So while I could, I stayed. I walked to Humboldt Park, lunched at Calliope’s, and spent countless hours simply watching strong men raise the buildings along the river. It was a miracle of modern engineering. The river had always fed the city, but it also posed a threat. Water had never drained properly from buildings on the riverfront, and it was only growing worse over time. A sewer system was the obvious answer, but the buildings were too low, with no space underneath. Chicagoans being who they were, they simply decided the obvious solution was to lift the buildings up. Sewer pipes had been laid atop the ground, and now the ground would be brought up higher than the pipes to bury them. It was the most modern feat I could imagine.
Entire blocks were being raised by means of jackscrews, and there was no better entertainment on a Sunday afternoon than watching people scurry into and out of a shop—open for business, of course—whose door was rising an inch at a time, dozens of men panting away at its foundation. No other city was like Chicago, and a fierce affection for it rose in my chest as I watched it rearrange itself, piece by piece, to make a better place. As we always had, we were taking something raw and refining it, making it more polished, more finished, for the world.
Unfortunately, while we saw our successful operation in Baltimore as a triumph, it was depicted otherwise in the newspapers of the day. Our role wasn’t known, but it quickly became public knowledge that Lincoln had been spirited into Washington under cover of night, and that was enough. Cartoons showed Lincoln in a nightshirt, or even his wife’s dress, sneaking through the city. I wanted to personally throttle every single reporter, cartoonist, or editor who depicted Lincoln in anything less than a flattering light. We had enough enemies on the other side; we didn’t need more among us. And because we needed secrecy above all else, we could not bring the conspirators to justice. We simply had to leave them be. And so even the barber, Ferrandini, was let alone.
Were we merely spitting into the ocean? Would even this great triumph be too little to stave off the coming tide?
On April 12, the Confederates fired on Fort Sumter, and the last thoughts of peace evaporated like summer’s morning dew.
I was not there, but it was easy to picture. I had seen Fort Sumter enough times off the coast of Charleston. In my youth, I had found it reassuring. Now, it would always mean something else.
My first action upon hearing the news, of course, was to run to the office on Clark Street. Similarly, other operatives had appeared and were milling about aimlessly. We all knew it was a day of great import. We simply didn’t know where the action would take us.
While we gathered in small groups, muttering to ourselves and one another, a telegram arrived for Pinkerton. He opened it in full view of all of us. He fingered the paper and lowered it to the desk slowly, as if it weighed more than paper possibly could.
“What is it?” I asked.
He answered grimly, “It’s war.”
We’d known it, but at the same time, we couldn’t believe it. As terrible as things had gotten, it always seemed something would happen to pull us back from the brink. Nothing had. We were over the brink now and falling.
Pinkerton looked up at the assembled crowd. “And we’re needed.”
We nodded our heads as one. I had promised myself I would do what was necessary to save the country. The opportunity had arrived much sooner than I’d hoped, but there was no shrinking from it now.
• • •
That night, an old friend brought other news, as bad in its way as the news of war had been. I went to visit Mrs. Borowski, desperate for someone familiar to talk to, someone reassuring. There was gray in her blond braids now, and her face was a little less round, but she was still the woman whose words could bring me the most comfort. She offered me fresh warm bread and mint tea, and after we’d eaten and made small talk, she said, “Kate, I must tell you something.”
“Oh, I hope it’s good news,” I said, knowing it wasn’t. No one ever prefaced good news with such words.
“I must leave your employ.”
First, I put my arms around her wordlessly. Perhaps to comfort her, but mostly to comfort myself. The world was already coming undone. Losing someone I valued so much, someone I relied on, was just one more bit of evidence that things would never be the same again.
“Why? Because of the war?”
“Somewhat.”
“You’re not”—I searched for the right words—“going to the South?”
“No. West.”
“You have a place?”
“To run a boardinghouse in the Dakotas. Near a gold camp. The prospectors, they need somewhere to stay.”
“And somewhere to spend their gold. It’s a smart choice. Where in the Dakotas?”
“Not far from Yankton.” She grinned as she added, “The place is called Bright Hope.”
“I wish that for you.”
“Kate, you know I will miss you.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss you.”
“Don’t put a bet on it,” she said, and I saw the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes. All selfish, I’d only thought of how hard it was for me, but of course, we’d known each other so long now. I knew she didn’t have children—we had that in common, despite our many other differences—and perhaps she thought of me as a kind of daughter. The mere thought brought tears to my eyes to match hers.
We hugged again, but I didn’t try to keep her from going. I knew it was pointless. And perhaps she would be safe there, in the Dakota Territory, away from the war. There were other threats—disease, Indians—but at least she would never see her home ground become a battlefield.
I could run from it too, I realized. I was determined to run toward it instead.
The next day, I said as much to the boss.
Despite his serious look, I could see that Pinkerton was also preening, and I knew he had something important to say. “I’ve offered, and President Lincoln has accepted, help in the form of intelligence gathering and security.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“An intelligence service. Our operatives, ensuring the safety of the nation.”
“As soldiers?”
“No.”
“Then in what capacity?”
“Gathering information.”
I was in no mood for coyness. “That tells me nothing. I’ve been gathering information for you for nigh on five years now and have never been any part of any intelligence service, nor anything by that name.”
“You want me to put the plainest word on it? Fine, then. I need spies.”
This, I saw, was my chance. “Send me,” I said immediately.
“Warne…”
“Where do you need help most? You know I’ve been everywhere in the South.”
His self-important air had evaporated, and he looked ill at ease. I could see him searching for the best way to refuse me, and I couldn’t stand the thought.
I leaned forward in my chair, intent on making myself heard. “Send me to Montgomery. Little Rock. Atlanta. Wherever you say, I’ll go.”
He said at last, “Here. Chicago.”
“No.”
In a firmer tone, he said, “You don’t have the privilege to tell me no. You are still in my employ. Or would you prefer not to be?”
“I won’t stay,” I said. “If you don’t send me somewhere closer to the action, that’s it. I’ll resign and go myself. Watch for my telegrams.”
“Warne, Warne, Warne,” he said, resting his elbows on the desk. He had rolled up his sleeves. There was more exhaustion than anger in his voice when he said my name. “We can’t lose you.”
“You’ve lost me if you don’t put me to use.”
“Don’t you believe I know what’s best for you?”
“All due respect, Boss, I don’t care what’s best for me. You shouldn’t be thinking
of me. Think of the country.”
I could see right away I’d overstepped. It was inappropriate to imply that he was letting his feelings get in the way of his decisions. But all the same, I wasn’t sad I’d said it. As much as lies were our business with everyone else, between us, there needed to be nothing but truth.
He said, “I’ll think on it.”
I bit back what I most wanted to say: Think fast.
• • •
The waiting seemed interminable, but I knew better than to rush him. If I wanted to be treated as a professional, that was how I had to act. It had been enough so far. So there would be no wheedling or whining, no words of persuasion, no batting of my eyelashes, no gamesmanship. Only waiting for his decision. And if he made the wrong one, then I would react.
Three days later, I had my orders and my new identity.
I was flabbergasted when Pinkerton told me I was right and that I was needed in a place of great danger. He explained that he was sending me where I wanted to go, right up next to the action, but I wasn’t going alone.
I was to report to the train station immediately—I already had my bag—and therefore had little time to process the news about my traveling companion until I stepped up into the railcar and sat down next to him.
Tim Bellamy.
He eyed me without surprise—Pinkerton must have prepared him as well—and commented, “Looks like we’re equally pigheaded.”
“Looks that way.”
The train made its lurch into motion, sending us both swaying along with everyone else in the car, and we were underway, bound for Washington.
Chapter Twenty-One
Intelligence
We talked little on the ride, caught up in our own thoughts, reading and memorizing files we knew we’d need to destroy as soon as we reached our destination. Our lives had been built on subterfuge for years, but there had never been quite this much riding on our success at it, and our enemies had never been so thick on the ground.
Even before we got to Washington, I could tell it had changed since my last visit. Miles out from the city, a blossoming of white covered the countryside. Smaller blue figures swarmed about. It was the army, encamped. We glided slowly past their tents, and I searched for the expressions on the faces of the soldiers, but for better or worse, I was not close enough to see.
When we finally arrived, we stepped off the train into hot swamp air. I had spent summers all over the Cotton States and had never felt heat like this before. Beads of perspiration clustered at my hairline as we waited outside the station for our carriage. I desperately wanted to shed layers of clothes and go about with my legs and arms bare. Failing that, I wanted to plunge into a pool or simply turn tail and go north again. But I had already planted my stake in the ground. I couldn’t be a passionate patriot only when the whim struck me. I needed to serve, day in and day out. And so I would. Which on this mission, meant Tim Bellamy always by my side.
I knew what it meant, pretending to be husband and wife. Had we been in a different city, pretending to be more well-off citizens, we might have maintained separate bedrooms and not been questioned. Many wives and husbands slept apart. But hotel rooms were not so easy to come by, at least not in the neighborhood we needed to inhabit. Paying for two would have been an extravagance and a visible, dissonant one. So we would share.
Of all the things my job as an operative had asked of me so far, this seemed like it might be the most taxing. I’d feared for my life. I’d lied and cheated, let myself be treated like chattel, been harmed for the good of the case. But all of those things, terrible as they were, were over quickly. This would be weeks, if not months, of work. Even years. From my earliest days at the agency, Pinkerton had avoided assigning us to work together, and now I wished he hadn’t. Now, I was facing the hardest assignment of my life, relying completely on the cooperation of a man who still did not seem to trust or respect me.
Then again, I told myself, what man did trust or respect me? Only Pinkerton and DeForest, and neither of them were here. I wished for a moment that the boss had sent DeForest as my partner instead, but I had to trust he had his reasons.
Anyway, we had our orders. We followed them.
With letters of introduction—some forged, some real—we settled into our new roles, and within two weeks, we had the invitation we needed to get underway. Tuesday night, we were to report to General Greene’s house on Capitol Hill. The general himself was beyond reproach, as much as any man could be in these wild times. We were there to keep an eye on one of the guests, a Mrs. Rose Greenhow.
We’d been preparing since our arrival, but this was our first big night to debut as our new identities. I readied myself as we stood in the anteroom, waiting for dinner to start. A bell rang out. The man next to me introduced himself, and I swept low in a curtsy, bending and straightening in exactly the manner my mother had taught me ever so long ago.
When I rose, Kate Warne was gone. I was Mrs. Annie Armstrong and none other.
And the man next to me, with the ice-blue eyes, so tall and proud? Mr. Timothy Armstrong, my husband.
How strange. How impossible. I had pretended many things before, but I had never pretended to be truly in love, and how funny that this man should be the one I’d be pretending with. But I would have to tackle it the same way I had any other role. Holding the truth and the lie in my mind together was too difficult. Better to believe the lie with my whole self.
“Shall we, my love?” I asked.
In his eyes, there was only the mildest flicker of shock. No one else would have noticed it. He was a good operative, and I could trust him. I had to.
I tucked my hand through his arm, and together, we went in to dinner.
As we sat down at table, I had my first sight of our target.
Mrs. Greenhow was a robust woman, buxom and round-cheeked, but with nothing of the milkmaid about her. Her hair was dark, bound in a low chignon. I’d read the file a dozen times before feeding it to the flames and could call any of it to mind instantly. Born in Maryland in 1813. Resident in the capital on and off since 1830. Widowed in 1854. Longtime friend to South Carolina Senator John C. Calhoun. Aunt to Stephen Douglas, the senator who had so memorably debated Lincoln in 1858 and lost the presidency to him two years later. They were not related by blood—he had married her sister’s daughter, Adele, after his first wife’s death—nor did they share much in the way of political leanings. She was well-known as a Southern loyalist, but so far, no one could prove she’d done anything criminal.
We were here for that proof.
• • •
After dinner, we rose and gathered in the parlor. I continued to exchange pleasantries with the young man who had been seated on my right, careful not to sound too enthusiastic. He was quite handsome, with a full mustache and neatly trimmed beard, and he gestured with animated hands that drew and kept my attention. However I would have felt about him under other circumstances, I had to pay respect to my alleged husband first and foremost. I half listened, but my eyes and mind were elsewhere, with Mrs. Greenhow.
She held court at the far end of the parlor, next to a beautiful ebony piano crowned with a colorful spray of flowers in a blue-green China vase. Her full-skirted gown was a bright shade of lapis blue and looked so well with the vase of flowers, I wondered if it had been chosen on purpose.
Artfully, she flirted, and I watched how she flirted. Her hands were deployed like soldiers to any front where they were needed: stroking a man’s sleeve to create intimacy, resting on the piano to reinforce her wealth, trailing along the side of her neck to draw attention to her body. She was not a young woman, but she was a beautiful one, no mistake. Her beauty alone was not all she had to offer. She gave off some kind of energy that drew men to her. Her gift, I saw, was attention. There was nothing more intoxicating to these men.
The general next to her bowed his head to listen to
her—watching them, I would have bet Union dollars that she spoke in a near whisper, forcing him to bend closer, as a stratagem. I’d used it before. Was I looking at a fellow spy or just a woman who used wiles to get what she wanted? Perhaps I was quick to judge her because I could see how she was well armed with a battery of tools I didn’t have at my own disposal: riches, friends, beauty.
“Don’t stare,” said Tim, leaning in himself, so close I felt his breath on my ear.
“Mrs. Armstrong would,” I muttered softly.
“Has my wife no manners, then?” He said it with a chuckle, but I took his point. I turned away from Mrs. Greenhow and began to survey the rest of the room. She was our person of interest, but there was much else to see, and we needed to understand her world.
It was a lovely room, not too ostentatious, every addition thoughtful. The carpet under dozens of feet was brightly patterned with blue and purple flowers on a yellow ground, and golden damask curtains framed the large, clear windows. Someone had paid a pretty penny for this house, and it was impeccably kept up, despite the war shortages. Perhaps that was how we might ensnare her—some of these silks had to have run the blockade.
Pinkerton had given us but little guidance, but we had talked it over again and again, and there were a number of different plans we could put into action. All we knew was that if she were a spy, she needed to be stopped. The weight of our task rested most heavily on me at night, when I heard Bellamy’s soft breathing on the other side of our quiet room. The intimacy was almost unbearable. But it was part of the work.
So I flirted with Tim Bellamy, as a wife would with her husband if she loved him: a gentle, teasing interplay, filled with warmth and comfort. And under it all, I spied. I kept an eye on the room and swept it with my gaze, until I alit on something new.
A girl, no more than eight years old, dressed as charmingly as a doll. Her skirt was full, and her dress was an exact copy of her mother’s, scaled down for her tiny proportions.
Little Rose.
She was in the file too. Mrs. Greenhow’s other daughters were grown, married, gone to Ohio and beyond. Only Little Rose remained. By all accounts, the mother and daughter were mutually devoted, and perhaps that was true, but in this crowd, she looked abandoned, out of place. I thought of all the times I’d been stowed at the edges of ballrooms and backstage at theaters, places no child belonged, never sure I’d be remembered or retrieved. I told myself when I was a mother, I’d take more care with my child. But I’d never gotten the chance.
Girl in Disguise Page 18
