On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  “Thanks for getting him off me,” Lon said. “I was about done.”

  “That’s why I plugged him, partner. If this Grier was the boss, maybe we broke the whole ring. Mr. Pinkerton would be happy to report that to the general.”

  Lon couldn’t calm down. It had been a near thing. Grier and his miserable thieving cohorts could have left him dead in the dirt in this backwater.

  Sledge noticed his look. “What’s wrong now?”

  “If I’m going to lose my life, I should make it count. I should be in uniform.”

  “Killing’s killing.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Ah, sometimes I think you’re crazy.” Sledge walked away.

  Lon wasn’t deterred. When he was back in Cincinnati, he’d resign. This time he’d make it stick.

  Suppose he traveled all the way to Washington to enlist. He might find that girl, unless she’d boarded up her town house and left. He could certainly conduct a search. The idea cheered him up considerably.

  15

  June 1861

  Summer brought long days, abundant heat, the sudden death of Stephen Douglas, and excited speculation about a movement against the rebels massing across the Potomac at a rail junction less than a day’s march from the city. Brigadier General Irvin McDowell of the adjutant general’s office was given command of the Department of Northeastern Virginia. McDowell set up headquarters in the abandoned Lee mansion in Arlington. Robert E. Lee and his family had gone South.

  Rose Greenhow concluded her period of mourning and began to leave the house frequently. She also continued her evening salons. Here Margaret met Augusta Morris, an attractive widow, and a pretty young woman named Bettie Duvall. Introductions were performed by Mr. Rayford, né Jordan, who told Margaret privately that for the security of all, Mrs. Greenhow preferred that the ladies not socialize, except on occasions she arranged.

  A curious assortment of gentlemen attended the salons. Rose continued to invite Republicans, chief among them her rumored paramour, Senator Wilson of the Military Affairs Committee. There was Mr. Donellan, a former employee of the government Land Office, and Mr. Butler, proprietor of an exclusive china shop on F Street. There were young clerks awed by Rose’s importance and willing to do anything she asked and an occasional officer such as Captain Boyce of the First Rhode Island. Rayford said Boyce was heavily in debt to one of the city’s gambling hells, hence “malleable.”

  Hanna never returned to the salon. Margaret hadn’t expected it after their last encounter.

  One pleasant Saturday, Rose organized a picnic. In several carriages, half a dozen ladies and gentlemen drove out to a grassy field near one of the new redoubts under construction. Washington’s defenses consisted of a ring of similar fortifications. The object of interest this day was Fort Ellsworth, named for the late colonel of the Fire Zouaves. Ellsworth had been shot as he pulled down a Confederate flag defiantly flying from the roof of a hostelry in Alexandria.

  They picnicked on catered baskets of cold chicken, pâté, cheese, French baguettes, white grapes, and iced champagne. While the group chattered on innocent topics—the thespian talents of Joe Jefferson, high prices caused by the war, the dreadful melees that broke out every time the soldiers were paid—Mrs. Greenhow peered at the construction site through a small spyglass and penciled notes in a diary covered in red leather. Margaret enjoyed the outing, but she chafed at the inaction. So far she’d been given nothing to do but await a summons.

  It came the following Saturday. Mr. Donellan asked her to drive to an address near the Navy Yard and acquaint herself with the person and house of Dr. Whyville, a physician. The doctor was a jolly, avuncular graybeard. He welcomed her into his smelly surgery and said they would soon be working together.

  Making sure the waiting room was empty, he said, “Donellan is setting up a doctor’s line to Richmond. This is the northern terminus. Physicians are sacred figures, you know.” He winked. “Peripatetic—always riding somewhere to tend a patient in distress. No one will question a doctor’s movements or insist on searching his black bag. Excellent concealment, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Miller? Next time perhaps you’ll bring me a message for Richmond. I shall enjoy that.” He shook her hand and she departed.

  On her way home she saw bands of uniformed men roistering in the streets. Shouts, the pop of pistols, a baker’s wagon overturned and set afire, told her it was another payday. She went out of her way to avoid confrontation.

  That night, in the midst of a thunderstorm, she was wakened by a hellacious clamor at the street door. She wrapped herself in her gown and sleepily stumbled downstairs. Through the side glass of the door she saw three soldiers hunched in the rain. The biggest hammered the knocker again. Margaret stood in the opening. “What the devil do you want?”

  “Hoo-hoo, I’ll buy her right off,” said one of them with a wheezy glee.

  “Evening, Madam Ann,” the biggest one said, taking off his cap and grinning like a fool.

  “My name isn’t Ann, and you’ve got the wrong address.”

  The big man examined a sodden paper. “Ain’t this Madam Ann’s boardinghouse?” Boardinghouse was Washington code for bordello. “Lafayette Square?”

  “You drunken fool, this is Franklin Square. Good night.”

  “Listen, woman, we’re soaked, we’re hot as roosters, we come to buy some sweet flesh. We’ll step in to make sure you aren’t lyin’ to us.”

  Terrified, Margaret used all her weight to shut the door. The big man reacted too slowly. She shot the bolt and leaned against the wall as the soldiers yelled and pounded with their fists and elbows. What if they broke a side glass? Reached in…?

  They didn’t. The rain dampened their zeal and they staggered away in a glare of lightning.

  Next time she saw Rayford, she told him she needed a pistol. He directed her to a gunsmith who sold her a handsome little sleeve gun, .44-caliber, from the factory of Henry Deringer. In a fenced yard behind the shop, the gunsmith steadied her arm while she took her first shot at a blue bottle. The kick was substantial, but amazingly, the bottle burst into fragments. The gunsmith grinned.

  “Deringer makes one-shot pieces exclusively. But one’s all you need at ten to twenty feet. Lots of ladies are equipping themselves with this little number. These are dangerous times.”

  “Yes,” Margaret said fervently. “I’ll need a supply of ammunition.”

  Rose Greenhow summoned her by messenger on a Tuesday. She was told to enter at the back of the house. Rose took her to a parlor window, parted the draperies, showed her a man in a planter’s hat and white duster in a covered buggy across the street. He seemed perfectly relaxed, as though he always stopped outside a church to read his newspaper.

  “That gentleman has been watching this house for the past two days. I’m sure he isn’t friendly. Mr. Tobias is in the library. He’s about to leave for Port Tobacco with a message hidden in a hollow cane. I don’t want him detained or followed. Will you drive out and speed away so the man sees you? It may divert him. Five minutes is all we need.”

  Margaret said of course. She raced her piano-box buggy from the alley into I Street, drove past the stranger as she went north on Sixteenth. She could see little of the man beyond a luxuriant mustache and beard.

  He snatched up the reins to follow. Nervous and exhilarated, Margaret touched the horse’s croup lightly with the whip.

  After ten blocks she turned in the middle of the street and clipped south, giving the stranger a saucy smile as she passed. He saluted her by tipping his planter’s hat, turned around, and chased her.

  Margaret swerved to the curb in front of Rose’s house. She composed herself and waited in the shade of the buggy top until the stranger arrived. He returned to his original spot, wrapped his reins around a dashboard post, and strolled across the street. He seemed a well-set-up gentleman, on the short side but strong looking. His ruddy cheeks were dry in spite of the heat. She wasn’t fearful until she saw the coldness of his gray eyes. />
  He swept his hat off and bowed. The June sun struck highlights from his long sandy hair. She judged him in his thirties. “A handy bit of driving, ma’am. I realized too late that you were deliberately leading me away from this house for a reason.”

  “The reason is simple. I wanted to take the air for a few minutes. I don’t know why you’re interested. I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Excuse my impoliteness. Colonel Lafayette C. Baker, at your service.” His eyes darted to the brick house. “Do you come here often?”

  “What if I do? You call yourself colonel. Do you have credentials?”

  Baker responded with a grudging smile, as though he hadn’t expected resistance from a pretty young woman. “Not yet, ma’am. My interest is that of a patriotic citizen who sees a possible nest of treason.”

  “Treason? Here? What nonsense.” She lifted the reins. “Excuse me.”

  Annoyed, Baker seized her arm. He didn’t mind exerting enough pressure to hurt. “Everyone knows the woman living in that house is a hot secessionist. Why not her friends? There are comings and goings at all hours.”

  Margaret wrenched out of his grasp. “I find you offensive. Are you spying, Mr. Baker?”

  He slapped his hat against his leg. “Colonel.”

  She could deliver a look of splendid disdain when she wanted. “I have only your word for that.”

  Lafayette Baker reddened but held back whatever furious reply he wanted to make. “I regret to see a woman such as yourself mixed up with Greenhow, Miss…” A pause left room for her to give her name; she didn’t. “You’re an attractive creature, though I guess your sympathies are similar to hers. The secesh are high and mighty in Washington these days. There’ll come a time when they won’t be allowed to spit in the face of the established constitutional government. You’d be wise to disconnect yourself from that woman.” He laid a finger on Margaret’s left hand and stroked gently. “We might discuss it further some evening.”

  “Mr. Baker, will you take your hand away, or do you want this whip in your face?”

  Baker stepped back. “If I were a man given to cursing, I’d call you the name you deserve.”

  “Good day, sir.” Margaret whipped up the horse and left Baker in a cloud of tawny dust. She felt alive, worthy—important. She had always loved games: whist, patience, even the scandalous game of craps. Once she’d wheedled and nagged Cicero until he took his dice from a drawer and gave her a lesson. This game of chase and deception was the grandest game of all.

  Next day she reported the substance of the encounter to her mentor and told her the stranger’s name was Baker. It meant nothing to Rose.

  Hanna called on Margaret. They sat in the parlor, stiffly formal, as though their outings on horseback and their other exchanges had never occurred. In the square, soldiers and sutlers’ wagons made a great racket. The Twelfth New York was making camp, covering the grass with its white tents.

  “Margaret, I’m sorry to speak of this but it’s necessary. My father says there is suspicion that you’re doing more at Rose’s house than socializing. I’m not at liberty to tell you how the department found out—”

  Margaret broke in. “I know how. A man named Baker. Is he connected with the War Department?”

  Hanna’s blue eyes showed her discomfort. “He’d like to be. He’s trying to attach himself.”

  “Frankly he scares me. He’s a snake.”

  “No argument there. I’ve met him.”

  “But many other things scare me, and I don’t run away from them. My father’s murder left me with a debt to pay.”

  “Oh, Margaret, you’re no match for some of these men who are coming into town. My father’s brave, but he’s taken the measure of Baker and doesn’t treat him lightly. Baker was a San Francisco vigilante. He hung men without a trial. He brags on it. He or someone like him will close in on Rose. She’s too open about her loyalties, too bold in her maneuvering. The authorities won’t tolerate it forever. If you’re involved with her, get out before you’re dragged down too.”

  Margaret folded her hands in her lap. It hurt to reject this young woman who’d been her friend, but the boundaries were drawn. “Let’s talk of other things. Shall I brew some tea?”

  After a sad, searching look, Hanna shook her head. “I’ll go. I’m sorry you won’t listen.”

  Hanna rose. Margaret moved toward her for a sisterly kiss. Hanna saw her intent, shook her head, and ran out the front door into the hot summer sunshine, leaving Margaret in the dim parlor, twisting a handkerchief and frowning.

  16

  July 1861

  How delicious it was, the impersonation. Far more pleasant than prancing about the stage in Cesario’s tights and struggling to remember the Bard’s lines during three awful performances, each more foul than the last thanks to Zephira Comfort’s chewing the scenery.

  She chose Thursday because the whole city was mad with patriotism; soldiers everywhere. Hundreds of flags hung out in a show of loyalty. Artillery batteries across the river and behind the city pounded the sky with salutes. Citizens threw streamers and dodged firecrackers tossed from balconies. Twenty thousand New York troops paraded on the Avenue, just a fraction of those quartered in and around Washington.

  Soldiers not employed in martial displays loafed in the tents that covered every square yard of open space, or they wandered drunkenly, accosting strangers for money to get even drunker. The public was elated by news from western Virginia. A brave young general named McClellan, a true star of the West, was marching and countermarching to drive the rebels back over the Alleghenies. So far the North had experienced no significant battlefield losses; the capital was primed to celebrate. Hanna wondered what Margaret would do when the sun went down, the public squares blazed with Chinese lanterns, and the soldiers shot off fireworks all night long.

  Uniforms of the regulars and the three-month militiamen who would soon go home were a hodgepodge of color and design. With Derek’s permission, Hanna rooted in the drama society’s costume trunks and assembled an outfit of gray harem pantaloons—passable as Zouave trousers—a navy blue jacket with tarnished buttons and worn gold piping, cheap Massachusetts-made shoes that fit either foot, and a gray cap with an embroidered design on top, left over from a French comedy. To this she added a havelock obtained from a friend who, along with other ladies of her church, was sewing them relentlessly for the Army. Hanna spent half the night of July 3 picking the embroidered fleur-de-lis off the cap, polishing the buttons, trimming the rattiest threads from the piping. The havelock, heavy white drill pinned into the cap to protect a soldier’s neck from sunburn, was an import from the British Army in India.

  While President Lincoln, General Scott, the cabinet, and senior Army staff reviewed the Pennsylvania Avenue parade, Hanna walked confidently toward the Long Bridge. Her stomach was fluttering and had been ever since she stole out of the house while the major snored. Stage fright was useful. Properly controlled, it lent an edge that improved a performance. She had pinned her chopped hair inside her cap, tugged the bill low over her eyes, and smeared dirt on one cheek. A two-cent cigar, purchased at a shop by means of a lot of grunting and pointing, hung from her teeth. She’d smoked half the cigar in an alley, choking the whole time. Anything for art. She hoped the unlit cigar stub enhanced the illusion of maleness.

  Friendly soldiers greeted her on the approaches to the Long Bridge. Her response was the same each time: “Yo.”

  The planks of the bustling bridge were smeared with the droppings of cavalry horses jogging back and forth from the city. The homes and shops of Arlington showed appropriate Union flags, limp and hazy in the ripening heat. Perspiration soaked Hanna’s underclothes. The havelock was too heavy and scratchy. Surely the three-month men would be happy to see the last of their improvised uniforms. The major said the War Department was alarmed by the number of men whose enlistments expired in July, when a great battle was expected.

  As she passed around two inbound sutler wagons,
great canvas-topped freighters driven by men who foully cursed the foot traffic, Hanna realized someone had fallen in step beside her. If she didn’t speak, he’d be suspicious. She turned her head an inch or so.

  “Yo.”

  The man wore a blue flannel shirt with an inverted U of buttons on the front, gray trousers with a blue stripe, a neckerchief and fatigue cap. His russet beard was long and thick. “Where you headed, soldier?”

  “Yonder. Arlington.” Hanna pitched her voice low; chewed the slimy cigar.

  “McDowell’s at Arlington House, y’know. I mean not today, but it’s his headquarters.”

  “Yup. Goin’ to see it.”

  “My name’s Cole. Reliance Cole. First Rhode Island. They finally moved us out of that damn Patent Office to some swell’s estate north of town.” Hanna nodded and made small noises to signal interest. “What’s your name?”

  She blurted, “Smith.” Realizing the inadequacy, she tacked on, “Bethlehem Smith.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance. What’s your unit?”

  She’d anticipated that one. “Eleventh Indiana.”

  “Didn’t know there were Westerners here.”

  Hanna nodded again. She hadn’t visited a privy since early morning. Pressure was building. Cole chuckled. “Hanged if you look old enough to soldier, Bethlehem. You started to shave yet?”

  She rubbed her dirty cheek. “Beard never shows. Fair skin.”

  “Fair to invisible.” Cole laughed. They left the Long Bridge, and the guard posts where bored men stared sullenly at those off duty. “Up ahead there’s a good Union tavern. Better’n the Marshall House in Alexandria where Ellsworth bought the farm. ’Least they killed the cowardly innkeeper who shot him. ’Spect I can stand a beer in this heat. You?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think—”

  “Sure you can, c’mon.” Cole wrapped a thick arm around Hanna and squeezed.