On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  On a raw January afternoon when snowflakes swirled out of a dark sky, Lon stood on a Sixth Street pier, hands in his overcoat pockets, derby pulled down over his forehead. He and Lafayette Baker watched Eugene Sandstrom and three other detectives unload prostitutes from a line of hacks and patrol wagons. The women no longer swore or resisted. Prison had cowed them. They trudged up the plank of the little side-wheel steamer, struggling with small trunks or fat carpetbags. None of Baker’s men offered help. One tiny redhead sobbed and petted a sickly looking parrot riding her shoulder.

  Baker was pleased. “There go seventy-two disloyal females who won’t trouble us further. A fine piece of work, Alonzo.”

  “Yes. Just fine.”

  His tone made Baker frown. Lon didn’t care to watch the steamer leave with its cargo of secesh-minded whores. After all, women posed an enormous, a positively staggering threat to the Union, wasn’t that right? All of Baker’s good soldiers would agree it was.

  Sunk in this sour thought, Lon said, “Excuse me,” and walked off in the swirling snow.

  55

  November 1863–January 1864

  For some weeks after she fled New York, Margaret had feared that Donal would be enraged by the note saying she’d no longer live with him and would pursue her. She felt a pang of disappointment when he didn’t. Later she reflected that his disinterest confirmed the failure of the marriage.

  She went first to Baltimore. She found the Miller town house dusty and abandoned. White cloths shrouded the furniture. A neighbor said Simms had left to cook for Union troops garrisoned in the city. She put the place in the hands of a real estate agent, withdrew money from three bank accounts, and traveled on to Washington.

  The city’s pursuit of pleasure was even more frenetic than she remembered. The darkening days of late autumn were filled with levees, private theatricals, hops at the large hotels, all described in detail by the papers. Dedicated ladies and gentlemen staged elaborate fairs to raise money for the Sanitary Commission, the organization that had virtually taken over the care and feeding of the Army. The Commission opened hospitals, operated huge warehouses, and sent wagon trains streaming to the camps with everything from dressings and medicines to onions and potatoes for prevention of scurvy.

  The social season promised to have an exotic air. Hostesses were planning gala receptions for officers of the Russian fleet scheduled to anchor in the Potomac for the winter. Margaret had no personal knowledge of any of the events; she read about them. She left the town house on Franklin Square only when necessary.

  She received no more letters from Rose. In the wake of the South’s defeat at Gettysburg, Confederate envoys in England and France had failed to win recognition of their government. The Northern papers said they never would. New names appeared in battlefield dispatches—Thomas, Sherman, praised for their leadership at Chickamauga Creek and Lookout Mountain in faraway Tennessee. Lincoln declared a national day of Thanksgiving in November, proof of the Union’s resurgent confidence. Margaret ate alone, a modest meal prepared in silent protest. That night, at her mirror, she found strands of gray in her hair.

  Stores overflowed with Christmas goods: wooden soldiers and popguns and clever mechanical dolls that sang; French perfumes and ladies’ cloaks and gentlemen’s cigar cases. She didn’t know how or where to ship a present to her brother, having heard nothing from him after the riots. She had no one else to buy for except Lon, who was gone. Their night together, a thrilling memory, could still bring on depression if she dwelt on it too long. She accused herself of speaking too persuasively, too often, about the impossibility of their love in wartime. Lon must have decided she was right.

  John T. Ford, the impresario from Baltimore, was enjoying success with his sparkling new “Temple of Thespis” on Tenth Street. For two weeks he engaged the popular John Wilkes Booth in his notable roles: Richard III, and Raphael, a sculptor, in an English version of a French drama, The Marble Heart.

  Margaret saw Hanna’s name in an advertisement for the latter play. She hired a carriage to take her to Ford’s, where she bought a seventy-five-cent seat, best in the house.

  Gaslight lent warmth to the handsome new playhouse. A bust of Shakespeare ornamented the proscenium arch. Every seat was filled. Hers was in the dress circle at stage right. She sensed an unusual excitement, prompted by patriotic bunting on a double box at the end of the dress circle stage left. From her seat she could look directly across to the box, but only those on her side of the dress circle had that advantage. The box couldn’t be seen at all by the often noisy rabble who sat downstairs. As the houselights went down, an usher in the box pushed lace curtains aside, revealing several chairs and a large upholstered rocker. Abraham Lincoln loved the theater and was known to pay surprise visits to Ford’s and Grover’s.

  An ovation greeted the first entrance of young Mr. Booth. Extraordinarily handsome, he rattled the rafters with his delivery. Unlike his brother, Edwin, whose acting was restrained and natural, he preferred the sweeping gesture, the bold stage move. Playing the poor sculptor in love with a woman who loved money more, he had competition for the attention of the audience. Those around Margaret watched the empty box.

  Ten minutes after the curtain rose, there were exclamations on the other side of the dress circle, then applause. In the dark, Lincoln had made his way through a passage to the double box and seated himself in the rocking chair. His wife wasn’t with him. A civilian guard stood behind him, in shadow.

  Applause grew and spread to the orchestra and upper gallery. Lincoln stood to acknowledge the welcome, then with a gesture to the stage bade the players continue. Mr. Booth saluted the haggard President with an exaggerated bow. Margaret thought Booth looked annoyed. Lincoln and his guard left a minute before the last curtain.

  She was unsure of the reception she’d get from Hanna, but nevertheless waited in the alley behind the theater. She was embarrassed to be in a crowd of giddy women eager to see the leading man. She was relieved when Hanna was among the first to come down the steps. “Hanna? Here I am!”

  Hanna started when she recognized Margaret. She recovered quickly and ran to her. Hanna still wore stage makeup; her eyes were lined, her cheeks and lips vividly rouged.

  “In heaven’s name, what are you doing in Washington?”

  “Donal and I separated. I saw your name and couldn’t stay away. You were fine, Hanna.”

  “Thank you. It’s a tiny part but I earn a salary, so finally I can call myself a professional. Isn’t Johnny Booth marvelous?”

  “He’s very forceful. Do you have time for supper?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Ford’s giving a party for the cast. I’m heartbroken to hear about the separation. We must meet again, to catch up. Are you at home in Franklin Square? I’ll send a note as soon as I’m free.” Margaret wondered if she would; Hanna seemed stiff, reserved.

  Her speculation was cut short by applause from the fifty or so gathered at the stage entrance. Booth came out wearing a fur-collared overcoat and silk hat. He was showered with floral bouquets and two folded notes thrown by young women. Hanna squeezed Margaret’s hand and whispered something that Margaret couldn’t hear with all the noise. Booth’s black eyes shone as he signed programs. Someone asked about performing for Lincoln.

  “Infernal nuisance having him in the house. Throws everyone’s timing off. Nor do I appreciate bowing before a damned tyrant.” The crowd murmur stopped. Two men feebly applauded. Margaret slipped away without speaking to Hanna again.

  In December, Margaret bought a set of tortoiseshell combs for Hanna. At New Year’s she still hadn’t heard from her friend. The gift in its floral paper remained in a drawer.

  The black brougham with black window curtains swung into the mews between H and I Streets. Lon counted nine saddle horses tied to iron posts in front of a two-story house with draped windows. The horses whinnied and stamped as the brougham rolled up. Lon jumped out, followed by Eugene Sandstrom and two other Baker detectives. Piano music and
laughter beat through the solid oak door. The breath of the four detectives clouded in the January air. The stars were icy and distant.

  Lon unbuttoned his coat, loosened the six-shot Navy Colt .36 holstered under his arm. It was a simple, dependable weapon, turned out in vast numbers for the Union. He missed the old pocket piece, lost when Zach was hanged. This gun was larger. It had the virtue of being more intimidating.

  Sandstrom blew on his hands. “What’s the name of this crib?”

  “The Blue Goose.” To the driver Lon said, “Pull out and signal them to bring up the Black Maria.” Baker’s unit owned an old police wagon refitted with huge padlocks on the doors. The driver shook the reins. The brougham moved down the mews.

  “How many on the list?” another detective asked. Lon pulled out a paper, tilted it to catch the light of a gas lamp above the front entrance.

  “Six.”

  “The chief’s throwing a hell of a big party.”

  “He aims to ship seventy to eighty whores down the Potomac. Every one of them secesh.”

  “Or accused of it by someone else,” Sandstrom said.

  Lon shot him a look. “Same thing.” Eugene was exactly right, though. It was a rotten business, rounding up suspected traitors without real evidence. Lon especially hated harassing women. But he couldn’t ignore three McClellan saddles among the tethered horses. Baker insisted that whores could get officers drunk and pry information out of them.

  “Follow me.”

  He’d lain unconscious in the street after the white men killed Zach. A black barber discovered him, took him in, and sent his son for a policeman. Lon spent a week in a ward at Bellevue Hospital while units from Gettysburg arrived and quelled the rioting. Lon remembered only the last three days of that week.

  Recovery had been long, difficult, and frustrating. His healed wounds hurt in the cold. Going up to the oak door, he felt every step.

  He aimed the Navy Colt at the keyhole and blasted the mechanism apart with one shot. He kicked the door open and jumped into a melee of shouting and screaming, overturning furniture, shattering glass, obscene oaths. Hard to tell who had the foulest mouths, the male patrons or the ladies.

  A captain with his blue blouse unbuttoned darted away down the long hall next to the staircase. Lon put a bullet in the floor at the soldier’s heels. The man stopped instantly. Lon yelled, “The back door is blocked by my men. We’re arresting some of the inmates of this house. Customers can leave. Just don’t make trouble.”

  A motherly woman with high-piled gray hair stormed out of a side parlor. “You dirty fucking son of a bitch, who are you?”

  Lon showed his badge. “Some of your ladies are going on a boat ride. They can work in Richmond, entertaining their own kind.”

  “God damn you, you pissy little runt, you can’t tromp in here and act like you own—”

  He cocked the single-action piece with his thumb. “If you’re Madam Hanna, your name isn’t on my list. I’ll add it if you don’t keep quiet.”

  Madam Hanna paled under her orange powder. She clutched her wattled neck and stepped back, making curious gobbling sounds. Lon consulted the list. “Here are the ones we want. Mary Ann Abelard. Dimity Baskin. Boots, also known as Helene Gunther. Eulalia Mimms. Says here she’s black. Josie Stein and Annie Wheaton. Root ’em out, boys.”

  The detectives ran upstairs while the patrons gathered overcoats and hats and gloves and stole out. Lon heard the Black Maria clattering into the mews.

  Soon the first girl came down, dragged by Eugene Sandstrom. She carried her cloak over her arm; her bosoms were practically falling out of her chemise. She called Sandstrom vile names until he shoved his pistol in her side. “Shut up and cover your tits.” Lon smiled; Sandstrom was learning.

  By midnight they had the six soiled doves cuffed and locked inside the black-painted wagon. Lon accompanied them to Old Capitol but rode outside, with the driver. Inside, they’d probably claw him to pieces.

  The whole business was distasteful, but it was the game he’d chosen by coming back to work for Lafayette Baker after his recovery. The tactics of Baker and Stanton appalled him. Dozens were arrested every month—journalists, elected officials, government clerks, anyone caught opposing the war or suspected of it. Some were jailed for a day or two. Some were detained indefinitely in the overcrowded prisons. Lon knew he shouldn’t work for a man he loathed. Nevertheless he stayed. Where else could he fight the war as Pinkerton had trained him to do?

  He sopped his conscience by telling himself that every arrest was a payment for Zachariah Chisolm. He grieved for his friend. Zach died unhappy, believing himself cursed by his blackness, and by white hypocrisy. He saw no possibility of acceptance in the promised land of the North. It was a bitter fate, adding an extra measure of pain to a cruel death. Zach Chisolm had died thinking himself less than a man.

  On a raw January afternoon when snowflakes swirled out of a dark sky, Lon stood on a Sixth Street pier, hands in his overcoat pockets, derby pulled down over his forehead. He and Lafayette Baker watched Eugene Sandstrom and three other detectives unload prostitutes from a line of hacks and patrol wagons. The women no longer swore or resisted. Prison had cowed them. They trudged up the plank of the little side-wheel steamer, struggling with small trunks or fat carpetbags. None of Baker’s men offered help. One tiny redhead sobbed and petted a sickly looking parrot riding her shoulder.

  Baker was pleased. “There go seventy-two disloyal females who won’t trouble us further. A fine piece of work, Alonzo.”

  “Yes. Just fine.”

  His tone made Baker frown. Lon didn’t care to watch the steamer leave with its cargo of secesh-minded whores. After all, women posed an enormous, a positively staggering threat to the Union, wasn’t that right? All of Baker’s good soldiers would agree it was.

  Sunk in this sour thought, Lon said, “Excuse me,” and walked off in the swirling snow.

  56

  May 1864

  “Before our visitors present their proposal, let me review our situation.”

  Jefferson Davis spoke from the head of the conference table in the cabinet room. Tall windows framed a deluge of rain. It was almost as though the heavens mourned for the Confederacy, Cicero thought in his chair in the corner. The Davis government had lately suffered catastrophic reversals. That could only help him.

  Davis, whom Cicero and many others considered incompetent, had his share of personal woes as well. Two weeks earlier, his beloved son Joseph had climbed on the rail of the residence balcony and fallen, splattering his brains on the bricks below. Joe Davis was four, the second child Davis had lost.

  “Two weeks of fighting in the Wilderness and at Spotsylvania have cost General Lee eighteen thousand men,” the President said. “In the equivalent time the enemy lost approximately thirty-six thousand. I know Sam Grant. He is a brutal and reckless soldier. He has no regard for human life.”

  Cicero’s right hand crept over to scratch the hideously scarred back of his left. Burn scars covered his arm, shoulder, and neck, showing above his collar in ridges of gnarly red tissue. His left ear resembled a misshapen lump of wax that had melted and rehardened. He doubted even a whore would look at him naked unless she was drunk or desperate.

  Secretary of War Seddon cleared his throat to ask for attention. He was a contemptible wreck of a man, emaciated and constantly sick. Davis had a strange affinity for men in ill health. Misery loved company, no doubt. Davis nodded to grant permission.

  James Seddon spoke in a gentle Virginia accent. “The President is exactly right. Lincoln’s new general-in-chief throws men away as if they were markers in a child’s game. He enjoys Lincoln’s full trust, so his policy will surely continue. He can lose thirty-six thousand or fifty thousand and replace them. Our losses cannot be made up so easily.”

  Cicero threw a look at his superior, Major William Norris. Cicero had known Norris in Baltimore. He’d always resented Norris’s good looks, his success with women, the way he’d sailed th
rough Yale. Norris was chief of the Signal Service.

  He wasn’t the only Yale lawyer present. Immediately to the left of Davis, Mr. Benjamin, the Jew secretary of state, sat like a little olive-skinned Buddha, reflectively caressing his trim beard. Judah Benjamin of St. Croix, New Haven, and New Orleans, was the President’s most trusted colleague. His position at the table, and Seddon’s at the other end, established their status.

  Davis resumed. “Sherman is already into north Georgia. Ben Butler is on the Peninsula and could well threaten Petersburg. Sigel has only some eight thousand in the Valley, but look what that has cost us.” He referred to Jeb Stuart, fatally wounded at Yellow Tavern five days ago, May 11.

  “General Lee’s troops are exhausted after two weeks of bloody combat. We cannot arm them, clothe them, or feed them properly. Our brave boys receive a field ration of a few ounces of flour, a bit of tainted bacon, and if God smiles, perhaps a spoonful of rice or molasses. That is for an entire day, gentlemen. Furthermore, the orders found on the body of Colonel Dahlgren in the wake of his failed raid prove that Lincoln will sink to the lowest levels of warfare.”

  Dahlgren had come knocking at the door with four thousand cavalry last March. His alleged mission was to free prisoners at Belle Isle and turn them loose to revenge themselves on Richmond’s populace. The raid was foiled, Dahlgren killed in King and Queen County, but in his pocket, orders were found exhorting the freed prisoners to kill and burn “the hateful city,” then assassinate Davis and members of his cabinet. Outraged, Lee dispatched copies of the orders to General Meade under a truce flag. Meade blandly called the orders false and swore they’d never been issued. Washington seconded the denial. Lincoln’s hirelings were liars as well as killers.