On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  The couple disappeared. Pinkerton whispered, “I recognized the man in the parlor. Captain John Elwood, Fifth Infantry. Attached to the provost marshal’s office. He was sitting this close to her”—Pinkerton showed his hands, the palms an inch apart—“going over drawings. A dollar says they’re plans of our fortifications. Wait, the lamp’s out in the parlor. She’s in the hall. She’s taking him to the second floor.”

  “For what?” Bridgeman said.

  “What do you suppose? She’s rewarding him the way she rewards all of them.”

  The storm muttered on. Five minutes became fifteen, fifteen became a half hour. Sledge tilted his pocket watch to check it in a flash of lightning. “Been up there nearly an hour. How long do we—?”

  Pinkerton clamped his hand over Sledge’s mouth. Lon heard Rose’s voice, and the officer’s, and then what sounded like a kiss. Rose whispered, “Good night, my dear.” The officer ran down the steps and headed toward the Avenue.

  “Sam, come with me,” Pinkerton exclaimed. “You two wait here.”

  “For how long?” Sledge’s question went unanswered; Pinkerton and Sam Bridgeman were already gone in pursuit of the officer. Pinkerton had left his boots behind.

  Lon knelt on the damp ground beneath the steps and rubbed his back. “This is crazy. We’re acting like circus clowns.”

  “No argument there,” Sledge said.

  A farmer’s wagon loaded with milk cans clattered by. Down the block, a first-floor window flew open; a householder tossed a mewling cat into the rain. Rose Greenhow’s house remained dark. Time ticked by.

  At two o’clock, Sledge said, “Let’s give up. They aren’t coming back.”

  “One more hour,” Lon said.

  At three, they trudged to their boardinghouse. Lon threw off wet clothes and caught a couple of hours of sleep. He was awake at half past seven. By eight he and Sledge were in Pinkerton’s second-floor office at McClellan’s headquarters. The boss wasn’t there.

  Lon read the latest Evening Star. Accusations were were still flying about the Confederate victory at Wilson’s Creek in Missouri twelve days ago. The North had lost the second big battle of the war. In St. Louis, pro-Southern newspapers were being suppressed by General Frémont. In U.S. circuit court in New York, the Brooklyn Eagle and the Daily News faced charges of disloyalty. There were brief descriptions of cavalry skirmishes in Virginia and Maryland.

  Around half past nine, boots thumped on the stairs. Pinkerton appeared, hatless, bedraggled, his eyes slitted from weariness. Lon said, “Sir, what happened?”

  Pinkerton threw off his sodden overcoat. “Bridgeman turned his ankle and I had to leave him. I followed our man to barracks. Elwood called out the guard to arrest me. I identified myself as E. J. Allen and stood pat. Elwood had me thrown in a cell. This morning he dragged me to see Tom Scott at the War Department.”

  Pinkerton treated them to a rare smile. “Scott told Elwood who I was. I asked Elwood if he’d visited Rose Greenhow last night. He denied it. I told him I was there, with witnesses. He changed his story. Claimed it was a social call. Then I told him I’d seen him pass a diagram of fortifications to that woman. He broke down. Admitted he delivered not only plans but a list of armaments. I didn’t mention the hour they spent upstairs. The confession was humiliating enough. Elwood’s in the guardhouse. He was crying when they led him away. I told them to take his belt, braces, anything he might use to harm himself. Have you boys had breakfast?”

  Sledge said, “Not yet. I guess we should say congratulations.” It seemed incredible that last night’s antics had resulted in the arrest of a traitor.

  Pinkerton’s eyes were dancing. “Let’s have steak and eggs somewhere, to celebrate. Elwood’s confession is exactly what we need. Our Rebel Rose is finished. Her friends will be next.”

  21

  August 1861

  On the same stormy afternoon of Lon’s visit to Margaret Miller, Hanna arrived at the Capitol out of breath. She heard cannon booming when she was still west of the building. By the time she reached the commons on the east side, a band was blaring “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” The brass rose bright and strong above the pounding of the snare drums. She picked up her skirts and ran. The major hated tardiness.

  She raced behind a long row of carriages. Families stood in them or beside them, waving small flags and cheering the units marching by. General McClellan had transformed the trampled commons into a parade ground. His grand reviews lent an air of confidence and gaiety to a city badly shaken by McDowell’s defeat. It was widely accepted that on the night of the Bull Run retreat, the Confederates could have captured Washington had they pressed on instead of holding their positions.

  Hanna searched for her father in a crowd of several hundred standees. She spied him in conversation with a gnomelike man of middle years whose sour face, wire spectacles, and full chin whiskers were tantalizingly familiar.

  Her father’s clothes witnessed to his improved station. His gray double-breasted coat and trousers were fine British wool. The coat pockets were expensively edged with silk braid. The gray was enlivened by a scarlet waistcoat and matching bow tie. Of course he had a top hat. Siegel spent most of his small salary on himself. Anything Hanna wanted, down to a spool of thread to mend a skirt or a stocking, she paid for out of her Canterbury wages.

  They had exchanged the mixed neighborhood on the north side for a rented cottage in a district of white artisans and office workers behind the Navy Yard, near the East Branch. The major considered it merely another way station. He promised Hanna a larger, finer house in the suburbs or one of the fashionable squares as soon as he earned more than his meager government salary. He called it “a pittance,” unworthy of a man of his education and experience. Still, he was delighted that his clerkship involved him in important work and brought him into contact with important people.

  The white-gloved companies marched and countermarched to the music of regimental bands. Shouldered bayonets gleamed like silver spikes. The colors stood out stiffly in the rising wind. Streaks of lightning lit the black sky.

  “Certainly I know the President,” the gnomelike gentleman was saying as Hanna approached. “Some years ago he and I represented Cyrus McCormick in a lawsuit. I insisted on being lead counsel because Mr. Lincoln was an unskilled country lawyer. I don’t see that he’s changed greatly.”

  “Ah, here’s my daughter,” Siegel said. “Hanna, may I present the attorney general, Mr. Stanton?”

  Edwin Stanton; she had seen his picture. She smiled and offered her hand. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Charmed.” The top of Stanton’s head barely cleared her shoulder. His legs were stumpy. His disagreeable expression reminded her of a pug dog.

  “You are late, my dear.”

  “Duties, Papa.” She’d rushed from the Canterbury. She didn’t want to embarrass the major by saying she’d spent the afternoon scrubbing floors.

  A man strolling along in front of the crowd, studying faces, caught Siegel’s attention. “Colonel!” The man came over, sweeping off his planter’s hat. The skirts of a white duster snapped in the wind.

  “Major Anton Siegel, sir. We have met before.”

  “Yes, we have, how are you?”

  “Fine, sir. Do you know Secretary of War Cameron’s legal adviser, Mr. Stanton?”

  “Only by his excellent reputation. Lafayette Baker, sir. Your servant.”

  “Pleasure,” Stanton said with his lip still curled. Hanna wondered if he liked anyone besides himself. “Are you in the military, Colonel?”

  “In my own way, yes, sir. I’ve been fortunate to be given a roving commission in the State Department. I’m charged with the investigation and discovery of disloyal citizens.”

  “It’s wasteful and unproductive to have that activity divided between two cabinet departments,” Stanton said. “Mr. Seward is too lenient with suspected traitors, Mr. Cameron too disorganized and inexperienced to effectively counter them. The effort needs to be cen
tralized under a strong secretary of war.” Listening politely, Hanna decided she didn’t like the dogmatic and scornful attorney general. She liked the icy Colonel Baker even less. She caught him brazenly studying her flat bosom.

  Baker looked away without embarrassment. “I agree the situation’s highly confusing. But not the objective. We must root out enemies of the state and render them harmless. The President’s suspension of habeas corpus near military camps was helpful, but it should be greatly broadened. A rope thrown over a tree limb is very effective too.” He smiled as though he’d just said something humorous.

  “An extreme view, Colonel.” A drop of rain struck Stanton’s spectacles. “I am not entirely out of sympathy with it, however.”

  Baker made a respectful bow. The sky burst. After hasty good-byes, Hanna and her father ran from the field, avoiding carriages hurtling past with cargoes of shrieking children. They fled into the Capitol as the storm worsened. Hanna unburdened herself in German:

  “That Mr. Stanton is disagreeable.”

  “But a brilliant attorney, they say. An able administrator, and a bitter foe of the rebels. Everyone believes his star will rise.”

  “What about the other man, Baker? He looks like a schemer.”

  “All to the good, given his task. I met him when we both applied to the War Department. When lines of responsibility are clearer, it would be good to have him with us.”

  “You’re swimming with sharks, Papa.”

  Major Siegel laughed. “Better than swimming with the tiny minnows.” As quickly as it began, the deluge slackened. “Your skirt is muddy,” the major said as they left the building.

  “I’ll clean it when we’re home.”

  “I have been meaning to speak to you about your appearance. Can’t you buy better dresses? When you look shabby, it reflects badly on me.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. He didn’t notice. He’d spied a man he knew and dashed off to slap his back and greet him.

  22

  August 1861

  At eleven a.m. on Friday, the day after Captain Elwood’s arrest, a two-seat spring wagon with fancy black paintwork, black leather seats, and a fringed canopy moved slowly north along Sixteenth Street. Lon held the reins, with Pinkerton next to him. Sledge nearly crowded John Scully off the rear seat. Scully must have brushed his teeth with gin, but the odor didn’t hide his need of a bath. Except for Scully the operatives looked like respectable bureaucrats out for a morning ride.

  They passed the Greenhow mansion, its curtains closed against the heat. Pinkerton scanned the sidewalks ahead of them. “There she is.” Near the next intersection, a woman with a parasol strolled arm in arm with a gentleman. Lon drove past a pony cart and quickly caught up to the couple. He reined the gray to a walk.

  Rose sensed their presence, whirled, and gave the detectives a sharp look. Pinkerton jumped down. He swept off his broad-brimmed black hat.

  “Major E. J. Allen, Mrs. Greenhow.”

  “I know who you are. The little Jew detective.”

  Pinkerton almost smiled. “You’re wrong about the religion, but the profession is correct. May we return to your house?” He ignored the small, dapper man blinking and fretting in the shade of Rose’s sun umbrella. Lon rested his boot on the wagon dashboard. The pocket Colt in his belt gouged his stomach.

  Pinkerton said to Rose’s companion, “Make yourself scarce if you please, sir.”

  The man had a small waxed mustache and florid cheeks. He stamped a tiny shoe. “Do you know who I am?” A heavy accent fractured his English. “Étienne Chambord, of the French legation. You have rudely interrupted a private conversation.”

  Pinkerton fanned back the skirt of his black frock coat, showing off his holstered revolver. “This is United States government business. Leave.”

  “Disgraceful,” the diplomat cried. “Your President entertains Prince Napoleon, the emperor’s cousin, at a state dinner, with all courtesies, and you treat the accredited representatives of France like criminals. I shall not be moved from this spot.” A housemaid leaned out a first-floor window, interested in the standoff.

  Pinkerton said, “Mr. Greenglass, see if you can change the gentleman’s mind.”

  Sledge dropped from the wagon, grinning and flexing his fingers. He smiled down at the Frenchman, who was a head shorter. “Ready for ten rounds bare-knuckle, Frenchy?”

  Rose stepped between them. “Don’t involve yourself with this Yankee trash, Étienne. We’ll discuss diplomatic recognition for the Confederacy another time.”

  Chambord slapped his high-crowned felt hat against his leg and marched away. Pinkerton said, “Mrs. Greenhow, I am placing you under arrest. I ask that you accompany me to your house, where you will be detained.”

  “On whose authority? Show me your warrant.”

  “I don’t have a warrant. I’m acting on verbal authorization from the Departments of War and State. Will you walk peaceably? I don’t relish the idea of mistreating a member of the gentle sex.”

  “The hell you don’t, you insignificant worm.” Rose about-faced and strode off. Pinkerton signaled Lon to turn the wagon in the street.

  Rose carried her parasol in her right hand; an embroidered reticule swung from her left arm. Her stride and up-tilted chin shouted defiance. Scully muttered, “They must have carved that bitch out of marble.”

  Lon kept pace with Rose and Pinkerton, who walked two steps behind. Near her house, Rose suddenly darted forward, widening the gap. At the foot of the high steps she dropped the sun umbrella, reached into her reticule, thrust something into her mouth, and chewed. Pinkerton grabbed her arm.

  “Madam, spit out that paper.”

  She showed her teeth and tongue; she’d swallowed it. Lon couldn’t help laughing. Pinkerton snatched her umbrella off the ground and shoved Rose up the steps. “Touch anything else, in your handbag or in the house, and I’ll handcuff you.”

  Lon tied the gray and ran up the steps after Sledge and Scully. Pinkerton was already inside with his prisoner. A ferocious wail said that Rose’s daughter had grasped the situation. Lon had observed little Rose from the church storeroom and decided she was a spoiled hellion.

  In the gloomy foyer, Pinkerton yelled, “Bring that child back here, Mr. Scully.” Little Rose was too quick. She fled through the kitchen into the rear garden and shinnied up an elm tree. She leaned from the lowest fork, just out of Scully’s reach, shrieking, “Mother has been arrested. Mother’s arrested by the damn Yankees!” An elderly black gardener came running from the adjoining property. He turned around when Scully showed him a four-barrel hideout pistol.

  “Stay up there till you starve,” Scully shouted. Little Rose spit on him. Watching from the kitchen, Mrs. Greenhow was deliciously amused. Pinkerton forced her into a wooden chair. “Mr. Greenglass, you and Mr. Price search the place. I want papers, letters, anything that looks important.” He called into the garden. “Come in, Scully. If the little brat runs off, so much the better.”

  Scully trudged to the house, leaving Rose’s daughter in the tree, bewildered by the abrupt lack of interest. She climbed down and followed Scully to the kitchen. Pinkerton dragged her to her mother. “Keep her quiet or we’ll lock her in a closet.”

  Sledge was already headed for the parlor. He threw the drapes open with a clash of rings as Lon walked in. Sledge pulled a tall secretary away from the wall, tipped it forward so it fell with a crash. Papers flew. An inkwell splattered black ink on the Oriental carpet. Sledge grinned at Lon, who was appalled. He remembered how Mathias Price had once defined the essential evil of slavery. The owners have too much power. There’s no way to check it.

  Suddenly, a cry of “Stop her!” whirled him in time to see Rose’s heels flying upstairs. He ran after her, climbing steps two at a time.

  Rose darted into a bedroom; snatched something from the mantel of the white-painted fireplace. Swinging around, she pointed a Smith & Wesson revolver at Lon’s forehead. Though she held the revolver with both hands, the mu
zzle wavered unsteadily.

  “You Yankee vermin, I’m going to kill you.”

  Lon drew the pocket Colt from the waist of his trousers. “All right, Mrs. Greenhow, but you’ll have to cock the gun first.”

  She was stunned, giving Lon enough time to reach her, grab the revolver, and throw it without regard for where it landed. It broke a window and sailed off in the sunlight.

  He prodded Mrs. Greenhow downstairs at gunpoint while Sledge, Scully, and Pinkerton yanked drawers out of sideboards, overturned china cabinets, trampled on silver and broken dishware, ripped paintings from the walls, slashed the canvas, and snapped the frames apart. At the top of her lungs, Mrs. Greenhow revealed a formidable command of obscene language. Pinkerton forced her arms behind her back, slipped iron cuffs on her wrists, and flung her on a sofa. From there she watched the carnage with horror and outrage. Little Rose huddled against her mother’s bosom, snuffling.

  Lon dug his fingers into the soil of a potted palm, hunting for buried objects. “Turn it over, spill the dirt,” Scully said as he took several cardboard file boxes to Pinkerton. The boss was studying a small book covered in red leather. He seemed pleased. Lon left the miniature palm standing in its Chinese jar and ran to the library where Sledge was spilling books from the shelves. Sledge inspected a book, riffled the pages, then with a grunt of effort tore the front from the spine and threw the pieces away.

  Too much power. No way to check it…

  “Are you tearing them up for the hell of it?” Lon said. Sledge had a second book, tooled leather and gilt-stamped. Lon wrenched it from him. “You don’t have to ruin them to see if anything’s hidden.”

  “What’s it to you? The woman is secesh.”

  “This is personal property. Where do we get the authority to destroy it?”

  Sledge knocked the book out of Lon’s hand with a rocklike fist. He shoved Lon’s shoulder. “Whose side are you on, partner?”