On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  “Frankly not very useful things. Why don’t you make up answers?”

  Chisolm seemed saddened by the question, or perhaps disappointed with the man asking it. “If I did I’d be lyin’ to you. What good that do either of us?”

  Lon sat back and scratched his face where a biting fly had deviled him. A bugler blew a call. Men marched by outside, drilling.

  “I like you, Chisolm. You’re not a damn bit of help, but I like you.” Chisolm let his lips twitch in the beginning of a smile. Lon had a sudden thought.

  “Would you go back into enemy territory?”

  “You think I’m dumb as Captain Tyree Broom? Hell, no.”

  “Would you go back if you were sent back, maybe with someone like me, to gather information that would help our side? Because of your color, you could move easily behind enemy lines.”

  Chisolm squinted at Lon as though trying to detect a snare. “That way, yes, maybe I would.”

  “I’m glad to know.” Lon capped the inkwell and reached for his hat. “Where are they keeping you?”

  “Contraband camp, mile or so that way. Bunch of them little bitty pup tents.”

  “Make sure you stay there so I can find you. Make sure they don’t send you somewhere else. Let’s get out of this oven and find a cool drink.”

  They walked down the lane of tents in the broiling sun. A young redheaded soldier sat outside his tent, bare-chested, polishing buttons of his blouse. The soldier watched them. After they passed Lon heard him spit.

  Lon took out a tobacco pouch, rolled a cigarette, and lit it. Ahead, where the trampled lane rose to a slight crest, a patched tent with a plank counter sold necessaries but, as a sign warned, NO LIKKER TO SOLDIERS. A larger sign at the tent’s peak advertised J. O. HOBHOUSE SUTLER, 2ND MAINE. The Second Maine had felt McClellan’s fury in a dispute over the term of enlistment. Sixty-some men who’d rebelled and rioted had been shipped away to prison in the Dry Tortugas wearing manacles and leg irons.

  The sutler’s counter displayed cheap razors, shaving soap mugs, writing materials, little sewing kits called housewives. The sutler was a small, sly-looking man. Lon tapped a coin on the plank counter.

  “Got any lemonade in those barrels?”

  “I can sell you a glass, but not him. No niggers served.”

  Lon tossed his cigarette in the dirt. “Suppose I buy two glasses.”

  The sutler laid a long bowie knife on the counter. The cutting edge bore rusty bloodstains. “You try to serve him one, we’ll have a problem, mister.”

  Lon took a breath of stale air, trying to decide what to do. The sutler’s hand moved spiderlike toward the knife hilt. Behind Lon, Zach Chisolm said, “I ain’t thirsty.”

  Lon bridled his anger, tugged his hat down over his eyes, and wheeled away from the counter. “I’m not either.” As they walked off, the sutler said, “Nigger lover.”

  Chisolm hunched his shoulders, his hands in his pockets. “Guess I was wrong about the North. Thought men of color would be treated fair. Same as white men.”

  “A lot of good people want it that way, Zachariah. I fear a lot of others aren’t ready for it. They will be one day.”

  “Liable to be dead by then,” Zach said with sullen anger. Lon had no answer for that.

  In Pinkerton’s second-floor office at the headquarters house in Washington, Lon presented his idea. The boss was enthusiastic. “Let’s not lose sight of this Chisolm. We’ll bring him over here, find him a job till we can use him. I’ll send Frank Ellis.”

  “I can go,” Lon said.

  “No, you and Philo and Bridgeman and Lewis have a new assignment. It came through Tom Scott, the assistant secretary at the War Department. We’re ordered to watch a suspected traitor named Rose Greenhow.”

  20

  August 1861

  “No cursing, no spitting, no blasphemous behavior of any kind,” said the rector of St. John’s Church, I Street. “This is a house of God.”

  The elderly rector had loaned his storeroom to Major E. J. Allen, with the endorsement of the War Department. Lon found the room eerily reminiscent of his childhood, but there was an irony in doing war work amid shelves of hymnals, prayer books, and Sunday school lessons promoting meek and mild Christian behavior.

  He opened the window. The heat of the August morning boiled in from the dusty street. Big blue flies followed. They were swarming on manure heaps left by coach and dray animals. Sledge arranged a small table, two chairs, a jug of water, a drinking glass, paper, pencils. Their shift lasted until dark, when Lewis and Bridgeman would take over.

  Across the street, framed by unattractive ailanthus trees planted on the curb, Mrs. Greenhow’s two-story brick manse drowsed in a yellow haze. The boss had been called to Washington to gather intelligence for McClellan, but a second, quite different mission had been thrust on him. Counterespionage, Pinkerton called it. The operatives were charged with noting and describing every person entering or leaving Rose Greenhow’s.

  “Beauregard knew the date of McDowell’s advance ahead of time,” Pinkerton said. “Mrs. Greenhow is regularly visited by officers with access to confidential material. She’s a logical suspect.”

  For the first three days, callers were few: tradespeople; a low-level State Department clerk; a regal young woman Lon followed from the house to a milliner’s, then to her residence near Rock Creek Park. The driver of an ice wagon identified the woman as Mrs. Philip Phillips. “Secesh to the bone. Husband was an Alabama congressman. He’s gone south. You tell me why a wife’d stay behind if it wasn’t to help the damn rebs.”

  That fitted Mrs. Phillips into Rose Greenhow’s circle, but was hardly evidence of treason. “We’ll find the evidence,” Pinkerton assured Lon when he reported. “The Rebel Rose will slip, and when she does, we’ll be there to catch her. With handcuffs.”

  Near the end of the third week of August, Lon was rotated to night duty. As he sat sweating in the darkened storeroom, a handsome piano-box buggy tied up in front of Rose’s house. A woman climbed to the high stoop. The bell carried clearly in the stillness.

  Revealed by a spill of light, the mistress of the house greeted her visitor. Lon sat up, jolted. The caller was the pretty young woman from Franklin Square, Margaret Miller. He knew her sympathies lay with the South, but he never imagined she’d be involved with spies.

  Sledge had sneaked off to visit a brothel for an hour. Margaret drove away before he returned. Lon kept mum about the visit. He debated courses of action most of the following day, Saturday. Mrs. Greenhow was suspected of treason, but did that implicate Miss Miller? What if she was merely a social acquaintance? The questions justified what he decided to do in order to see her again.

  In the late afternoon he tied on his best cravat, whisked the dust off his boots, and put on a brown beaver top hat borrowed from Pryce Lewis, who owned three. The city sweltered under a menacing copper-colored sky filled with reverberations of distant thunder.

  He knocked at the door of the town house in Franklin Square. He hoped he wouldn’t find the young woman with Donald, or Donal, or whatever his name might be. Their short meeting had generated a fierce dislike on Lon’s part.

  He heard someone in the hall. The door opened and there she was, lovely as a rush of cool air after a summer storm. He couldn’t explain why her brown eyes, her wide red mouth, her imperfect but still lovely face, and full figure spoke to him, made him yearn, but they did.

  “Yes, who—?” Recognition then. “Well. President’s Park. Wilkie Collins.”

  “Don’t forget Illinois rustics. I’m flattered that you remember, Miss Miller.”

  “Oh, I never forget a good adversary.” Was there a hint of mockery? “May I ask what this is about?”

  “It isn’t a social call. I have a bit of important business to transact, if it’s convenient.”

  “As a matter of fact it isn’t, but you may come in. Briefly.” She stepped back. The rustle of her hidden petticoats caused an immediate physical reaction. He hope
d his condition wasn’t obvious.

  She led him to a parlor tastefully but not lavishly furnished. Plants in small tubs relieved the somber monotony of dark wood. Margaret settled herself on a love seat, arranged her green taffeta skirt, dabbed a streak of perspiration off her cheek with a lace handkerchief. A small gold palmetto tree on a chain rested on the bosom of her dress. The palmetto was the symbol of South Carolina. She didn’t hide her loyalties.

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir. I know you’re a Yankee, but that’s all I know. Since you have my name, may I have yours?”

  “It’s Price, Lon Price. Short for Alonzo.” He sat down opposite her, holding his tall hat like a drowning man clutching a life preserver; her face and demeanor did that to him. “It was important that I see you, so I went to some trouble to learn your identity and whereabouts.”

  “May I ask how you did that?”

  He reached inside his coat and laid the bookmark on his knee. “You dropped this when we met. I followed the trail to Shillington’s.”

  Her eyes shifted away for an instant. “It must have fallen out of the book.”

  “No doubt,” he said, his expression bland.

  “Are you a policeman, Mr. Price? They’ve hired a hundred and fifty for the new District force.”

  “True, but I’m not one of them.”

  “Some other kind of detective?”

  “My occupation doesn’t matter.” He put the bookmark away. “I came to advise you in confidence that your friend Mrs. Greenhow is under suspicion of disloyalty.”

  “Rose? Disloyalty to whom?”

  “The government.”

  Her fist closed. If the hanky had been a rock, he fancied she might have hurled it. “So you are a detective. Some kind of damned spy for Lincoln, Cameron, that crowd?”

  “If you’ll let me expla—”

  “Permit me to finish, if you please. Rose Greenhow is a good and valued friend. You’re a fool to try to turn me against her. The men who sent you are fools.”

  Lon jumped up, heat and redness in his face. “No one sent me. No one else knows about this.”

  She reacted with silent doubt. The parlor had grown significantly darker. Black clouds tumbled over nearby rooftops. Thunder boomed.

  “It isn’t my intention to turn you against a valued friend,” he said in a calmer voice. “Your welfare was my only reason for coming here. You’re putting yourself at great risk by associating with the lady, however much you like her.”

  Her anger melted into a wary puzzlement. Lon sat down again. She dabbed her forehead. “Why should my welfare be your concern? We’ve met only once, and not exactly cordially.”

  “No, but you did get your book back.”

  “Mr. Price, don’t bandy words with me, I’m not some adolescent in the schoolyard. You must have a reason for this visit other than sheer kindness. Kindly state it.”

  Lon knew he could pull back, leave, save himself embarrassment. But she seduced him with the sweet curve of her cheek, the dark waterfall of her hair, the hint of ankle and petticoat showing above her button shoes of red-dyed leather.

  “All right, I’ll tell you the truth, though I suppose you’ll throw it right back in my face. Here it is anyway. As you said, when we met, we exchanged words—”

  “Some call it fencing.” She almost smiled.

  “Fencing,” he repeated. “And you jabbed me pretty hard. In spite of that, I went away thinking you were an intelligent woman, and very attractive. That’s why I searched out your name and address at Shillington’s. I wanted to see you again.”

  “Well, you have. Is that all?”

  A black vendor hawked strawberries in the street. His head, a straw basket perched on it, seemed to float past the window. The room’s hothouse atmosphere grew heavier.

  “No, and this isn’t the meeting I imagined or hoped for,” he said as he stood again. “Since my visit to the bookstore, the matter of your friend Rose Greenhow has come up.”

  “How?”

  “Never mind that. I simply want to warn you about your relationship with that woman.”

  “Mr. Price, let me say again that Rose Greenhow is a friend and will remain one. We have common sympathies.”

  “Obviously. At this time, in this political climate, they can get you into trouble.”

  With a whoosh of petticoats and a fire in her eye, she walked right up to him. “Are you threatening me?” A blinding white glare opaqued the windows. A thunderclap rattled the glass. “Who do you work for? Who is paying you? I demand to know.”

  “Well, if that might convince you that my message is worth heeding, I work for the War Department.”

  “So you are a dirty spy.” She slapped him.

  Lon stepped back. Her handprint faded from his ruddy cheek. “I’ll overlook that, Miss Miller, and I’ll tell you once again that by associating with that woman you’re putting yourself in danger.”

  She stormed into the hall; flung the front door open. Dust flew on the gusting wind. Lon clapped his hat on his head. Moved toward her with slow, deliberate steps; a kind of taunting. She stamped her foot.

  “Will you get out of here or shall I run into the street and scream for help? I have strong lungs. I can bellow like a heifer, and I will.”

  It made him laugh. “I’d expect no less, Miss Miller.”

  He thought she wanted to respond with a smile, perhaps a truce, but she didn’t. They simply stared at each other while the wind snarled and whined. Then, impulsively, he took hold of her forearms and kissed her.

  He savored her moist mouth, the shape of her body. After a few seconds he stepped away, expecting she’d slap him again. She was, instead, frozen and speechless. She started a sentence, faltered. “Mr. Price, you—you have the most infernal gall of any human being I’ve ever met. Another damned Yankee trait, I suppose.”

  “Probably. I told you, I liked you the moment I saw you. If that’s a criminal offense, I’m guilty. Good afternoon, Miss Miller. Please remember my warning.”

  He ran down the steps into blowing clouds of dust and debris. She slammed the door. Across the street an old gentleman struggled to open an umbrella. The wind snatched it and sailed it away. At the curb, Lon rubbed his cheek. That was the end of that.

  Striding off, he saw a curtain move at one of the town house windows. He couldn’t see her but he knew she was watching. What a contradictory creature she was. It was part of her fascination.

  He jumped to catch the old gentleman’s umbrella rolling in the gutter. He crossed the street and returned it to him. When he looked back at the town house, the curtain was still. He shook his head and went on.

  Sledge was waiting for him at the Willard Hotel dining room.

  “Gentlemen, your order?” The tall, yellow-skinned waiter looked quite professional in his starched white shirt with sleeve garters, black string tie, and waiter’s apron. Zachariah Chisolm was the third Negro hired to replace white waiters leaving for the Army.

  Sledge sent Zach for two whiskeys. “What’s biting you, partner? You look like a rooster whose comb got clipped.”

  “I feel like that. Today I went to see a woman I met in President’s Park on inauguration day. I saw her calling on Rose Greenhow last night.”

  “Where was I?”

  “Enjoying the favors of Pearl, or Maude, or one of their fallen sisters.” Lon explained his attempt to warn Margaret about the suspected spy.

  “Jesus, what were you thinking? Anyone who associates with Greenhow has to be a damn traitor. Trust any of ’em, including this lady, and sooner or later they’ll sell you out. Kill you, if need be.”

  “I can’t believe she’s like that.”

  “Then you’re a naïve damn fool. Don’t you listen to the boss? Greenhow and her friends are soldiers, never mind that they wear paint and powder. You’ve got a lot to learn, partner.”

  Zach hovered again, his pencil and waiter’s pad ready. Thunder shook the dining room chandeliers. Sledge stuffed his napkin
into his collar. “Come on, order, or we’ll be late. The boss said he’d look in tonight.”

  Pinkerton arrived at the church just before ten o’clock, with Sam Bridgeman. “Anything so far?

  “Quiet as a grave, sir.” Lon pointed across to the darkened manse. “No lights showing since half past nine. I expect she’s retired.”

  They settled down to watch. About ten-thirty, a tall man wearing a general officer’s hat and rubber poncho arrived on foot. A glitter of lightning shone on the brass eagle pinning up the hat brim.

  “Who is it, anybody know?” Bridgeman asked.

  “I have my suspicions,” Pinkerton said as the stranger climbed to the stoop and knocked. “Someone’s been copying plans of the city fortifications. A clerk found a smeared copy half-burned in a stove at the provost marshal’s headquarters.” A lamp in the downstairs hall silhouetted Rose Greenhow admitting her visitor. “This may be our bird. Follow me!”

  They cracked their shins and bumped each other going down the dark stairs. The rain had driven people indoors; they crossed the street unnoticed and crowded into the space under the steps. Pinkerton stared at the first-floor windows above his head. Lamplight shone behind the curtains.

  “She’s taken him in the parlor. Lon, Sam—bend down so I can stand on your backs.” Pinkerton pulled off his boots.

  They crawled from under the steps, stood, and positioned themselves. Sam Bridgeman said, “Oof!” as Pinkerton climbed on their backs. He held the parlor windowsill to steady himself. Lon spotted a hackney coach approaching in the next block. If lightning flashed as the coach went by, they’d be seen. Before he could warn the others, the hackney turned right into K Street, gone.

  He braced both hands against the bricks. Pinkerton’s weight was considerable. A faint squeak said the boss had pried up the sash to peer through the curtains. Bridgeman groaned. “I can’t take much more.” Lon spied a man and woman hurrying down the block under an umbrella. “People are coming!”

  Pinkerton jumped down, spattering mud on the others. “Everybody under the steps.” The four jammed into the space under the stairs until the couple passed. The rain was heavy, which helped conceal the detectives. Lon’s back ached.