On Secret Service (10 page)

“Occasionally. Not as often as before.”

“Well, given her politics, I don't care to go back. May we ride some afternoon?”

Margaret couldn't reply with an enthusiastic yes, as she wanted. “Oh, I'm afraid not. I'm dreadfully busy with other things. The estate…” It trailed off, lame and cold.

Hanna peered at her with something close to suspicion. “I see. Well, good-bye then. Until we meet next time.”

Hanna left the store. Margaret slid a book back on the shelf, hating what she'd done. The guilt passed quickly. In wartime, didn't friends sometimes find themselves on different sides? Hanna was now the enemy.

Half a mile distant, a B&O engine whistled. The Ohio Valley's link with western Virginia was open again. Two weeks ago, three Federal columns had entered and secured Grafton, the junction of the line's branches to Wheeling and Ohio. Five days later, in the rain, General Morris had surprised a small Confederate force at Philippi and sent the rebs running, some with pants still around their ankles. The substantially pro-Union counties of western Virginia cheered “the Philippi Races.” The man who had sent the three columns across the Ohio River was newly commissioned Brigadier General George McClellan.

In the Kanawha Rest, a public house in Parkersburg, where the B&O approached the river, Lon and his partner sat by a grimy window, keeping watch on a warehouse across the street. They'd watched it for three days, daylight and dusk, with no result.

Lon scratched a fingernail back and forth on the plank table. The sleeves of his gray work shirt were rolled up, the brim of his old straw hat pulled down. No one paid attention, which was the point of looking dull and ordinary.

Sledge puffed a corncob pipe and idly turned pages of a local paper. “Appears they're about to form a pro-Union government up in Wheeling. Don't want to be part of a slave state anymore.”

“That right. Well.” With no warning, a memory clicked in. “Oh, hell's fire.” Lon whacked his whiskey glass on the table and startled the tavern keeper. “We left Cincinnati so fast, I forgot to pay my rent.”

Sledge's owlish gaze reflected his three whiskeys to Lon's one. “Not like you, partner.”

“My landlady's one of those Cincinnati Germans. Expects everything on time, if not sooner. I suppose she'll heave my belongings into the street.”

“Threaten her. She'll heave 'em right back.”

“That's your answer to everything. A fist.”

“Works. Not so loud, hey?” Sledge eyed three farmers at the bar. “You're goddam touchy, you know that?”

“Why not? Our colleagues are in Kentucky, Tennessee, gathering useful information, and we're in the backwoods, watching a damned warehouse full of old flintlock muskets left over from Bunker Hill. Good for nothing.”

“With rifling and new percussion caps they're good for plenty. That's why they've been busted out of other warehouses around here.”

“Not by rebels. By common thieves.”

“The rifles and ammunition are Army property. McClellan wants the ring broken up. You're in the war, partner.”

“I don't think so,” Lon said with a sourness not typical of him. While the war went forward, his life went the other way.

Just as the boss had predicted, G. B. McClellan had been recalled to the colors. In fact, three states, New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, had tried to recruit him. He chose to command the Army's new Department of the Ohio. He immediately telegraphed Pinkerton, asking him to organize a bureau to gather military information. He called it a secret service department. He would bear all the costs. The Army had no such operation, and no budget for one. McClellan had been impressed by similar bureaus when he was overseas as an observer in the Crimean War.

Although Pinkerton and Brigadier General McClellan were a mile apart on slavery—the general was a Democrat, tolerant of it—the boss felt it his duty to serve. He was ready. In April he'd offered the resources of the agency in a letter to the President. Invited to Washington, he sat through a long meeting, received promises, went home to Chicago, and heard nothing more. He made no secret of his anger.

He had scaled back Chicago operations and moved his most capable men and women to McClellan's headquarters city, Cincinnati. In a dusty downtown office building, with no name on the outer door, “Major E. J. Allen” presided over his new bureau. Allen was the boss's
nom de guerre
, a phrase Pinkerton explained when Lon asked.

Singly and in pairs, the other operatives had been sent to rebel territory. Pinkerton himself undertook a risky journey all the way to Memphis, presenting himself as an expatriate from Georgia, the role he'd played in Baltimore. Lon and Sledge were dispatched to chase petty thieves. Lon hated being so far from the real war, and Washington, where he'd met Margaret Miller. He thought of her a lot.

The summer twilight, dusty orange, faded from the street. In the gloaming June bugs buzzed and lightning bugs winked. The tavern keeper struck a match for a ceiling lamp. As the farmers drank more, they told scurrilous jokes about Jeff Davis. Then one of the farmers brought out a mouth organ and played “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” Another whooped and clumsily danced around the floor. The tavern keeper said, “Don't break any chairs or you pay for 'em.”

Lon's ears caught a sound in the unpaved street. He wiped the greasy windowpane with his sleeve. Four roughly dressed men rested their lathered horses outside the warehouse. Lon grabbed Sledge's arm without looking. Whiskey splashed his hand.

“Jesus, Lon, you spilled half my—”

“Look there. The man in the middle—the one with the huge head. I saw him in West Union six days ago when we were riding the line.”

“Recognize the others?”

“No. But I remember him.” So might anyone; he was a giant, a cruel burden on his swaybacked horse. His head was shaved, emphasizing his gnarled ears, swollen cranium, bulging forehead, eyes buried in fat and almost invisible. Like the other three men, he wore holstered pistols in plain sight.

“Where are they going? Is there a back door to the warehouse?”

Sledge said, “Yep. Saw it when I looked around earlier.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Lon jumped up, overturning his chair, interrupting a rendition of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” He yanked his hat on. “Let's go.”

The horsemen disappeared single file at the right side of the warehouse. Its wide street door, locked and chained, remained undisturbed. Lon ran across to the building's left side, stole along the wall in purple shadows. At the corner he pulled his Colt .31 from under his shirt. The B&O whistled again. The long wail made him think of death. He began to sweat. He heard voices.

“Where's the fucking wagon?”

“Next street, I'll bring it when it's time.”

“Saw that chain, we ain't got till next year.”

“Shut up, Grier, I'm goin' fast as I can.”

Lon heard the rasp of something working on metal.

“The fuck I'll shut up, this is my minstrel show, don't you forget it.”

My minstrel show, Grier. Was Grier the leader?

A clank, a rattle, then a man whooped softly as the chain broke. They wrenched and tugged at the door, probably the end without the padlock. Grier gasped, “I can squeeze through but go ahead and bust the lock. We need the door wide open to haul the goods out.”

“It's got too dark, Grier. Can't see.”

“Use the fucking lantern. Let the idjit hold it.”

As best Lon could figure it, two men had gone inside the warehouse leaving two behind. One was attacking the lock hasp. What did they call the other? Idiot? A fine bunch.

With whispers and hand signals, Lon and Sledge set themselves. Lon counted three and jumped out from the corner, far enough to leave room for Sledge. The man chiseling the lock spied them first. The man with the bulbous head was staring at the stars. The lantern in his hand looked toy-sized.

“Grier,” the first man yelled, hurling his chisel. It caught Sledge's forehead, stunning him. The giant turned his slitted eyes on the detectives and threw the lantern. Lon dodged. The lantern broke in a pile of kindling and firewood. The kindling ignited. Lon aimed at the other man.

“Put them up high, partner. High as you can.”

The area behind the warehouse grew bright as the kindling blazed. The man at the lock obeyed Lon, but the giant reached out, grabbed the man's arm, whipped him around, and threw him into Sledge, who was bleeding from a three-inch gash to the forehead. Sledge caromed into Lon. Lon pushed him off, but by then the giant had him by the throat.

Lon went to his knees. The giant choked him, smirking like a child. In the warehouse, men shouted questions. Lon's eyes blurred. The giant hands crushed his windpipe and starved him for air. Grier and the fourth man were kicking and pushing the loose end of the door to get out. Lon had a vague thought that he'd die in Parkersburg, ignominiously, with never a chance to do something fine for his country.

A pistol cracked. The giant gasped, rose on his toes, and convulsively squeezed harder. Everything darkened. Sledge put three more shots into the giant—back, legs, head. The swollen skull exploded like a rotten pumpkin dropped off a roof. Blood and gray matter drenched Lon as he ripped free of the constricting fingers. One man had escaped the building. Though the firelight was bright, raising a clamor at the public house, Lon was too dizzy to see the man's face clearly. But he saw a target clearly enough to shoot it. One bullet; the man went down on his face.

“Oh, Godamighty—Grier?
Grier?
” That was the man chiseling the lock. He fled, vanishing between some shanties on the next street. The man left inside retreated and moments later kicked down a side door. Lon ran around the building but the man was gone into the dark.

Men appeared, with lanterns. The tavern keeper shouted, “Fetch water buckets or it'll burn the whole neighborhood.”

Lon swallowed sour bile that burned his throat. He nudged Grier with his boot, rolled him over. Lon's shot had taken the gang's leader in the chest. Grier's mouth was open, his eyes too. His expression was curiously innocent, bewildered.

Lon wiped his forehead. “Anyone know this man?”

One of the farmers bent over the corpse. “Name's Decimas Grier. Hails from over Clarksburg way. Known to steal anything laying loose. The other, that thing with half the head gone, I don't know him at all—oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” The farmer reeled off to throw up.

More townsfolk arrived, including a couple of youngsters excited about the mayhem and dead bodies. Buckets of water emptied on the fire reduced it to embers. Sledge worked the blood off his face with his shirttail.

“Thanks for getting him off me,” Lon said. “I was about done.”

“That's why I plugged him, partner. If this Grier was the boss, maybe we broke the whole ring. Mr. Pinkerton would be happy to report that to the general.”

Lon couldn't calm down. It had been a near thing. Grier and his miserable thieving cohorts could have left him dead in the dirt in this backwater.

Sledge noticed his look. “What's wrong now?”

“If I'm going to lose my life, I should make it count. I should be in uniform.”

“Killing's killing.”

“Not to me.”

“Ah, sometimes I think you're crazy.” Sledge walked away.

Lon wasn't deterred. When he was back in Cincinnati, he'd resign. This time he'd make it stick.

Suppose he traveled all the way to Washington to enlist. He might find that girl, unless she'd boarded up her town house and left. He could certainly conduct a search. The idea cheered him up considerably.

Summer brought long days, abundant heat, the sudden death of Stephen Douglas, and excited speculation about a movement against the rebels massing across the Potomac at a rail junction less than a day's march from the city. Brigadier General Irvin McDowell of the adjutant general's office was given command of the Department of Northeastern Virginia. McDowell set up headquarters in the abandoned Lee mansion in Arlington. Robert E. Lee and his family had gone South.

Rose Greenhow concluded her period of mourning and began to leave the house frequently. She also continued her evening salons. Here Margaret met Augusta Morris, an attractive widow, and a pretty young woman named Bettie Duvall. Introductions were performed by Mr. Rayford, né Jordan, who told Margaret privately that for the security of all, Mrs. Greenhow preferred that the ladies not socialize, except on occasions she arranged.

A curious assortment of gentlemen attended the salons. Rose continued to invite Republicans, chief among them her rumored paramour, Senator Wilson of the Military Affairs Committee. There was Mr. Donellan, a former employee of the government Land Office, and Mr. Butler, proprietor of an exclusive china shop on F Street. There were young clerks awed by Rose's importance and willing to do anything she asked and an occasional officer such as Captain Boyce of the First Rhode Island. Rayford said Boyce was heavily in debt to one of the city's gambling hells, hence “malleable.”

Hanna never returned to the salon. Margaret hadn't expected it after their last encounter.

One pleasant Saturday, Rose organized a picnic. In several carriages, half a dozen ladies and gentlemen drove out to a grassy field near one of the new redoubts under construction. Washington's defenses consisted of a ring of similar fortifications. The object of interest this day was Fort Ellsworth, named for the late colonel of the Fire Zouaves. Ellsworth had been shot as he pulled down a Confederate flag defiantly flying from the roof of a hostelry in Alexandria.

They picnicked on catered baskets of cold chicken, pâté, cheese, French baguettes, white grapes, and iced champagne. While the group chattered on innocent topics—the thespian talents of Joe Jefferson, high prices caused by the war, the dreadful melees that broke out every time the soldiers were paid—Mrs. Greenhow peered at the construction site through a small spyglass and penciled notes in a diary covered in red leather. Margaret enjoyed the outing, but she chafed at the inaction. So far she'd been given nothing to do but await a summons.

It came the following Saturday. Mr. Donellan asked her to drive to an address near the Navy Yard and acquaint herself with the person and house of Dr. Whyville, a physician. The doctor was a jolly, avuncular graybeard. He welcomed her into his smelly surgery and said they would soon be working together.

Making sure the waiting room was empty, he said, “Donellan is setting up a doctor's line to Richmond. This is the northern terminus. Physicians are sacred figures, you know.” He winked. “Peripatetic—always riding somewhere to tend a patient in distress. No one will question a doctor's movements or insist on searching his black bag. Excellent concealment, wouldn't you agree, Miss Miller? Next time perhaps you'll bring me a message for Richmond. I shall enjoy that.” He shook her hand and she departed.

On her way home she saw bands of uniformed men roistering in the streets. Shouts, the pop of pistols, a baker's wagon overturned and set afire, told her it was another payday. She went out of her way to avoid confrontation.

That night, in the midst of a thunderstorm, she was wakened by a hellacious clamor at the street door. She wrapped herself in her gown and sleepily stumbled downstairs. Through the side glass of the door she saw three soldiers hunched in the rain. The biggest hammered the knocker again. Margaret stood in the opening. “What the devil do you want?”

“Hoo-hoo, I'll buy her right off,” said one of them with a wheezy glee.

“Evening, Madam Ann,” the biggest one said, taking off his cap and grinning like a fool.

“My name isn't Ann, and you've got the wrong address.”

The big man examined a sodden paper. “Ain't this Madam Ann's boardinghouse?”
Boardinghouse
was Washington code for bordello. “Lafayette Square?”

“You drunken fool, this is Franklin Square. Good night.”

“Listen, woman, we're soaked, we're hot as roosters, we come to buy some sweet flesh. We'll step in to make sure you aren't lyin' to us.”

Terrified, Margaret used all her weight to shut the door. The big man reacted too slowly. She shot the bolt and leaned against the wall as the soldiers yelled and pounded with their fists and elbows. What if they broke a side glass? Reached in…?

They didn't. The rain dampened their zeal and they staggered away in a glare of lightning.

Next time she saw Rayford, she told him she needed a pistol. He directed her to a gunsmith who sold her a handsome little sleeve gun, .44-caliber, from the factory of Henry Deringer. In a fenced yard behind the shop, the gunsmith steadied her arm while she took her first shot at a blue bottle. The kick was substantial, but amazingly, the bottle burst into fragments. The gunsmith grinned.

“Deringer makes one-shot pieces exclusively. But one's all you need at ten to twenty feet. Lots of ladies are equipping themselves with this little number. These are dangerous times.”

“Yes,” Margaret said fervently. “I'll need a supply of ammunition.”

 

Rose Greenhow summoned her by messenger on a Tuesday. She was told to enter at the back of the house. Rose took her to a parlor window, parted the draperies, showed her a man in a planter's hat and white duster in a covered buggy across the street. He seemed perfectly relaxed, as though he always stopped outside a church to read his newspaper.

“That gentleman has been watching this house for the past two days. I'm sure he isn't friendly. Mr. Tobias is in the library. He's about to leave for Port Tobacco with a message hidden in a hollow cane. I don't want him detained or followed. Will you drive out and speed away so the man sees you? It may divert him. Five minutes is all we need.”

Margaret said of course. She raced her piano-box buggy from the alley into I Street, drove past the stranger as she went north on Sixteenth. She could see little of the man beyond a luxuriant mustache and beard.

He snatched up the reins to follow. Nervous and exhilarated, Margaret touched the horse's croup lightly with the whip.

After ten blocks she turned in the middle of the street and clipped south, giving the stranger a saucy smile as she passed. He saluted her by tipping his planter's hat, turned around, and chased her.

Margaret swerved to the curb in front of Rose's house. She composed herself and waited in the shade of the buggy top until the stranger arrived. He returned to his original spot, wrapped his reins around a dashboard post, and strolled across the street. He seemed a well-set-up gentleman, on the short side but strong looking. His ruddy cheeks were dry in spite of the heat. She wasn't fearful until she saw the coldness of his gray eyes.

He swept his hat off and bowed. The June sun struck highlights from his long sandy hair. She judged him in his thirties. “A handy bit of driving, ma'am. I realized too late that you were deliberately leading me away from this house for a reason.”

“The reason is simple. I wanted to take the air for a few minutes. I don't know why you're interested. I've never seen you before.”

“Excuse my impoliteness. Colonel Lafayette C. Baker, at your service.” His eyes darted to the brick house. “Do you come here often?”

“What if I do? You call yourself colonel. Do you have credentials?”

Baker responded with a grudging smile, as though he hadn't expected resistance from a pretty young woman. “Not yet, ma'am. My interest is that of a patriotic citizen who sees a possible nest of treason.”

“Treason? Here? What nonsense.” She lifted the reins. “Excuse me.”

Annoyed, Baker seized her arm. He didn't mind exerting enough pressure to hurt. “Everyone knows the woman living in that house is a hot secessionist. Why not her friends? There are comings and goings at all hours.”

Margaret wrenched out of his grasp. “I find you offensive. Are you spying, Mr. Baker?”

He slapped his hat against his leg. “Colonel.”

She could deliver a look of splendid disdain when she wanted. “I have only your word for that.”

Lafayette Baker reddened but held back whatever furious reply he wanted to make. “I regret to see a woman such as yourself mixed up with Greenhow, Miss…” A pause left room for her to give her name; she didn't. “You're an attractive creature, though I guess your sympathies are similar to hers. The secesh are high and mighty in Washington these days. There'll come a time when they won't be allowed to spit in the face of the established constitutional government. You'd be wise to disconnect yourself from that woman.” He laid a finger on Margaret's left hand and stroked gently. “We might discuss it further some evening.”

“Mr. Baker, will you take your hand away, or do you want this whip in your face?”

Baker stepped back. “If I were a man given to cursing, I'd call you the name you deserve.”

“Good day, sir.” Margaret whipped up the horse and left Baker in a cloud of tawny dust. She felt alive, worthy—important. She had always loved games: whist, patience, even the scandalous game of craps. Once she'd wheedled and nagged Cicero until he took his dice from a drawer and gave her a lesson. This game of chase and deception was the grandest game of all.

Next day she reported the substance of the encounter to her mentor and told her the stranger's name was Baker. It meant nothing to Rose.

 

Hanna called on Margaret. They sat in the parlor, stiffly formal, as though their outings on horseback and their other exchanges had never occurred. In the square, soldiers and sutlers' wagons made a great racket. The Twelfth New York was making camp, covering the grass with its white tents.

“Margaret, I'm sorry to speak of this but it's necessary. My father says there is suspicion that you're doing more at Rose's house than socializing. I'm not at liberty to tell you how the department found out—”

Margaret broke in. “I know how. A man named Baker. Is he connected with the War Department?”

Hanna's blue eyes showed her discomfort. “He'd like to be. He's trying to attach himself.”

“Frankly he scares me. He's a snake.”

“No argument there. I've met him.”

“But many other things scare me, and I don't run away from them. My father's murder left me with a debt to pay.”

“Oh, Margaret, you're no match for some of these men who are coming into town. My father's brave, but he's taken the measure of Baker and doesn't treat him lightly. Baker was a San Francisco vigilante. He hung men without a trial. He brags on it. He or someone like him will close in on Rose. She's too open about her loyalties, too bold in her maneuvering. The authorities won't tolerate it forever. If you're involved with her, get out before you're dragged down too.”

Margaret folded her hands in her lap. It hurt to reject this young woman who'd been her friend, but the boundaries were drawn. “Let's talk of other things. Shall I brew some tea?”

After a sad, searching look, Hanna shook her head. “I'll go. I'm sorry you won't listen.”

Hanna rose. Margaret moved toward her for a sisterly kiss. Hanna saw her intent, shook her head, and ran out the front door into the hot summer sunshine, leaving Margaret in the dim parlor, twisting a handkerchief and frowning.