On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  A military aide opened the door. “The President is ready to see you.”

  Lon and Parsons followed him to a modest office overlooking the lamplit city. A ticking shelf clock showed half-past six. In a visitor’s chair in front of the President’s desk, a handsome and burly officer of sixty or so regarded the prisoner with a hostile eye. From an engraving he’d seen, Lon recognized the provost marshal, Brigadier General John Winder, another West Point man who’d changed sides. On the Peninsula, soldiers had gossiped about Winder’s son, an Army captain who’d arrived in Washington after the war began. Pinkerton wanted him to sign a loyalty oath. McClellan chose to send him back to duty in California.

  The general’s thick white hair swept down to his ears in elegantly combed waves. Even his own officers, Turner included, thought him harsh and inflexible. Whenever his name came up, someone usually recalled that his father had commanded troops that ran from the British in 1814, leaving Washington unprotected, to be sacked and burned.

  Jefferson Davis pointed to an empty chair. “Please be seated, sir.” His reputation for courtesy was deserved.

  “Thank you.” Lon eased into the chair. Davis’s left eye had a cloudy film on it. His sour breath was apparent across the desk. He covered his mouth and belched softly as he studied a paper. Parsons lounged by tall bookcases. Cridge stood next to him with his derby pressed against his vest in a way that struck Lon as servile. He noticed a third civilian standing in a dark corner, arms folded. It was the bald man from the hallway at Libby.

  Davis said, “You insist your name is Rogers, sir?”

  “Private Albion Rogers, that’s correct, sir.” Lon spoke up, trying not to appear frightened.

  “A gentleman of excellent reputation has provided a different name. General Winder’s detectives have a note which you delivered to the gentleman’s house, signed with the same last name. You still deny a dual identity?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I admire your courage, though you’ll find it misspent. I suspect you’re an operative of General McClellan’s chief of secret service, Pinkerton.”

  Harshly Winder said, “That won’t do you a penny’s worth of good if you’re entertaining thoughts of rescue by means of exchange. General McClellan has been relieved.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve heard that.”

  The bald man spoke from the shadows. “When a failure departs, so do his favorites. Week before last, we intercepted a letter sent across the lines with some exchange protocols and rosters. Your employer, Pinkerton, wrote to Pryce Lewis in Castle Thunder to say he was resigning his duties and returning to what he called his old stand in Chicago. We delivered the letter after reading it. Lewis will confirm its contents.”

  Davis clasped veined hands on the desk. “It’s futile to continue with your deception, Mr. Price. Two of your colleagues are presently confined in Castle Thunder, Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Scully. If you were sent among us by Mr. Pinkerton, those men will identify you. Make it easy on yourself. Give us a list of your contacts in Richmond, agents of the Union government, and we may be inclined toward leniency.”

  Hummy Cridge coughed and immediately launched a fulsome apology, which Davis waved silent.

  Lon said, “I can’t do that, sir. I don’t know what you mean by contacts. I deserted from the Union Army because I don’t believe in their cause. I came to Richmond to stand with the Confederacy. That’s my story.”

  Davis looked pained. “Your side will lose, you know. Lincoln has no truly capable generals, only incompetents, or egotists such as McClellan. I know, I served with many of them in Mexico. We have the Military Academy’s finest on our side, starting with General Lee. Our cause is just. We seek independence from the domination of Northern industrialists. Freedom to pursue our own way of life without interference from race-mixing hypocrites who will never permit freed Negroes to set foot in their parlors unless forced or bribed to do so.”

  Lon didn’t reply. What could he say? Davis was utterly wrong about slavery, though perhaps close to the mark on the issue of Northern hypocrisy. As for the generals, it seemed depressingly true. McClellan had been turned back by inferior numbers when Richmond was within in his grasp. It all seemed muddled, and of no importance compared to Margaret’s plight, and his own culpability.

  The clock ticked. Cridge started to cough again. Winder bristled. Davis’s clear right eye picked up tiny reflections of the gaslight. He spread his hands over the desk. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid this is pointless. Mr. Price, you will regret you refusal to cooperate. Castle Thunder isn’t the most comfortable of accommodations. Mr. Miller, please take him away.” He reached for a folio of papers, signaling the end of the interview.

  Lon’s ears rang. Miller?

  The bald man limped across the carpet, seized Lon’s arm, pulled him out of the chair. Five minutes later they were in a closed carriage rattling away from Capitol Square.

  In her bedroom on Church Hill, Margaret watched the rain. It rivered off the roof and dispelled the mist. She was barefoot, wearing only her black dressing gown ornamented with flying cranes, in the Japanese style.

  The terrible scene at the graveyard had ended when Winder’s detectives took Lon away in the phaeton. Donal drove her home in the buggy. He said not a single word. As they arrived on Church Hill, he handed her a black umbrella. After she alighted, he drove off. Undoubtedly she’d hear from him later. It was an awareness, not fear. Her fear was for Lon out there in the dark with Winder’s thugs.

  At her dressing table she took a brush to her long dark hair. Usually the routine pleased her; tonight it was mechanical. Her dressing gown fell open; the mirror reflected the high round tops of her breasts.

  Footsteps in the hall alerted her to Donal’s arrival. He entered without knocking. His English dressing gown, burnt orange silk with a quilted collar and tasseled belt, fit him perfectly; no surprise, given what he paid for clothes. He smelled of talc and some oily preparation glistening in his curly hair.

  Donal sat on the end of the bed. She started to speak. He raised his hand.

  “Let me be clear with you, Margaret. I don’t care about the nature of that Yankee chap’s work, or who his employer may be. I do care about whether you’ve dallied with him.”

  “If you mean has he taken me to bed, no.”

  “Not that you wouldn’t like it, do you mean?”

  “I care for him, Donal.”

  “More than you care for your husband.”

  She looked at him without flinching. She didn’t need to answer.

  Thoughtfully he said, “The event that occurred today embarrassed me severely. It will continue to do so as long as we’re in Richmond. A man can’t tolerate something like that. Accounts must be balanced. One misdemeanor, one punishment. Do you understand?”

  “Are you saying that if I don’t do it again, you won’t punish me again?”

  “You’re a bright girl. How a bright girl could make such a dreadful mistake eludes me. I suppose we’re all victims of our humanity from time to time.”

  “You certainly are, Donal.”

  He didn’t like that. He picked up her yellow-dyed gloves from the corner of the dressing table. “Charming. I believe they’d fit me.” He snugged one on, then the other. Her heart raced. The sense of threat was sharp.

  “I don’t want to do this, Margaret. I regret it.”

  “Then why—”

  The last thing she saw was his yellow fist flying toward her eyes. When she woke, naked on the bed with one eye swollen shut and her face and breasts hurting, he was straddling her. His face contorted as he thrust into her and brutally completed the punishment.

  Their destination was Eighteenth and Cary, a block from Libby. The lights of shops and hotels along the way flashed over the faces of Hummy Cridge and the bald man seated opposite Lon. Rain pelted the carriage and puddled in the street. Despite the chill, Lon was sweating.

  He speculated about his captors. Cridge he assessed as lower class, with pretensions. The man
relished brutality and could no doubt always dredge up some biblical phrase or patriotic cant to justify it. The other man, Miller, struck him as brighter, more calculating, therefore more dangerous. Miller sat awkwardly, his crippled leg stretched across the width of the coach. Lon thought of Miller as the staff general, Cridge one of his field officers. They were a pair to fear.

  Miller studied his buffed nails. “Don’t imagine you’ll get out of this, Price. I’m certain you work for Pinkerton, or did. His ruffians killed my father in Baltimore.” Lon sat very still.

  “Pinkerton also imprisoned my sister, the lady with whom you’re apparently acquainted. Since your side locked her up, abused her, and made her suffer, we’ll reciprocate, though with a slight difference. Margaret got out of prison. You’ll rot there. Eh, Cridge?”

  “’Deed he will, Mr. Miller. ‘Let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end.’”

  “Every Sunday Mr. Cridge teaches in an evangelical church school,” Miller said. “Ah, here we are.”

  Through the carriage window Lon saw the lights of three brick buildings comprising the notorious prison.

  “Do you want a moment for a last look around?” Miller asked. “You won’t be seeing Richmond again. Castle Thunder will likely be your last residence on earth.”

  Part Four

  INSURRECTION

  44

  December 1862

  When Margaret was growing up in Virginia, she played with a favorite doll, made of cloth filled with straw. The smiling mammy doll had a crazy-quilt apron whose array of colors and patterns she found fascinating. For days after Donal punished her, the mirror reflected the same kind of patchwork coloration on Margaret’s battered and swollen face.

  Sometime during that dreadful night, Eudora had slipped out of the house with her belongings, evidently preferring the wrath of soldiers enforcing the curfew to a confrontation with Margaret. Eudora’s brother, Morris, denied knowing anything but the obvious. “She run off, nothin’ more to say.” Regardless of how many questions Margaret asked, the answers were essentially the same. “She run off. I don’ know where. We never was close.” During these exchanges Morris didn’t raise his eyes to look at Margaret. She soon gave up.

  Donal again treated her courteously. He said nothing about her bruised face or the reason for it. He absented himself frequently from Church Hill, often staying away all night. He no longer came to her room, for which she was thankful.

  Margaret didn’t dwell on the state of her marriage. To do so was to insure another long bout of weeping, a pointless indulgence since it always led to the same truth: She had accepted Donal’s proposal willingly. Only she was to blame for what had resulted.

  She tried to suppress thoughts of Lon Price but found it impossible. She bought some books, wrapped them, and drove the buggy to Libby Prison one stormy afternoon, presuming Lon was still locked up inside. She handed the books to the ill-mannered guard at the entrance with small hope that Lon would receive them. With sleet flying in her face and stinging her eyes, she drove away up Canal Street, turning uphill at Eighteenth past Castle Thunder, another prison with an even worse reputation. She hardly glanced at the grimy brick buildings, old tobacco factories, now enclosed by a high board fence.

  It snowed heavily and often in early December. The fluffy whiteness, so pretty as it drifted down, quickly turned to ugly brown slush. People were depressed, sullen. Enthusiasm for Christmas was dampened by shortages, and by the prospect of Lincoln’s emancipation edict taking effect on January 1. Nat Turner’s slave uprising was very much on the public mind. Editorialists whipped up the fear with denunciations of “this hateful call for the insurrection of four millions of slaves, and inauguration of a reign of hell on earth.”

  With Eudora gone, and no other help readily available, shopping fell to Margaret. She bought little; she cooked for one and ate by herself. Her forays into the stores showed her the terrible pressure the war was exerting on the civilian population. Prices were outrageous. A bar of yellow soap had gone from a dime to more than a dollar. Newspapers complained that family grocery bills had gone up ten times too.

  Donal didn’t gloss over the difficulties of the Confederacy. “The newspapers won’t print the truth, but you hear it nonetheless. There’s a shortage of firewood for the Army, so wherever they happen to be, they tear down the homes of loyal citizens. Soldiers are trapping barn rats and roasting them because there aren’t enough rations. I’m happy to make money from these people, but I find them a pack of bunglers. The South can’t win. I’d bank everything I own on that.” Bitterly, Margaret wondered if her name was on the list of things he owned.

  As if to contradict Donal’s negative opinion of the Confederacy, in mid-December Richmond thrilled to news of a huge battle up at Fredericksburg. On December 13, the Army of the Potomac under its new general, Burnside, hurled itself at the rebels and was in turn hurled back, at huge cost. An assault on Longstreet’s troops defending a place called Marye’s Heights brought the day’s bloodiest action. Burnside turned tail.

  The victory should have set church bells ringing in celebration. Instead, the papers denounced “Granny” Lee for failing to press his advantage with a counterattack, thereby destroying Burnside’s wounded Army. It was two days after the equivocal victory that Donal said he’d finished his business in Richmond. They would be leaving to spend Christmas visiting the company office in Savannah.

  “It’s warmer down there. At least it should be this time of year. Leaving Richmond strikes me as a wise idea. Your friend is still locked up here. ‘Lead us not into temptation,’” he murmured with a taunting smile. Margaret knew the marriage was finished every way except legally.

  She paid a farewell visit to Rose Greenhow. Rose wanted to go to England. If Her Majesty’s government recognized the Confederacy, as the Davis government desperately hoped, London would welcome Southerners. Margaret wished Rose success with completing her memoir and kissed her good-bye. She refused to kiss little Rose, now growing into young womanhood and more impudent than ever.

  Two days before they were to leave for Georgia, Margaret dined with Cicero at Madam Zetelle’s popular restaurant on Main Street. Cicero was talkative, cheerful, peppering his conversation with references to “making the Yankees squeal.” When she asked how he did that, his answer was a coy smile.

  “Do you have anything to do with prisoners of war?” she asked.

  “Occasionally.”

  “Are you acquainted with a prisoner named Alonzo Price? I believe he’s in Libby.”

  “Price.” A pause. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “He was a friend of someone I knew in Washington.”

  “If he deserves some special attention, I’ll be delighted to arrange it.”

  “You don’t mean special attention to make him comfortable.”

  “No, quite the opposite.”

  Margaret shivered. Her brother’s good humor had a cruel underpinning. Cicero liked hurting people, and now, evidently, he could do it without being held to account. Sometimes he no longer seemed like her flesh and blood. She promised to write and wondered if she would.

  On a dark and blustery morning, Morris drove them to the depot. She and Donal boarded the southbound cars of the Petersburg Railroad. The train bore them through snowy fields, a desolate landscape devoid of color and, for Margaret, any sign of happiness or a normal life.

  Gradually they left the snow behind. Watery December sun shone on cotton fields beside the railroad tracks. Leaving North Carolina, the sense of an enemy presence virtually disappeared, even though Yankees occupied one of the South Carolina sea islands, an insignificant place called Hilton Head, not far from Savannah. It was principally a coaling station for the Federal blockade squadron, Donal said; no threat to the mainland thus far.

  The graceful old city of Savannah basked in mild winter sunshine. Breezes from the nearby ocean stirred the palms and rattled the palmettos planted around its handsome squares. Ships filled the river and crowded t
he wharves. An air of prosperity prevailed. The war seemed far away.

  They boarded in separate rooms rented from a Mrs. Wilkes and took their meals downstairs at her boardinghouse table. Margaret’s face had healed. The last bruise was barely noticeable. While Donal occupied himself at the company office, Margaret unenthusiastically shopped for Christmas gifts. The stores overflowed with luxury goods—fine cigars from Havana, French champagne and cognac and perfume, and most anything else you could think of, from corset stays and bolts of satin to liver pills and hideous caricatures of Abe Lincoln hand-tinted to make him even more repulsive. Margaret bought Donal a fine pair of leather gaiters and a case of Spanish port.

  On Christmas Eve he insisted that they stroll down to the riverfront. A concertina in a crowded tavern carried the tune of “Good King Wenceslas” while rough-voiced sailors bellowed the words. Donal led her along the cobblestone quay to a long, narrow cargo vessel painted a misty gray. Her two funnels were shorter than any Margaret had ever seen. Even at this hour, black stevedores were carrying bales of cotton aboard, lashing them on the open deck and covering them with tarpaulins.

  “What do you think of her, my dear?”

  “I don’t know much about ships, but she’s unusual, I’ll say that.”

  “In many ways,” he agreed. “Very shallow draft. She can do at least eighteen knots. Her bunkers are full of the most expensive coal, anthracite. It produces no smoke. The cotton that you see is worth about nine cents a pound here, but across the pond, ten times that. It’s a McKee cargo.”

  “The ship’s a blockade runner?”

  “Aye, built in Glasgow and owned by a syndicate recently formed on the Isle of Wight. She steamed up the river last night, after a three-day run from St. George’s, Bermuda. An uneventful run, I might add.” A boyish enthusiasm bubbled in his voice. “The profit potential of this ship is enormous. More than two-thirds of the runners incoming and outgoing make it through the Yankee squadron. The master, Captain Ayers, formerly sailed with the Royal Navy. On each trip he can clear five or six thousand pounds from private cargoes he’s permitted to carry. Compared to that, however, the profit of the owners can be astronomical.”