revolvers. Then he called McCubbin and another man into an adjoining room. As Lewis dressed he overheard them
talking. They mentioned the names Dennis and Brandt, both fellow Northern detectives, and from the cadence of the conversation it sounded like they were going through a list of known Pinkerton men. Winder came back into the room and informed Lewis that he and Scully would remain in the custody of the military police overnight. In the morning they would be taken to the Henrico County Jail to await trial on charges of espionage.
There were no cells in Winder’s offices, so the two prisoners were told they would spend the night in a local barracks. But first, said McCubbin, as he led them out into the street, let’s have a drink. They headed to a nearby saloon. The bartender’s back was to the party when they entered the saloon, but as he turned Lewis “recognized one of Pinkerton’s men named E. H. Stein, whom I knew well enough though I had never been engaged with him on any cases.” Pinkerton had not disclosed to Lewis that one of his operatives was working undercover in Richmond as a bartender, and the Englishman struggled momentarily to “repress feelings of astonishment.” Clackner told Stein that as their guests were “two Englishmen [sic]” it was only natural that they should drink a bottle of Old Tom, a sweet gin popularized in London during the eighteenth century.
It was no coincidence that Lewis and Scully had been brought to the workplace of E. H. Stein. Winder and his men suspected Stein of being a Northern spy. Since his arrival the previous August he had made two trips North, something to do with ill relatives, or so he’d claimed. In fact on both occasions Stein reported to Pinkerton what little information he had gleaned in Richmond. In recent weeks he had curtailed any suspicious behavior for fear of being arrested. Stein knew he was being watched night and day, and as he poured a gin for Lewis and Scully he felt Clackner’s eyes boring into him. Lewis, too, knew “that this meeting was brought about purposely … to see if we knew each other, but he [Clackner] could determine nothing from the manner of our meeting.”
Double Death Page 17
