On Secret Service

by John Jakes

Militia drilled twice a week in Franklin Square. Residents took visitors to admire the statue of Armed Freedom standing atop the Capitol dome at last. The credulous consulted Washington’s many spirit mediums, hoping to speak to relatives lost in battle. Hundreds of contrabands idled in the streets, jobless and hungry.

  Margaret had a friend on Franklin Square; one she hadn’t sought. Mrs. Fanny Fitch lived two doors away, cared for by nine servants. Early in the year, as a good neighbor, she brought Margaret a plate of apple tarts baked by her cook. Mrs. Fitch was a spry little lady with fiery red hair and a loquacious tongue. On her first visit, she informed Margaret that the late Mr. Fitch, of the Georgia Fitches, had made a fortune with a service that removed human waste from the city in a fleet of wagons. The rigors of the night-soil trade sent Mr. Fitch to an early grave but left his childless widow secure for life.

  Fanny was a hundred percent secesh. When the resignation of Treasury Secretary Chase became public in late June, she crowed, “He knows the Union’s bankrupt and ready to collapse!” Margaret was amused. Fanny’s hopes were larger than her store of facts.

  Early in July, a mixed Confederate force of cavalry and infantry invaded Maryland and captured Frederick, forty miles away. General Jubal Early demanded $200,000 or he’d burn the town. The burgers of Frederick capitulated and Early marched on Washington. Summer lassitude was immediately replaced by fear, though not among the secesh. Fanny took Margaret to her sewing room, which she unlocked with a conspiratorial flourish. On the worktable lay an unfinished Confederate battle flag.

  “I’ll hang it out when General Early marches into town. He was trained at West Point, you know. Class of ’37.”

  “Surely Stanton will call for troops from Grant,” Margaret said.

  “Grant’s busy trying to overrun Petersburg. Which of course he’ll never do. Hasn’t Bob Lee kept him chasing his tail for months? Besides, Grant is never sober long enough to win a battle.”

  Early’s invasion created wild excitement in Washington. Margaret went out regularly to read bulletins posted at the Star. Saturday, July 9, the long sheets reported that Early had met a Union force under General Lew Wallace at the Monocacy River and defeated it. Old Jube now had a straight march to the capital.

  A sorry mix of adolescent boys, elderly home guards, and Invalid Corps convalescents drilled in the square on Sunday. Late that day, the bulletins warned that Early had reached Rockville. Next morning the streets overflowed with refugees streaming in from the Rockville and Seventh Street roads. They brought clothes and valuables on their backs or in handcarts and told horrific tales of the rebels burning and looting farms. A cattle herd stampeded through Franklin Square, pursued by a farmer on horseback who shouted that Early would massacre everyone.

  About one-thirty that afternoon, Margaret heard cannonading from the northern forts. Made nervous by the guns, she eagerly went to tea when Fanny sent her maid with an invitation. Fanny was so excited, her hand shook as she poured. “I’ll be flying my flag this time tomorrow. The tide is turning at last.”

  Margaret said nothing. She’d heard that an entire Union Army Corps was coming up the Potomac to rescue the city. Later, a mulatto boy delivering groceries excitedly told her that units of General Horatio Wright’s VI Corps were already piling off the boats at Sixth Street.

  In the evening, Fanny’s black coachman drove them out Seventh Street toward Fort Stevens. There, according to Fanny, President Lincoln had studied the enemy from a parapet and exposed his head to sharpshooters. “A missed opportunity,” she lamented.

  Progress up Seventh was slow. The driver fought a flood of Marylanders fleeing into town. In cottage yards, families loaded goods in burlap sacks and wheelbarrows. The moon rose behind a heat haze reddened by fires along the northern horizon. A half mile from Fort Stevens, the crowds of refugees stalled the carriage completely. Fanny ordered the driver to turn around.

  Tuesday dawned hot again. Margaret dressed in her lightest lawn, took her parasol, and set out to see what had happened overnight. Two things struck her. The first was the remarkable state of the Washington populace. Children played in dooryards and alleys as though no threat existed. Shoppers thronged the stores as on any business day. If there was panic, she saw no evidence, except for the wandering cattle, and the refugees camping in weedy lots with their heaps of belongings.

  On Seventh Street she watched companies of the VI Corps marching to relieve the forts. Although young, the soldiers had the hard-bitten eyes and sunbaked faces of men far older. No two uniforms matched. These were blooded veterans. And the North had thousands more. Fanny and those like her would one day burn their battle flags or hide them away in attics.

  Coughing from the dust raised by so many tramping feet, Margaret saw the companies pass, and when she walked homeward, she knew the war was lost.

  By Wednesday, the crisis was over; Jubal Early was gone from the gates of Washington. Margaret returned to her hospital duties. On Friday night, she drove her buggy into the small stable behind the town house about half past seven. It had been a trying afternoon. Two boys in her ward, one from Mississippi, had succumbed to their wounds. The Mississippi soldier had died while Margaret sat with him, trying to finish a letter to his wife. His arm lolled suddenly and knocked the pencil from her hand. She cried.

  The summer night was sticky and still. She let herself into the kitchen and pulled off her bonnet, eager to be out of her clothes and into a tepid bath. Her legs ached from standing.

  Moving to the dark parlor, she struck a match. The light revealed her brother in a wing chair, a pair of white cotton gloves draped over his knee. Margaret shrieked softly and dropped the match.

  “God above. How did you get in here?”

  With a smile that was no more than a facial tic, he said, “I have keys that will open any door. I arrived about six. Actually it’s my second visit. Oh, and kindly don’t call me Cicero. For the moment I am Mr. Hiram Seth of Lower Marlboro, Maryland. Care to see my credentials?” His left hand shifted toward his lapel. Margaret’s mouth and eyes rounded.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  He showed off the scars. “This isn’t all.” He hooked a finger under the old-fashioned white silk stock that he wore in place of a cravat. Pulling the stock away from his neck, he revealed more ugly red tissue.

  “Modesty forbids me from showing the rest. The scars run down my whole left side. During the New York riots, I had the misfortune to be trapped in a burning building. I escaped, though occasionally I wish I hadn’t.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. Are you here for more of your secret work?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “You’re taking huge risks coming to Washington.”

  “In a good cause.”

  “You said you’d been here before. Was it early today?”

  “Oh, no, it was during the winter. I didn’t expect you were in residence at the time. I knocked on the front door merely to be sure. No one answered. A neighbor, a tiny red-haired lady, came along and told me you were indeed living here. Not with Donal, I gather.”

  “Donal and I separated. That is, I left him, right after I saw you last July. I made a dreadful mistake marrying him. He’s divorcing me.”

  “Well, he was a splendid catch. Too bad it didn’t work out.” He sounded uninterested. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you financial help, or even a great deal of brotherly support. I am evolving a scheme that has the government’s highest priority. I can speak in confidence, can’t I? I wouldn’t want to think otherwise.”

  He licked his lips. “I am doing nothing less than trying to save the Confederacy before Davis drives it into the ground.”

  “Save the Confederacy? By yourself?” His staring eyes forestalled laughter.

  “I can’t reveal details, except to say that when the plan comes to fruition—when we strike—we will strike very high. So high, you will be astonished. That’s why silence is mandatory.”

  What did he mean by striki
ng high? Did he intend to attack someone in the Lincoln cabinet? Or Lincoln himself? It was lunacy, yet there he sat, blandly making his outrageous assertions.

  The house creaked in the silence. She was exhausted, wanted to rest. She was wound too tight. “Do you honestly think I’d betray you, or anything you’re doing? We’ve drifted apart, but not that far. Now, would you like something to eat? I cook for myself, I’ve no servants, but I can—”

  “No, thank you, I have an appointment on H Street soon. Don’t mention to anyone that I’ve been here. The Confederacy is in desperate straits. I’ll permit no one to impede my plan. A breach would be punishable. Anyone can be sacrificed if necessary.”

  Though she’d worried about Cicero’s mental state before, never had she been actively frightened of him. Now she was. She pulled a stool up beside him to his knee and gently touched his disfigured hand.

  “I want to hear more about this. Was it accidental?”

  “No. Do you remember that detective you once asked about? Price? He was responsible.”

  Margaret’s stomach wrenched.

  “When I told you I didn’t know him, I lied. I had him in prison in Richmond, but he escaped. Not before I had the pleasure of punishing him, however. I’d like to have ripped his eyes out of his head.”

  She whispered, “Cicero, what’s happened to you?”

  “Happened?” Again that curious ticlike smile. “The war happened. Nigger-loving abolitionists happened. Our father’s murder happened. A murder you seem to have conveniently forgotten, Margaret.” Her hand flew out, a stinging slap.

  Instantly she regretted it. She began an apology but he interrupted. “Well, that tells me something. I’m not welcome here. I’ll not call again.” He snatched the cotton gloves and fitted his scarred hand into the left one.

  “Please, Cicero, I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, yes, you meant to chastise me. Somehow you’ve grown soft, Margaret. Soft and weak, at the very hour when courage is needed most.” He lurched from his chair, stiff-backed as a military officer.

  “I thought you’d support my work with enthusiasm. You don’t. So let me repeat what I said before. Anyone who threatens us can be sacrificed. Anyone. Good evening.”

  His thick left shoe scraping, he dragged himself to the front door and went out into the night. Margaret put her face in her hands, shaking with fright.

  59

  July 1864

  A fair-haired girl brought two steins and a pitcher of lager on a tray. She was about seventeen, and moon-eyed over the actor. “Mama doesn’t approve of beer in the house but she makes an exception when you visit.”

  “Dear girl, thank you.” Booth gave her a ravishing smile and patted her bottom. “May I present the landlady’s daughter, Miss Anna Surratt? This is Mr. Hiram Seth, Anna.”

  “How do you do, sir?” Anna curtsyed. Cicero smiled as warmly as his temperament allowed. The high stock and cotton gloves hid his scars.

  “What a sweet child you are,” Booth said. “If you were a bit older, I’d propose.” Anna giggled as she scurried out.

  Booth checked the hall and rolled the door shut. Cicero peered out the second-floor window at the gray drizzle on H Street; the brick house stood at No. 541. Booth busied himself filling the steins.

  “The landlady’s a widow, from Maryland. She and her husband ran a little tavern, but it became a burden after he died. She’s a harmless, pious creature, as you might judge from all the religious bric-a-brac. Her older son Isaac’s in the Confederate army. John, the younger one, has an excellent record as a courier on the secret line to Richmond. Here, drink up.”

  Cicero reached for the stein. As he raised it, he confronted a set of false teeth floating in the beer. He dropped the stein. Booth whooped and caught the stein in midair. Only a little beer spilled.

  Laughing, Booth said, “Forgive my little joke, won’t you? I’m fond of them, as my friends know all too well.” He fished the teeth from the beer and held them up. “Ivory, but a good imitation. I have a spider and a worm too. Here, take mine.” They exchanged steins. Cicero was not amused.

  “Please, be seated.” Booth gestured gracefully, took a chair, and crossed his legs. The actor shamed Cicero with his elegant clothes: a royal blue frock coat, double-breasted silk waistcoat with a yellow-and-blue check, fitted gray trousers, square-toed ankle boots showing no dirt in spite of the mud in H Street. He toasted Cicero. “Here’s to success, then.”

  Cicero returned the salute. “You’ve started to recruit the men?”

  “Johnny Surratt’s the first. There’ll be more soon.”

  “Good. We’ll shortly have someone in place in Washington, to monitor the movements of the target. He will do it over a period of several weeks, so we don’t mistake some anomaly for the daily routine.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “A man from Colonel Mosby’s partisan battalion. Chap from West Point who knows the city. He was stationed here before he came South. Dasher’s his name, though I assume he’ll use a nom de guerre. I’m told he’s reliable.”

  “He’d better be. This is a high-stakes game. How will I find him?”

  “He’ll contact you, but only if it’s necessary. He’s coming in as a released prisoner.”

  “Grant has stopped the exchange.”

  “The one-for-one exchanges, yes. Our prisons are so crowded, we’re releasing men unilaterally, from as far south as Andersonville.”

  Booth gulped beer, then poured more. The actor had a reputation for drinking to excess. He could jeopardize the operation if he talked too freely in his cups. Cicero decided the risk was acceptable.

  Booth’s black eyes sparkled as he paced the sitting room. “This is a propitious moment, Mr. Seth. The tyrant should have been brought down long ago.”

  “All the South agrees with that.”

  “Not only the South, sir. Some within Lincoln’s own house wouldn’t be unhappy to see him removed.”

  Startled, Cicero said, “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

  “Nothing so difficult about it. Don’t you suppose Secretary Stanton resents being Lincoln’s lapdog?”

  “Are you suggesting—?”

  “Not merely suggesting, sir. An actor meets a great many people. Hears a great many things. Don’t you recall that the secretary once reviled Lincoln as ‘the original gorilla’? As Byron wrote, ‘Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure.’”

  “Booth, are you honestly telling me there are persons in the Federal government as interested as we are in seeing this plan go forward?”

  “I am.”

  “Will they help us?”

  “Let it rest where it is for the present, Mr. Seth.” Booth was annoyingly smug. Cicero suspected he’d learn nothing more unless and until the smug Mr. Booth chose to tell him. The man was a manipulator of the first order. It angered him, but it would be useful in recruiting men of lesser intelligence.

  They talked a while longer. Booth refused to name those he might involve in the plan. Cicero also had another person to contact but kept that to himself. As the drizzle let up, he prepared to go. “Shall we meet again tomorrow evening?”

  “My rooms. The National Hotel. Shall we say nine?”

  “I’ll be there. Here’s to success.”

  “And the tyrant gone to hell where he belongs,” Booth said with a smile that chilled even Cicero’s dark heart.

  Cicero loathed Washington for many reasons. Among the strongest was its large population of rootless colored people. Lincoln had turned the city into a veritable asylum of free niggers. At least they weren’t permitted to ride the public cars, one of which Cicero boarded on Pennsylvania Avenue to travel to the heights of Georgetown next morning.

  The rain had gone, leaving muggy air. His stand-up collar was damnably hot, but it concealed his scars, as did a pair of kid gloves. He wore a ridiculous and bulky cap of green tweed and carried a city guidebook with a red binding. Cap and book were prearranged signals.

&nb
sp; The pleasant Georgetown campus had been abandoned by its Southern students at the start of the war. Classes were still held, though some buildings had been converted to temporary hospitals. Cicero found a bench overlooking the Aqueduct Bridge and the fortifications across the Potomac. Presently a short, stocky man dressed like a peacock came marching along the path. Cicero presumed it was the right person. Short-cropped white hair and a dueling scar had been described to him. He pretended to study the red guidebook.

  Bowing, the stranger said, “Is this place taken, sir?”

  “No, sir.” The man lifted the tails of his coat, seated himself, and refitted his monocle in his eye.

  Cicero watched a barge move slowly downriver with its cargo of three giant mortars. “Siegel?”

  “Yah, that’s me. I’m usually addressed as major.”

  Cicero ignored the complaint. “My name is Hiram Seth.”

  “Good as any, I guess.” Siegel’s English was accented, his manner brusque.

  “You’re German?”

  “Austrian. In the Army many years.”

  “And now working for Stanton’s War Department. I’ve been told you might be open to an arrangement.”

  “Depends on the arrangement. Depends on what’s wanted.”

  “That is not yet determined.”

  “Then I guess we got to talk about payment in advance. What do the shyster lawyers call it? Retainer.”

  The fish was on the hook.

  “How much did you have in mind?”

  On the third floor of the National Hotel, he found Booth disheveled and not a little drunk. The actor had a woman on his knee, a voluptuous little blonde, wearing thin cotton bloomers and a corset that barely contained her round breasts. Cicero could see part of the young lady’s rosy nipples. He hardened almost painfully.

  Booth waved his long cigar. “The lady’s leaving. We were amusing ourselves until you arrived.” The nature of the entertainment was evident from disarrayed bedclothes in the next room. “This is Ella Turner. Say hello to Mr. Seth, Ella.” Cicero doffed his tweed cap.