On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  On the dusty pike leading to Catlett’s, a strong breeze buffeted the riders. Clouds sailed underneath the stars and hid them. White fire flickered in the clouds. Leaves peeled from trees as the wind rose. Fred felt raindrops pecking at his cheek.

  The wind reached gale force for a few minutes but dropped off as the rain fell harder. The steady fall became a cloudburst. They advanced at a walk while thunder rolled continuouly. Lightning brought an eerie version of daylight. Astride a mule at Stuart’s side, Simon Biggs pointed to faint lights ahead. “Yonder’s the camp, other side of the stream. Stream’s shallow.”

  “Then we’d better cross before it floods. Forward, column of twos.”

  Close behind Stuart, Fred pulled a bandanna out of his collar and hooked it over his nose to soak up rain. He tugged his hat brim down to shield his eyes. Baron balked and whinnied. A touch of Fred’s hand calmed the horse.

  They waded the rushing stream and spread right and left on the muddy bank, still a quarter mile from the tents and wagons somewhat more clearly defined by dozens of lighted lanterns. Fred braced himself with whiskey from his canteen. Thunder crashed. Stuart was bareheaded, water streaming from his beard, homage to this journey to reclaim his hat.

  Lightning burst as Fred drew his saber. The blade shimmered like Arthur’s Excalibur. He’d always loved the gallantry of the Arthurian legends. Reality was different.

  “Private Freed, sound the charge.”

  Rain slashed Fred’s face as Baron leaped forward and they came down upon the Union camp. Lanterns in the tents silhouetted men inside. They seemed to be relaxing, eating and drinking, safe from the rain. Fred raised his voice in a long wailing yell that joined hundreds of others.

  He rode with the reins in his teeth and his LeMats in his hands. A boyish sentry stepped in his path, vainly trying to fire his musket. Fred shot him in the chest. Thunder crashed.

  Troopers slashed guy ropes so tents collapsed. Caught underneath, men struggled to escape and were shot like fish in a net. Confused sentries ran about, shot or sabered if they didn’t instantly throw down their weapons. Stuart’s men sheltered torches under their ponchos to light them, then tossed the lit torches into supply wagons. Another sentry lunged in front of Baron, hands raised. “I quit, I surrender.” Fred put a bullet in the man’s chest.

  As Fred swung down a lane between tents, he heard a chilling scream from one of them. Either some recruit’s voice hadn’t changed or someone was harboring a woman. He holstered one revolver, protected the other inside his coat, and jumped off Baron. He splashed through standing water and at the tent entrance pulled the LeMat from under his coat.

  37

  August 1862

  After the failed Peninsula campaign, boatloads of wounded arrived at the Potomac piers. Many of the wounded died in hospitals, and secondhand shops soon filled up with discarded uniforms. Hanna sorted through the melancholy merchandise, bargained, and made purchases. A stiff-sided backpack of the kind carried in European Armies. A pair of sky-blue kersey trousers, a dark blue four-button sack coat. A chasseur cap with only a tiny spot of blood on the crown. A pair of mudscows, the cheap square-toed Army shoes supplied by contractors. Somehow the shoes were more grisly than the clothes. Who was the poor boy who died wearing them?

  If a shopkeeper wondered aloud about a woman buying such things, Hanna said she collected war souvenirs. Why not? Washington was a crazy place that summer. Work crews added to the bedlam on Pennsylvania Avenue by tearing it up for a new street railway. Secesh ladies came across the Potomac bridges with no trouble, to shop or to visit like-minded friends. Odd new paper money circulated: greenbacks from Mr. Chase’s Treasury, and shinplasters, notes of all sizes and designs issued by Northern cities.

  Lincoln called for more men and inspired a new anthem: “We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand strong.” Trainloads of recruits arrived. Major Siegel worked until ten or eleven each night, complaining constantly of the long hours and low pay. Yet he seemed to revel in his insider’s position, carrying home tales of the new and unpopular general-in-chief, Halleck, or the widespread uncertainty about the boastful commander of the new Army of Virginia, Pope, whose drunken troops roistered in the Manassas camps. The Union now had two armies in northern Virginia, Pope’s and McClellan’s. The latter was slowly being hammered back into shape at Alexandria by its chastened, almost disgraced general.

  Hanna hid her purchases in an old armoire in the little house near the Navy Yard. When Pope moved into the field in August, she decided she’d better not delay.

  Unfortunately, Derek Fowley had cast her as Juliet in an autumn production just starting rehearsals. When she told Derek she’d be away for a bit, he said he was sick of dealing with “inconsiderate artists.” Hanna laughed, a fatal response. Derek stuck his face two inches from hers and shouted that Zephira Comfort would replace her. Hanna giggled uncontrollably; there was enough of tubby Zephira for two Juliets. She realized the curtain had fallen on her career with Derek.

  At one o’clock next morning, the major came home smelling of schnapps. Hanna repeated what she’d told Derek. Siegel flung himself into a chair and yelled, “Where you going? I got a right to know.”

  “I’m going to see the camps.”

  “You already did it once.”

  “I want to go again.”

  “What for? You got no business with the soldiers”—the major’s pink lips curled into a smirk—“unless you’re making money off them like some women do.”

  “Papa, that’s a nasty joke.”

  “I don’t care, I don’t know what you are anymore, Hanna. You’re not a man, but you’re a queer sort of woman. You want to take these chances with yourself, I wash my hands.” He knocked the chair over as he weaved to his feet. “I got to sleep. Stanton’s called a meeting at seven o’clock.”

  Hanna stared after the squat, shuffling figure, wanting to shout as loudly as he had. You don’t know what I am? I’m your daughter trying to be a person you’ll care about. She wondered if the major could ever care about anything but himself, his personal advancement, and how she disappointed him merely by existing.

  She chopped her straw blonde hair so it was short again. She stuffed corks in her pocket to char and rub on her face, to darken her fair skin and suggest a beard. With her hard-sided European backpack and her blue eyes, she could pass for one of the thousands of slavery-hating German immigrants who’d signed up to fight for Father Abraham.

  Her plan for working her way south toward Pope’s Army was beautifully simple. She only spoke her native language, German.

  Two things made the scheme viable. One was the great number of Germans already in Pope’s Army, led by General Franz Sigel. Sigel came from Missouri and, before that, the failed European revolutions of 1848. He commanded one of Pope’s three divisions. Hanna had seen him in a Washington parade, a slight, bearded man with a morose expression. Whenever she was stopped and questioned, she answered with a phrase many a German soldier used if he understood no English. “I fights mit Sigel.”

  Asked about her unit, she answered, “Schimmelfennig, Brigade Erste.” Colonel Alexander Schimmelfennig was another 1848 exile from Germany. If other questions were put to her, she mimed helplessness.

  Some who stopped her wanted to know what she was doing traveling alone. “Ich bin krank. Sick.” Everyone knew of the Union’s huge invalid corps in Washington. Hanna was waved on, often with a compliment. Deserters didn’t walk boldly, as she did. They skulked, and they never went south.

  Pope’s Army lay somewhere below the Rappahannock. A Friday evening near the end of August found Hanna short of her goal, caught in a violent thunderstorm. She limped into a large camp on the Orange and Alexandria railway. A sergeant of the guard intercepted her, shouting above the roar of the rain, “Name and unit?”

  “Hugo Rauch. I fights mit Sigel. Schimmelfennig, Brigade Erste. Ich bin krank. Sick.” She pointed and pantomimed being lost. “Schimmelfennig where?”

&nbs
p; “Damn ’f I know. This here’s General Pope’s headquarters camp.” Which, to a casual glance, looked lightly guarded. The sergeant indicated a large walled tent, brightly illuminated. “That’s his baggage yonder. General himself, he ain’t here.”

  For a camp in a war zone the place seemed curiously relaxed. Hanna smelled coffee and bacon. Her stomach growled. She’d eaten her last biscuit at noon.

  The sergeant took her to a second lieutenant lounging in one of the tents. He said they were shorthanded. Before continuing in search of his unit, Private Rauch could earn a meal by making himself useful. They found an old oilcloth poncho and a musket. At half past nine Hanna was standing guard in the wagon park, huddled in the lee of a big freighter.

  She congratulated herself on getting this far. Despite her hunger and wet clothes, she was in good spirits, planning how she’d steal away and dry her uniform when the sun shone again.

  Between thunderclaps she heard horsemen, and bugling. Then came pistol fire, and a chilling cry that had to be the rebel yell she’d heard about. It roared from hundreds of throats. Her stomach heaved, an unexpected reaction to seeing the elephant.

  A ball struck the wagon behind her, tearing out splinters that stung her cheek. She fumbled with the musket as riders crossed her line of sight. Bursts of lightning revealed bearded faces, wet horses, uniforms of rain-soaked gray. Some of the riders wore hats with black plumes. Confederate cavalry, operating behind enemy lines.

  An officer ran out of a tent with his dinner napkin tucked in his collar. A reb shot him and the napkin turned red as he tumbled into the mud. Tents were set afire. Men shouted that they’d found cases of food and wine. Fighting her fear, Hanna crept away. A reb on foot charged out of the dark, showing his saber in the lightning flash. The reb grabbed her musket, then her arm. Hanna raked his face with her short, broken nails.

  Spitting mad, he stuck his saber in the mud and bear-hugged her, trying to break her spine. As they danced grotesquely in the rain, he exploded with a stupefied, “Huh?” His hand groped the front of her sack coat, hurting her bound breasts.

  “Mary and Joseph! Lieutenant Buford? Sir, wait’ll you see the bird I caught!”

  Moments later Hanna was shoved into a tent where a lantern burned on the ridgepole. The man who’d caught her, a youthful Confederate trooper with yellow hair, knocked her cap off.

  “Who are you?”

  “I fights mit Sigel.”

  “Sigel recruiting girls these days?” The lieutenant came in. “We got us a female tricked up as a foot soldier, Lieutenant Buford.”

  “Well, I heard of cases of that,” the lieutenant drawled. He was tall, with a black-plumed hat and a coarse, jowly face. Hanna crossed her arms on her chest. “Hold her.” The trooper yanked her arms behind her. Buford seized her collar and ripped the sack coat open, popping buttons.

  He reached under, squeezed her breasts. A smile spread over his damp face. “You caught a rare and tender bird indeed, Sergeant. Should we have a little feast?”

  The trooper’s eyes gleamed as he caught on. “Is it safe?”

  “If we’re quick. I’ll go first. Put out the lantern and keep watch.”

  Hanna threw herself at the canvas wall, intending to tear it or burrow under it. Lieutenant Buford hooked her leg with his boot. She sprawled, landing hard. The lieutenant’s feet straddled her hips. When she tried to crawl away, he stamped on her calf. The pain made her gasp.

  The sergeant blew out the lamp hung from the ridgepole with baling wire. The last things Hanna saw were the lieutenant’s smug smile and his red member growing from the gap in his trousers.

  38

  August 1862

  Fred stepped into the tent, saw two men. One, an ugly lieutenant, knelt between the legs of a soldier who lay on his back. Fred had a swift impression of yellow hair, a boyish face smeared with dirt. “What the hell’s this?” Fred waved his revolver. “Stand up.”

  The lieutenant struggled to his feet, his erection shriveling. Fred dug in his pocket for the tin matchbox in the shape of a knapsack. He tossed the box to the lieutenant.

  “Give us some light.”

  The lieutenant poked a lighted match into the black tin lantern painted with a white U.S. He lit the candle and shut the isinglass door. He returned the matchbox, saying, “Major, please let me explain something.” He had a thick redneck accent, offensive to a Virginian.

  “Never mind. You’re going on report for molesting a fellow soldier.”

  “Sir, look again. It’s a her.”

  One glance corrected Fred’s mistake. He was a she, all right, blue-eyed, and shaking like a frightened child. Under her sack coat, cloth strips bound her small breasts.

  Fred felt a brush of air—the sergeant, starting to leave. Fred pivoted and jabbed the revolver under the man’s chin.

  “Not one more step.” To the lieutenant Fred said, “Identify yourself.”

  The lieutenant stuffed himself back in his pants and saluted. “Lieutenant Henry Buford, sir. Jeff Davis Legion.”

  “Mississippi troops?”

  “Yes, sir. Caught this piece of Yankee trash sneaking around and—”

  “Shut up. You’re a fucking disgrace.” Fred gigged the sergeant. “You?” The reply was a gargling sound. Fred cocked the weapon. “Don’t be shy.”

  “S-s-sergeant Cleatus Voss. S-sir.” Another cracker.

  Fred took the LeMat from the noncom’s neck. Burning tents and wagons threw firelight patterns on the canvas walls. An occasional shot resounded, but the fighting had given way to boisterous revelry as the troopers ripped through the booty of Pope’s camp. All the saddle weariness Fred had forgotten during the last few minutes returned: the sore tailbone, the ache under his balls, the raw skin on the inside of his thighs. “Both of you are going on report to Colonel Martin. Now crawl out of here.”

  Lieutenant Buford buttoned his pants, slid by Fred, lifted his knee to kick the noncom’s rear, as though he were responsible for their predicament. The men disappeared into the drizzle.

  “Get up. Fix your clothes.”

  The girl sat up, then stood. She was unsteady. Fred grabbed her sleeve. Her straw blonde hair was damp. Her eyes had the vivid color of a spring sky. She was a pretty thing, with delicate features that would allow her to pass for a young man. Swallowing, he let go of her.

  “How’d you get here? Where are you from?”

  “Washington. I wanted to see some fighting.”

  “Well, you’ve seen it. Go back home. This is no fancy ball, miss. Men die out here.”

  What should he do with her? He decided to shirk the responsibility and let the commanding officer decide. Of course they had to let her go. If she stayed a prisoner, he could imagine how many times she’d be raped by captured Yanks and randy rebs alike.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hanna Siegel.”

  “German?”

  “The next thing to it. Austrian. You don’t sound Southern.”

  “Virginia. Spent a long time in the North. I’ve got to see the general about you.”

  “Which general?”

  “James E. B. Stuart, of Stuart’s cavalry. My name’s Frederick Dasher.”

  “I’m very grateful to you for what you did, Major Dasher.”

  “Fine,” Fred said, close to losing himself in the blue depths of those eyes. He hadn’t been with a woman since he rode out of Richmond weeks ago. This pixie with her sooty cheeks and ragtag uniform touched him somehow. She was no taller than his shoulder; she had to turn her face up to speak to him. It made her seem vulnerable; induced emotions in him that were unexpected, and dangerous.

  “Take the laces out of your shoes,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t trust you and I have to see the general. Sit down on the cot.” He grasped her arm again, as if to steady her. It was really because he wanted to touch her.

  Hanna pulled the rawhide laces from her muddy shoes. Fred shoved the revolver in his pants, t
ied the two thongs into one, wrapped the rawhide around and around her wrists, behind her back.

  “Not so tight.”

  “Sorry.” He finished the knot. “You’re on your honor to stay here until I’m back.”

  “I couldn’t run twenty steps right now.”

  The inside of his mouth was dry as ashes. You’ll run like hell if they toss you in with men who haven’t been close to women for a while, he thought.

  “You can sit if you like.”

  “Thank you.” As he lifted the tent flap, she said, “Do you own slaves, Major?”

  “I own a horse farm near Front Royal. Six Negroes work for me. About four years ago I signed manumission papers for all of them.”

  “So you don’t think the Confederacy’s war is moral?”

  “I didn’t say that. I left the U.S. Army for the same reason General Lee did, to fight for Virginia. I’ll be back.”

  In the lane, faithful Baron waited, head down, without a tether. Fred patted the black, muttering about this complication in their lives. He took his canteen off the saddle, shook it. Some whiskey left. He drank it.

  He found Stuart in a quadrangle of large headquarters tents. Three were ablaze but the fourth was untouched. Fitz Lee was parading in front of it in a plumed chapeau and a blue officer’s overcoat with the black sleeve braid of a general, to the delight of Stuart, von Borcke, and some others.

  “Look here at this, Fred,” Stuart exclaimed as Fred came up and saluted. “General Pope’s finest coat. I’ll take it in exchange for my hat. That’s not all we found. We have field orders, cipher books—what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I took a prisoner a few minutes ago, sir.”

  “Congratulations. No cause for a glum face, is it?”

  “This prisoner—sir, it’s a woman.” With hands on his hips, Fitz Lee stopped parading and fixed his attention on Fred, as did the others. “A young woman from Washington who dressed up like a man to see some fighting. I need to know what—”