On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  Certainly Varina’s husband would be. There was a large anti-Davis faction in town, led by the editorialists of the Examiner. They said that because of his West Point training and Mexican War service, Davis believed he could dictate to his military commanders. Varina said the torrent of criticism caused Mr. Davis severe dyspepsia.

  Twice a week Margaret met with Rose and a circle of ladies to knit socks and gloves for soldiers. On other days, she walked, trying to wear away her unhappiness by tiring herself. On the streets she saw painted women openly soliciting trade. She saw recruiting parades, usually with a Negro or two marching in the impromptu band. She found it ironic that a black drummer or fife player helped to find men to preserve the system that enslaved him. As often as not, the band played “La Marseillaise” instead of “Dixie.”

  Several times she saw a procession of poor Negroes from the country, led or driven by a white man, on the way to one of the so-called slave jails. The slave trade was still brisk, with frequent auctions. Once, taking a wrong turn into a narrow alley near the canal, she was transfixed by the sight of a black youth naked on an auction block. As white gentlemen surrounded her and urged her to leave, her gaze locked with the tormented eyes of the human merchandise. He seemed to cry out silently for succor, or at least recognition that what was happening was sinful. She slept badly for nights afterward. In Baltimore she’d seen nothing so harrowing, though perhaps she’d consciously avoided such sights.

  Cicero arrived on the dot. He roomed at the Spotswood Hotel, deeming it easier than looking after a house. She’d found him by placing a small advertisement in the Enquirer, among the many ads offering a high price for an army substitute. Cicero worked for the military Signal Service, in a civilian capacity. That’s all he would say, though he assured her that he was doing important work.

  “It hurts the Yankees, and I quite like it,” he remarked once. “Every few days I take another pound of Yankee flesh for Father. I’ve taken plenty for you too, Margaret.” His smile was warm and benign, disturbingly so.

  “Sister dear, good morning,” he said as he limped into the dining room. He bent to kiss her forehead. His eyes sparkled. His brown suit of checked wool, his bottle green waistcoat, and the matching scarf knotted around his collar testified to a salary that kept him well above the poverty level.

  “You seem quite cheerful,” she said.

  “We’ve caught a Union journalist posing as a patent-medicine salesman. He was brazenly passing out business cards at the Spotswood bar. I expect he’s a spy. We’ll find out. We have some methods I wouldn’t dare mention on such a beautiful day. Hello, Eudora.”

  “Day, sir,” Eudora said as she placed a small portion of scrambled country eggs in front of him, together with two slabs of fatty bacon whose price Margaret didn’t want to guess. Eudora then served a basket of coarse bread baked in the kitchen. She had a smile for Cicero, but none for Margaret. He tucked his napkin into his shirt and briskly attacked the food.

  “I thought Donal might be joining us.”

  “He’s gone off to another of his infernal card games. He says it’s a way to meet important businessmen. I hope that’s all he’s doing. I really have no way of knowing.”

  “Do I hear the faintest hint of wifely jealousy? You’re barely a new bride, Margaret.”

  “Perhaps I have cause for suspicion. You know Donal’s reputation.”

  “You alluded to it a few times before I left Baltimore, that’s all. You aren’t suggesting he’s seeing another woman?”

  “I know he went buggy-riding with one. Some cotton planter’s maiden aunt, no doubt.”

  Cicero said, “Ow,” and ducked, as though avoiding a bullet. He covered her hand with his. “I hope you’re imagining these things. Donal’s a splendid catch. He helped you out of a hellish situation.”

  “Yes, he is, and he did,” she agreed. “May we talk of something else?”

  She wouldn’t admit to Cicero that her relationship with Donal had deteriorated subtly but quickly since the honeymoon in Washington. Donal had grown less attentive as the weeks went by, although he remained a tender and considerate lover. When he chose to visit her room at night, he could arouse her to a state beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Shamefully, when they made love, she sometimes imagined the Yankee detective in her arms.

  She and her brother gossiped and speculated about the new Union commander, Burnside, who had replaced McClellan. Cicero left shortly before ten, dragging his thick-soled shoe down the mansion’s marble steps with excruciating slowness. At the window Margaret watched his progress along the brick sidewalk. What did he do that gave him such pleasure? If he was taking revenge for their father’s murder, why did it trouble her?

  In the afternoon she again took tea with Varina Davis and several cabinet wives in the pillared mansion on Clay Street that everyone called the Confederate White House. The President looked in at one point, greeting the ladies with Southern courtesy, bowing to kiss each hand and tickling Margaret’s with his chin whiskers. Like the cushions and draperies and everything else in the mansion, he smelled of cigars. She thought he looked tired and worried.

  She chose to walk home. The day had grown bleak. Factory smoke stained the slate-colored sky. Leaves scurried at her feet. Eudora greeted her the moment she stepped in the house.

  “Man brung this a while ago. Axe me to give it to you right away.” She put a folded sheet of wallpaper into Margaret’s gloved hand. A dab of maroon wax sealed the note.

  “Who was he? What did he look like?”

  “Like somebody what ought to come to the back door, which he done. Not so old, but weary-looking. Beard down to here”—she touched her bosom—“thick enough for a bird’s nest. Had on old gray things, like soldier castoffs. Oh, and he was white.”

  “Thank you, Eudora. You may go.” Eudora had no choice but to leave with the mysterious note unread.

  Margaret carried the note into the parlor. She sat on a horsehair sofa and drew off her gloves. Distant cannon fire rattled windowpanes. Only the local artillery practicing, she hoped.

  She broke the wax seal. The inside of the wallpaper was unprinted. The message was inscribed crudely by a blunt pencil.

  will you meet me friday 4pm shockoe hill burying ground?

  i hope this request does not carry too high a Price.

  Why only one word capitalized? Who…?

  “Oh, God.” It was him; she had no doubt of it.

  42

  November 1862

  Stone angels and seraphs and crosses surrounded him in the Shockoe Hill burying ground. Libby inmates said Tim Webster lay up here in an unmarked grave. When Lon arrived at half past three, he walked the pauper’s section for ten minutes, a necessary gesture of respect to a brave operative.

  Gravediggers had interred someone earlier in the day; he passed the new grave on his way to the southwest side of the cemetery. There he laid the bundle wrapped in butcher paper on the ledge of a monument. Before collecting the commandant’s laundry he’d delivered a pouch of reports to the provost marshal’s office. Under citywide martial law enforced by General Winder, he had to be off the streets by dark, even with a proper pass.

  His vantage point allowed him to watch traffic coming up both Second and Third streets. A mist had settled; the James and the canal hid in a low cloud of it. Lamps burned like hundreds of cat’s eyes. His gray sack coat with all but one button missing was none too warm.

  Church bells rang four. The deep notes reverberated in the mist. He rubbed the cold metal of the manacle with his right thumb, back and forth, back and forth. What if she didn’t come? Didn’t understand the message he handed to the black servant?

  A stray cat wandered among the tombstones, meowing at him. He told it to scat. When he glanced down the hill again, he saw a buggy climbing Second Street. The driver was a woman, alone. Although a gray veil on her black hat blurred her features, he knew it was Margaret.

  He stepped from behind a monument crowned by a marble C
hrist with outstretched hands. He waved. The buggy careened around the corner. How fine she looked in her black riding habit and yellow gloves!

  He ran to tie the horse to one of the iron posts along the curb. He helped her down, excited by the rich heaviness of her figure, the almost shy smile he saw when she raised her veil. Her wide mouth was a deep cherry red.

  “I knew you sent the note, but when I saw you, I thought I’d made an awful mistake. I thought you were someone else.” She touched his beard.

  “Makes me look like a hundred other soldiers. That’s why I grew it.”

  She saw the manacle. “What’s this? Are you a prisoner?”

  “Libby. I’ll explain. Let’s move away from the road.”

  She slipped her arm through his. The touch of her breast aroused him. He led her deeper into the cemetery. Mausoleums designed as small Greek temples screened them from the streets.

  “Do you still hate me because of who I work for, Margaret?”

  “If I did, would I be doing this? It’s risky for a woman to be seen here alone.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “Don’t you know? I couldn’t help myself. I had to see you again.”

  He smiled. “Are you happy?”

  “Don’t ask that question.”

  Gently he stroked her cheek with his thumb; felt dampness. “I have to know. You broke my heart when you said you were going to marry McKee.”

  “I was desperate. I was at the bottom of the well. Baker would have kept me in the Old Capitol forever. Donal was able to get me out of jail and out of Washington. There was no other way.”

  “But are you happy?”

  “Oh, Lon. Who is allowed to be happy in these times? I made an arrangement. Donal’s fond of me. He likes the way I look and dress. I’m useful. He is, shall we say, friendly with a great many women. But he couldn’t introduce most of them as a hostess in his home. An arrangement.” She rested her hand on the front of his old coat. “Don’t press the matter. I wish you’d hold me.”

  He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight to his chest and kissing her throat above the black collar of her riding habit. Behind them, unseen in the mist, gravediggers hailed one another; the voices were moving away, no threat.

  He kissed her mouth. The kiss was long, deep, as painful as it was blissful.

  “How did you know I was in Richmond?” she said. He told her of seeing the news item. “I want to hear all about you. How you got here. Is it secret work for the Yankees?”

  “It was.” He drew her to a monument with a wide base where they could sit, hidden from the road. He rested his manacled hand on her knee as he told the story of the capture, Sledge’s death, besting Griff, then the slow process of earning the trust of Lieutenant Turner.

  “Is there a possibility you’ll be exchanged?”

  “I suppose. I’ve reported my whereabouts to Washington.”

  “How?”

  “I have a contact in town. I shouldn’t say any more. How long will you be in Richmond?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you go back to New York?”

  “I think so. I loathe the idea. I don’t suppose it matters. Wherever we are, Donal can always find willing ladies.”

  “You’ve been married what—four months? Are you saying he’s already deceiving you?”

  “I knew Donal’s nature when I accepted his proposal. I didn’t want to rot for years in that damned prison.”

  “Well, it’s a hell of a situation.” They were silent a moment. “Margaret.” She turned to him. “I love you.”

  “Oh, please don’t say—”

  “I love you.”

  Her dark eyes glistened with tears. “And I love you.”

  She pressed her gloved hands to his damp cheeks, caressing him with her mouth and her tongue and her trembling body. When she pulled back, she dabbed her eyes, then lowered her veil.

  “You mustn’t think of me anymore. You’ll forget me if you just try.”

  “Forget you? You’re part of my existence, part of myself. You’ve been in every prospect I’ve ever seen since we met. To the last hour of my life, you remain part of my character.”

  Her eyes grew round as she realized what he was paraphrasing. “That’s Pip, isn’t it? When Estella wants him to forget her.”

  “I memorized it. Occasionally we’re allowed books in prison. Good-hearted local people bring them. Prisoner’s aid, it’s called. I reread Great Expectations last month. What Pip feels for Estella when she marries Drummle is the way I feel about you. Dickens said it perfectly. We can go apart, but you’ll never leave me. Never.”

  She gripped his hands with such ferocity, his fingers hurt. They heard horses.

  He sprang up. She pressed against his shoulder, straining to see the black carriage coming up Third Street carrying two men. A third, a civilian, followed on horseback. The carriage’s standing top hid the driver and the passenger in shadow. Mist wrapped the brass side lamps in spectral halos. The carriage looked evil, like some devil’s equipage driving up from hell.

  Margaret whispered, “That’s Donal’s phaeton.” She saw Lon’s expression. “Oh, God, you don’t think that I…?”

  “No, no,” he said, guilty and ashamed; he’d thought exactly that. “Did anyone else see the note?”

  “Only our house girl, Eudora. The sealing wax was intact when she gave it to me.”

  “Wax can be melted and sealed up again, with no trace of a break.”

  “Then she must have read it. The girl dislikes me. She told Donal for spite.”

  The phaeton wheeled around the corner, rocking to a halt behind the buggy. The horseman, a burly man in a frock coat and broad-brimmed planter’s hat, dismounted to confer with the other two men. He raised his arm to point. Lon and Margaret had been spotted.

  Margaret pushed him. “Run.”

  “What will you—?”

  “I’ll work my way out of it, don’t worry. Sweetheart—run!”

  He spun and dashed into the misty graveyard. He should have known he stood little chance on foot, but he wanted to draw the men away from her. He heard a horse galloping. The booted and spurred rider pursued him through the tombstones as though chasing quarry in a foxhunt.

  He ran faster, arms pumping, breath hissing through his teeth. The rider caught him easily, pulling a revolver from a holster tied to his leg. “Stop or I’ll put a bullet in your back.”

  Lon skidded into an oak tree, scraping his nose on the bark.

  “Turn. Raise your hands.” The man’s face was florid; a gold front tooth gleamed. “Now walk ahead of me, to Mr. McKee and Mr. Cridge.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Parsons is the name. My partner Humboldt Cridge and I are agents of General John Winder, Provost Marshal of Richmond.”

  The man who ran the prisons—and dealt with spies.

  Lon followed the trail of torn sod left by the horse. Parsons walked his mount, resting his revolver on his thigh. Lon passed Margaret where he’d left her. Thank God he couldn’t see her terror or confusion behind the veil; it would have destroyed him.

  Donal McKee waited with his phaeton, his thumbs in the pockets of his embroidered waistcoat. His passenger was examining the laundry bundle. He was a bland sort, about forty, with a round, ruddy face appropriate to a schoolteacher, a choirmaster, a kindly relative in a Victorian novel. When he lifted his hand to adjust his derby, he revealed a hideous scar that ran from the base of his thumb all the way to his cuff.

  McKee called out to his wife. “Please wait there until we’re finished.” He was so controlled, it was impossible to gauge the depth of his anger. The man in the derby looked Lon up and down.

  “Hummy Cridge, sir. Provost marshal’s office.” His voice was soft, even soothing. Behind little round spectacles, his tawny eyes looked older, colder, than the rest of him. “Do you have a pass to roam about the city?”

  Lon produced it. Cridge studied it. “The signature is General Winder
’s. The pass is issued to Albion Rogers. You are Rogers?”

  “Yes, Private Albion Rogers, Heintzelman’s Third Corps, First Div—” Cridge’s arm lashed forward like a striking snake. His fist snapped Lon’s head to one side.

  “Now, sir, that’s not true at all, is it?”

  McKee said, “I told you, his name’s Price. My wife said that much after we met him in Washington. He signed the name Price to the note.”

  “Yes, sir, I saw that,” Cridge agreed. “You’re positive it’s the same person?”

  “No doubt of it. He was on police duty at Lincoln’s inauguration. At least I think so. He made regular circuits in the crowd. Kept track of people. I saw him confer with another man who did the same thing. I’m sure he’s here under false colors.”

  Cridge looked sad. “‘They that plow iniquity and sow wickedness reap the same.’ Job, fifth chapter.”

  Lon said, “It’s the fourth chapter. Eighth verse.”

  “Well, what have we here, a biblical scholar?” Cridge said cheerfully. He struck Lon again, rocking him on his heels. “A man who knows his Bible will hang as easily and speedily as the heathen. ‘Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days.’ Do you know which psalm that’s from?”

  “Up your ass, you reb bastard.”

  Cridge’s face turned the color of plums. He signaled Parsons, who stepped forward, reversed his revolver, and hammered the butt on Lon’s skull. Lon dropped to his knees. Margaret cried out. McKee smiled.

  Cridge pinched Lon’s chin in his fingers. “I want to know why you’re wearing Confederate gray and a prison manacle. I want to know whose laundry that is. I want to know if there’s a Union spy ring in Richmond. My superiors and I have all the time we need to find out those things, and we will. Stand up.”

  43

  November 1862

  The Confederate White House at Twelfth and Clay was a pillared stucco mansion more gray than white. Lon was held for half an hour in a windowless upstairs room. Parsons guarded him with no overt animosity, saying only, “I wish you’d sit down,” when Lon paced. He agonized about Margaret. Would McKee punish her? If he hadn’t been rash about writing the note—