On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  Despite the differences, Hanna and Margaret were drawn together by something stronger—a freedom of spirit they enjoyed in various ways. In good weather Margaret rented horses and they struck out north on the Seventh Street or Rockville roads, not sidesaddle, at a sedate walk, but astride, in full gallop. On occasion, feeling especially uninhibited, they wore trousers.

  Margaret’s feet in the stirrups showed a good amount of ankle under her trouser cuffs or flapping hems. She knew she had good legs and saw no reason to hide them. Men old and young admired the riders, and sometimes yelled propositions. Once an old woman tending a market garden on the Rockville pike pointed at them and cried, “Shame. Shame on girls like you!”

  Which only made Margaret and Hanna laugh and gallop faster.

  Rose’s niece Adele arrived. Addie was the wife of Mr. Douglas, the Democrat whom Lincoln had defeated in November. They chatted amiably of inconsequential things. When would a new novel by George Eliot appear? What attraction would Grover’s Theater show next? When would the Capitol dome be finished, the dreadful Washington swamps drained of their miasmic waters, the crumbling cobbles on shabby Pennsylvania Avenue replaced?

  Everyone laughed when little Rose romped through the room in her short crinolines and full Turkish pantaloons. Rose Greenhow’s daughter was seven or eight, a cheeky show-off whose behavior Margaret’s father wouldn’t have tolerated. Of course the Wild Rose herself was an exhibitionist, showing off her beauty, breeding, and influence at every opportunity.

  Rose raised her arms in a theatrical way. “Ladies and gentlemen, refreshments are served. Tea, punch, and stronger libations for those who desire them.” Senator Wilson said something to her but Rose ignored him and swept away to the dining room. Wilson tagged after her like a loyal dog. For certain men, Rose possessed a sexual attraction that was overpowering.

  Shortly, Margaret found herself in conversation with a handsome, full-bearded Army officer who introduced himself as Captain Thomas Jordan. He wore the familiar drab dress uniform: a dark blue coat with a stiff standing collar and matching trousers with no seam stripe, the whole lightened only by brass buttons, a burgundy sash, and two gold bars on each shoulder strap. Jordan had an aloof, almost wary air. He watched the room while discussing the crisis:

  “Now Georgia’s gone, and Louisiana. Texas must go soon. How do you feel about the upheaval, Miss Miller?”

  “I try not to feel anything. I have my own life and interests, as I should imagine you do. We don’t need or want Americans killing other Americans. Don’t you agree?”

  “Only somewhat. My oath binds me to the commander in chief, yet I feel a contrary pull. My heart lies with my native state of Virginia. I wonder if Colonel Lee out in Texas feels that way? Perhaps we’ll know soon, I understand they’ve recalled him.” Robert E. Lee of Arlington was the nation’s foremost soldier. He had led the Marine detachment that had captured John Brown at Harpers Ferry, bringing on a trial and execution that further divided the country.

  “Well, I hope Mr. Lincoln has some skills or tricks that will bring about a resolution,” Margaret said. “Why does the government need that old fort in Charleston harbor anyway?”

  “I suppose they could survive without it, and all the other arsenals and forts as well. But to give them up willingly would be a sign of weakness. I believe we’ll fight over it.”

  “I hope not. If it happens, I want no part of it.”

  “But if war comes, how can anyone remain neutral?”

  “Believe me, Captain, I shall make every effort.”

  “I’m dismayed to hear you express such sentiments,” said a familiar voice. Rose swept into view, no longer the smiling hostess. “You’re an intelligent young woman, you come from Maryland—how can you possibly declare yourself unwilling to take part?”

  Little Rose slipped up behind her mother and stamped her foot. “I’ll go fight in her place. I’m the damnedest little rebel you ever saw.”

  Jordan laughed. Rose tweaked her ear. “We don’t use that sort of language in polite company, dear.” Little Rose marched away in a petulant imitation of a soldier.

  Margaret didn’t like being put down. “Isn’t it rather silly to debate the question?” she said. “Captain Jordan may have to take a stand, join the quarrel, but what can a woman do, regardless of which side she’s on?”

  Jordan said, “I assure you that young women who are above suspicion will be needed.”

  Margaret frowned. “Why above suspicion? Needed for what? I don’t understand.”

  Rose shot a look at the officer. His odd statement had annoyed her somehow. A faint redness sprang into his cheeks. Rose spied a new arrival.

  “Margaret, I believe your gentleman’s here.”

  “Donal?”

  “Yes. Were you expecting him?”

  “For some time. He’s been traveling.”

  Rose waved. “Here she is, Mr. McKee.”

  Margaret rushed to him. “Donal, thank you for rescuing me. I had no idea when you’d return.”

  “The steamer docked in Baltimore yesterday. Your father said to try the town house and if you weren’t there, to come here. How are you, my dearest?” Donal’s black eyes shifted briefly downward to the curve of her breasts. “I’d give you a kiss and a crushing hug if we weren’t in public. Is there any champagne in the house?”

  “This way.” She led him toward the dining room buffet. Sometimes Donal was a bother, but this evening she was grateful for his presence. The exchange with Rose still stung.

  Donal McKee was a slim, graceful man, severely grayed by the cares of business though he was not yet thirty-five. He was shorter than Margaret by an inch or two. He had delicate hands, curly hair, a receding chin that spoiled his otherwise strong face. She had met him at Newport two years ago, when she and her father and Cicero were vacationing. A couple of jealous acquaintances, female, gratuitously informed her that Donal was a womanizer. If so, he was circumspect. In all the time she’d known him, Margaret had seen no evidence. She wondered if he’d dallied with anyone while he traveled.

  “How was your trip?”

  “I don’t enjoy poking through the books at the branches, though it’s necessary if we’re not to be robbed blind. New Orleans was interesting because of this secession business. Ah, thank you,” he said to the white servant who handed him champagne. Margaret declined the offer of a glass.

  Donal slipped his arm around her waist. “I seemed to be considered an expert on England because father came from Leeds. I was repeatedly asked whether England would recognize the Confederacy. I said I wasn’t privy to the policies of Her Majesty’s government, but I supposed so. British mills need Southern cotton.” He’d drawn her to a secluded corner, away from the clusters of guests. He finished his champagne, set the glass aside, and put both hands on her waist.

  “Damn, Margaret, the sight of you always distracts me. I can hardly wait to claim you as my wife. Have you settled on a date?”

  “Not yet. But I’m thinking seriously on it.”

  “Not seriously enough. I’m an impatient man. I must have another drink.”

  He strolled away, and in a moment fell into conversation with Rose. She laughed and caressed his cheek a little too fondly. Again Margaret felt the confusion of her relationship with Donal.

  When they’d first met, she was charmed by his worldliness. He was older, widely traveled, far more intelligent and urbane than all of the beaux of her own age who had drifted into her life and been discarded. What confused and upset her was her lack of romantic attraction to Donal. He excited nothing in her except feelings of admiration and security—hardly a good basis for marriage. This was the reason she continually delayed choosing a wedding date. Watching Donal touch Rose’s arm in a possessive, even intimate way raised familiar questions. Should she break the engagement? How could she face her father, who was eager to see her married and settled, and admit that she didn’t love her fiancé?

  All at once she was tossing in a sea of do
ubt and self-recrimination. It made all the blather about secession and war pale to insignificance.

  6

  February 1861

  At Fourteenth Street, on the respectable north side of the Avenue, the hotel of the Willard brothers served meals to Washington’s important people from daybreak till midnight. Between five p.m. dinner and the late supper hour, Willard’s dining room offered a sumptuous tea. When Hanna had a night off in early February, she met Margaret there at half past seven.

  As always, Hanna’s friend was stylishly dressed. Hanna’s own poor outfit shamed her. Over a heavily mended dress she wore her father’s sack coat for warmth. A cloth workman’s cap lay in her lap. Her one concession to femininity was black net stockings.

  “I’m thrilled you have a part in Twelfth Night,” Margaret said. “May I come see it?”

  “If you care to watch unpaid actors do Shakespeare in a damp church basement, certainly.”

  “Viola’s the young girl who impersonates the page Cesario, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. At least I have the figure for it.”

  “Stop. You mustn’t think so poorly of yourself all the time.” Hanna responded with a shrug and a rueful roll of her blue eyes. Margaret passed a gaudy handbill across the teacups and petits fours. “Here’s a bit of theater for you. Father sent it in a letter yesterday.”

  The handbill from Baltimore’s Halliday Street Theater announced: Mr. J. W. BOOTH, Scion of the Famed Family of Players, In His Startling & Lifelike Personation of the Bard’s Immortal Villain RICHARD III. Three Nights ONLY! Positively NO Extension!

  “Have you seen him?” Margaret asked.

  “No, only heard about him. I don’t believe he’s appeared in Washington. He seems to prefer Charleston and the Southern circuit.”

  “A rebel at heart? I like him already. Father said he’s a better actor than his brother, Edwin, or the head of the family, Junius, when he was alive. ‘Fire, dash, and a touch of strangeness’—that’s how Father described young Mr. Booth. Do you suppose he’ll ever play locally?”

  Hanna’s tea had grown cold. She sipped the last. “I don’t imagine he will unless someone opens a decent theater. An actor of his stature wouldn’t play the music halls.”

  Hanna was familiar with those establishments. She worked several nights a week at the Canterbury, a music hall that presented a bill of beefy dancing girls, jugglers, performing dogs, and blackface comics who told salacious stories. Though the work was hard, it helped Hanna and her father scrape by and allowed her an occasional nonpaying role with an amateur company. Hanna served ten-cent drinks and fended off loutish men who thought every girl in the place raised her skirts for a price. What an irony. Thus far in her life Hanna had experienced three short flings and gotten no satisfaction, physical or emotional, from any of them. Sometimes she doubted her capacity to love a decent man.

  Margaret’s mind was still on Booth. “Father says he’s devilishly handsome, and has a reputation for chasing anything in skirts.”

  “I’d love to meet him and judge his talent. Onstage, you understand.”

  They both laughed. Margaret laid the handbill aside. “Since I never read the papers, can you tell me when our new President will arrive?”

  “Later this month. He’s making a long ceremonial journey by train from Illinois. He can’t get here too soon. I hope he’ll clear out all the Southern sympathizers.”

  Margaret’s smile was devilish. “Fie, Hanna. Do you want me driven out? I like Washington.”

  “Of course I don’t want that. We’re friends. Sometimes I forget where your heart lies.”

  “Not with either side, really. I hate the whole messy quarrel. I wish it would go away.”

  Gravely Hanna said, “It won’t until it’s resolved.”

  “But which way?”

  “The right way, I trust.” Hanna averted her gaze, aware of annoyance in Margaret’s vivid dark eyes. Being too forthright about abolition had ruined several friendships for her. She didn’t want this relationship destroyed.

  The waiter delivered the bill on a silver tray. Hanna put her hand in a coat pocket. She didn’t own a proper handbag.

  “Please let me pay my share this time.”

  “You may contribute when some manager recruits a stock company to support a visiting star and you’re engaged for a featured part, but not before. Oh, I forgot to ask about your father. Is there any news?”

  “This afternoon he went to see the commandant of the Georgetown militia company. They advertised for an experienced drillmaster.”

  “I’m always curious about why he left the Austrian Army.”

  “He wasn’t advancing fast enough, that’s all.”

  But that was not all. The story was sordid; Hanna guarded the secret. It was true that Anton Siegel, a fiercely ambitious man, hated the slow advancement and meager officer’s pay in Austria. As commander of his regiment he was in a position to fiddle with the books, and to squeeze Army suppliers for extra money under the table. One of them had turned him in.

  The major never for a moment expressed remorse. Instead, furious because he was cashiered, he packed up his daughter and bought steerage tickets out of Hamburg. Thus ended Hanna’s days in Vienna. All that was left of those times was a sad scrapbook of memories. Hot coffee with milk in one of the cafés on Stephansplatz. A luscious torte in the Sacher Garden. Quiet relaxation with a book under a leafy tree in the Stadtpark…

  Father and daughter had reached Washington with no prospects and almost no funds. They nearly starved for three months, until Hanna found work. They weren’t doing much better now.

  “Papa’s dreadfully melancholy these days,” Hanna told Margaret as they stepped from the hotel to the Avenue’s brick sidewalk. “He’s drinking heavily again. I pray he had some success in Georgetown.”

  “Well, I’ll gladly second that if it will take the strain out of your face.” Margaret gave a tip to the doorman, who whistled a horse-drawn cab from the corner. “Send me a note when you’re free again. We must ride in the country as soon as this dismal winter’s over.”

  “Yes, we must,” Hanna agreed. They embraced and Margaret left in the hansom, waving.

  Hanna walked rapidly to Tenth Street and turned north. It was a cold, cloudless evening, the stars sparkling like ice chips. She faced a long trek to the district called Nigger Hill—she never uttered the offensive name—because paying for transportation was out of the question.

  On her way up Tenth she avoided a drunkard vomiting over everything within three feet of him; heard a volley of shots; saw two men brawling bare-fisted in front of one of Washington’s many “boardinghouses.” Several daughters of Eve hung from ground-floor windows, cheering the fighters on with foulmouthed enthusiasm. Prostitution was a necessary industry in a town filled with single and married lawmakers away from home.

  The Siegels rented a scabrous little shotgun house, three tiny rooms, at the end of a dirt lane in a seedy section of town called the Northern Liberties. To reach it Hanna passed a neat cottage owned by a black man named Spence, a porter on the Baltimore & Ohio. Through a parlor window she saw Mr. Spence romping with his two little daughters. Hanna and her father had never shared that kind of affection and companionship. As a child roaming Vienna by herself, she’d hardened herself against wanting it, though occasionally she could be bitterly jealous of people such as Margaret or Mr. Spence who were part of a loving family.

  Hanna let herself in. The door was never locked. The neighbors knew the major kept a side arm and a saber close by at all times.

  The small front room, her bedroom, was dark. They couldn’t afford to waste candles. The next room belonged to her father. There he slept, and stored his moldering uniforms, his Clausewitz and other books on the art of war. It too was dark. A light showed in the back room. She moved slowly toward the feeble yellow glow.

  The major slouched at the deal table. The top was scarred and filthy despite Hanna’s efforts to keep it clean. A brick propped up a b
roken leg.

  Siegel’s cropped blond hair was turning white. His cheekbones were broad, his jaw strong. A long dueling scar from his cadet days marked his left cheek under his eye. He wore old uniform trousers, maroon with a gray stripe, but nothing else. His braces hung below his hips.

  He heard her come in. He acknowledged her by extending his hand until the palm was two inches above the flame of the candle. Neither his hand nor his muscular arm showed a tremor. He was drunk; an empty schnapps bottle stood between his bare feet. A cockroach crawled around the bottle.

  “Papa?”

  Siegel withdrew his hand. With a smile he showed his palm, unhurt. Hanna took off her workman’s cap.

  “What happened in Georgetown, Papa?”

  Because his English was imperfect they spoke in German. “Another got there before me.” He groped under the chair, found the bottle empty, cursed, and threw it against the wall. It bounced and rolled.

  “A stupid scarecrow half my age. Served in some rural militia company in Pennsylvania. But of course—of course!—he was an American. My experience counted for nothing. Also, behind my back, someone said I sounded too foreign. I hate this filthy democracy. I hate the mudsills who think they’re equal to people of breeding. They aren’t fit to clean up my shit.”

  Hanna wanted to weep. “Won’t you please put on a shirt?”

  “I’m not cold. Go to bed.” When she hesitated, he beat the table with his fist. “Go to bed.” His shout sent the roach scuttling.

  “I will if you won’t drink anymore.”

  “Tend to your own affairs. Close your door and give me some peace.”

  Hanna returned to the front room and shut the door. Before she undressed she went out to the reeking privy where she sat with her drawers around her knees. How she wished she could give her father greater support, greater comfort. But of course he wouldn’t have it from her; she was a woman. She remembered his drunken rages after her mother had died bearing her. “Liesl failed me. Your mother failed me. I wanted a son who could be a soldier.” Hanna carried a deep wound of guilt and insufficiency, from hearing that so many times.