Alias Dragonfly (14 page)

Dr. Josiah Swain’s Oils and Nostrums: Cures for the Feeble and the Loveless.

By Appointment Only.

Inside we passed by three more guards, down a short, empty hallway to a room so thick with cigar smoke that at first, no one was visible inside.

A telegraph machine whirred in the corner. Next to it was a man’s form shrouded in smoke and darkness. A single oil lamp, lit low, sat on a desk heaped with papers.

The man padded across the room with heavy slippers that flapped and flopped with each step. He was brown bearded, with a slice of gray at the top and a full bottom lip peeking out from just under his face hair. A lit cigar sat in a ready cleft in the corner of his mouth where it wagged like a tail. As he neared, I saw his vest was covered with white ash.

“Let us have illumination!” he said in a loud voice.

“Yes, sir,” Mikey answered. Lamplight flooded the room. I could see then that the man had the eyes of a hawk—gold and brown with spots of black near the irises.

The woman who’d accompanied me sat down in a chair, next to someone else who remained in shadow, still, like a bird on its perch.

“This is the wee bairn you bring me, eh, Mike?” The man spoke with a thick, Scottish burr.

“Yes, sir. This is the kid,” Mike replied. I bristled at being called a kid, especially by someone who was at least a foot shorter than I was.

“Mr. Pinkerton, she is indeed remarkable,” Mr. Webster said, stepping from the corner of the room. He spoke in the same proper accent he’d used before with me, minus any trace of a Southern drawl. I knew surely then it was his true voice, as he was obviously among his own kind.

Mr. Pinkerton! I was actually standing before the great detective himself! I was thrilled, and nervous. I swallowed, trying to summon words. My hands, wet with perspiration, clutched at my skirts.

“Describe the painting you saw in the Smithsonian, lass,” Pinkerton ordered. “Every detail. Now.”

I breathed in and out. Okay, you can do this, I told myself. And then it came to me. Be someone else. Remember when I told you about how I’d do that kind of pretending after my accident? I did it then. I imagined myself like this: elegant, graceful, smiling, a perfect Southern lady.

I relaxed my body. My hands that normally hung by my sides with little grace in their movements shaped and arranged to flow and curve, moving lightly as I spoke—in a refined Southern accent, just like Mr. Webster had when we first met.

“Well,” I said, fluttering my eyes, “in the painting, there were three Indian warriors. The one in the lead was called Black Knife. On his head he wore a white feather tipped in black, sticking out from the top of a brown headdress that fell over his ears.”

I paused, but barely, wiping at my eyes, as the cigar smoke wound over my face.

“Black Knife’s eyes, as I faced the painting, looked to the right, the same hand rested on his thigh held a thin, wooden spear. His mount looked to the left, a glorious steed with brown coloring from the hoof to the knee, and a black mane, tail and legs.”

I paused, lowering my head, arranging my newly graceful hands in my lap, a position I’d never assumed before.

Mr. Pinkerton shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth; a pile of ashes fell to the floor. Without taking his eyes from my face, he rubbed at them with his foot.

“Continue,” he said.

“The sky in the painting, sir, was cloudy, muddled, fire smoke, perhaps, except for a burst of light in the background, like there was an inferno behind them. There was a jagged tree bottom just to the left of Black Knife. Behind him were two other Indian braves. One had his right hand just above his eyes, peering in that same direction. About one yard or so, just at his rear, came the last man, both hands on his reins. They approached a split in a rocky ridge. There you have it, sirs.” A last flutter of my eyes, as the Southern belle I’d become disappeared in the cigar smoke.

Mike whistled and hollered, “Whoeee! That was fine!”

I stood tall, speaking in my normal voice. “I am Madeline Eve Bradford from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the daughter of Private Summoner Bradford of the Second New Hampshire Infantry, as you know, one of the first regiments to answer the call.”

“I’m well aware of who you are, lass,” Pinkerton said.

My words were spilling out now. “And I want to work for you, sir. I think I know how the Rebels got their intelligence before the battle of Bull Run.” I was running low on breath.

“Really, and I suppose the sun is green, then?” Mr. Pinkerton said, with no smile at all.

I faced him full on. As I mentioned, I’m a bit taller than average.

There was a long pause as he slowly folded a bright plaid hanky over a large stain on the collar of his shirt.

“What was the Rebel courier’s name?”

“Her name was Betty Duvall. I saw her three times. In the alley she called the man who took the packet Colonel
Jordan—”

“You heard the name clearly?” Mr. Pinkerton asked. “Are you certain?” His raptor eyes held mine.

“Oh, yes, sir. I hid behind a woodpile. They were both armed. He removed an object from her loosened hair in an alley behind the house at 1625 K Street.”

“Who lives in the house?” Pinkerton demanded.

“Mrs. Rose Greenhow, and she’s a Rebel too, but you well know that, sir.”

Mr. Pinkerton puffed harder on his cigar. I was a bit nauseated from the fumes, but kept talking.

“Betty went straight to that house and was loudly addressed by Mrs. Greenhow as Amanda,” I said. “I believe Betty is her real name.”

I paused. Images rushed through my head, and tumbled from my mouth.

“When the door opened, there was a little girl holding a rag doll next to Mrs. Greenhow. The doll’s petticoat was red. Moments later someone placed it in the window. The petticoat color had changed to blue. I don’t know if that is important, or—”

“Did ye hear all that, Mrs. Warn?” Pinkerton asked.

“How do we know that this, this child didn’t just imagine these things?” the silent woman answered. Mrs. Warn, he called her.

“I was right there, ma’am. And I’m going on sixteen, hardly a child.”

“I believe her, Mrs. Warn,” Mr. Webster said.

“As do I. And there’s an end on it, madam.” Mr. Pinkerton took her by the arm into a corner of the room and whispered something in her ear.

“There’s more,” I said. “I dressed as a man and made my way to my father’s camp just before his regiment moved to Centreville. I, we, followed them.”

“We?”

“A boarder at my aunt’s house. Actually
he
followed
me
.”

“His name?” Mr. Pinkerton asked—demanded, really.

Would this bring Jake trouble? I stopped short of telling them. “When we were heading toward a ridge overlooking Manassas, we saw part of the battle. Betty Duvall rode past us, back toward Washington City. She was galloping hard, sir.”

“Who is the
we
you speak of?” Pinkerton’s voice boomed.

I hesitated.

“Who?” He shouted louder.

“I believe his name is Jake,” I said, hoping that would end it.

“His last name!”

I looked to Webster for help. “Whitestone,” he said. “I know the young man, I board in the same house. He is a reporter for the
New York Tribune
.”

I caught my breath. They knew about Jake. Did everyone? The next time I saw him, I would tell him off, I would—I . . . I didn’t know what I would do . . . if I saw him again.

“Good! That paper is a friend to the Union, as in all probability is the young reporter. Keep me apprised,” said Mr. Pinkerton. “And you, Miss Bradford, did you pass easily as a man?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I answered, trying to clear my mind, rid it of Jake Whitestone’s face, and eyes—

“How well do you shoot?” Pinkerton asked.

Without waiting for an answer, I slid the revolver from the shawl pocket. At that moment, Mike threw a tobacco tin up in the air.

“Mind the cat!” Pinkerton snapped. I did not flinch. I fired. The bullet struck the tin. It tumbled through the air and landed on the floor.

I lowered the weapon.

“I hope the cat is all right, sir,” I said. “I like cats.”

“Well done, indeed,” said Pinkerton, a hint of a smile on his face. Of course, there never was a cat.

“Spot on!” shouted Mike.

Mr. Pinkerton touched the scar on my forehead. “An unusual mark, rather like a comet, eh? How did that happen?”

“I was six years old, sir,” I said quickly. “I fell out of a tree.”

Nancy called to me, so I teased a limb with my weight, and when I fell I felt a rush of wind and a freedom, like I was flying. But when I landed, Nancy wasn’t there. Just me, broken; my head smashed on a river rock.

“Once I made myself a pair of wood and paper wings,” Mr. Pinkerton said. “Fell straightway into a neighbor’s barn, smack down on a cow. She lived. But oh, how I did soar, briefly.”

He smiled at me. “By the by, did you know that the name Fiona means lovely?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Scottish name, of course. Coined by the poet James McPherson, and chosen by Mr. Webster, even though he is English born.” Mr. Pinkerton smiled fondly at Mr. Webster.

“It suits you, Miss Bradford,” Webster said, “as will other aliases, should you measure up.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Mrs. Warn snapped.

“You are heard, madam!” Mr. Pinkerton glared at her. He took me by the shoulders. “Miss Bradford, if you pass muster”—he glanced back at Mrs. Warn—“with
all
of us, it will be one assignment at a time, nothing permanent. And you can tell no one, not even your father what you are doing. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are very young, and while you have remarkable abilities, this work of ours is deadly serious. If we’re caught, any laws of war do not protect us. The penalty for spying is imprisonment or hanging. Do you hear me?”

Did I?
As much as I could, standing there excited beyond measure in that cigar-choked room with my head buzzing and my heart atilt. But did I want to be a part of them? Do something really worthwhile? Yes!

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Give her a clerkship,” Mrs. Warn said, and strode from the room.

Mr. Pinkerton traced the scar on my forehead with his finger. “We may need to paint that over . . . on occasion,” he said.

Mr. Webster escorted me back to the boardinghouse. On the way, I asked if we might stop at the paper seller to buy, you guessed it, the
New York Tribune
. As we walked, I read “Pan’s” latest dispatch. If I muttered angrily, Mr. Webster seemed not to notice. And surely, even the great spy that he was, he couldn’t hear the fluttering of my heart as I thought of Jake: his eyes, his hair, his, well, everything.

Special Dispatch from the
New York Tribune

In a few days with any luck, I’ll be behind the lines. With some assistance, I’ve managed to gain access to one of General Beauregard’s aides, a man I met at the Willard Hotel, shortly after I arrived in the capital. We talked a bit over brandy and milk punch just before the unholy battle just days ago, before men fought and died for the flags they held dear. This goodly gent greeted me as one of the “Bohemian Brigade,” as we newspapermen call ourselves. He assures me that I will be safe. And so I will be. So as part of a “brigade” I march forward at last. After all, both sides need the news of the day, do they not? And aren’t we “Bohemians” neutral? No, you say? You would be right.

Onward.

PAN

Didn’t he write beautifully? Did I worry for him? What do you think?

We were alike in a way, Jake and I, recording what we’d seen and done, writing about the dips and dangers of our lives. And maybe, now, I might well have an occupation too. I was ready for whatever happened next. At least I thought I was.