On Secret Service (23 page)

Fred tramped along the riverbank. How he wished it were easy to follow the general's advice, forgive yourself for a decision that carried elements of doubt, a haunting sense of a trust betrayed. When he was a boy, his mother had taught him the meaning of honor, the importance of a promise. Sometimes he'd resented her righteousness, as he resented all the preachers and schoolteachers who hammered rhetorical nails into his conscience to make it stronger. His canteen held the only reliable medicine for the pain and doubt. He'd only drunk half of it on the scouting expedition. Before noon, in the privacy of his tent, he helped himself to the rest.

 

Thirty-six hours later, on the afternoon of May 27, Fred's detachment discovered Union troops on the march again—north, toward Fredericksburg. Fred and his men scouted to determine that it wasn't an isolated retreat, but a movement of the entire corps. For whatever reason, McClellan would not be reinforced by McDowell. Fred led his troopers back to Stuart at full gallop with the news.

Visitors regularly brought war news to the Old Capitol. Confederate sympathizers gleefully reported the repulse of five Federal gunboats on the James. Confederate artillery at Drewry's Bluff had turned them back eight miles below Richmond. The city was temporarily safe from a river attack.

The outlook on land was less sanguine. McClellan's mighty army was poised for what would surely be the biggest battle since Manassas. Southern partisans hoped Joe Johnston would launch a ferocious offensive to drive the enemy off the Peninsula.

At the start of the third week of May, Margaret was surprised to be visited by an elderly Episcopal priest she didn't know. Warden Wood had moved her to the relative privacy of Rose's old room, where she received the caller. He sat so that his back blocked the view of anyone looking in. As he chattered about the sins of the Lincoln government, he slipped his hand under his black rabat and gave her a letter. She wasn't surprised by the priest's opinions; Washington's Episcopal congregations were notorious for harboring Southern loyalists.

At the end of the visit she thanked the priest and saw him to the door. A guard loitered outside, a man relatively new to the prison. His name was Hodges. He was not merely old—sixty, sixty-five—but repellently so, with a sagging paunch and false teeth that gleamed like china when he grinned, which was every time he encountered Margaret. He made her flesh crawl.

She closed the door partway and tore the envelope open. She recognized Rose's handwriting. Rose was in Richmond.

Margaret sobbed with relief. She heard noises outside, stepped to the door, and immediately stepped back at the sight of Hodges's china grin.

“Anything wrong, miss?”

She slammed the door on him.

 

Lon lost weight. He let his beard grow longer. It gave him a coarse, rustic look that might be useful if Pinkerton ever sent him behind enemy lines. McClellan's Army camped along the lower Pamunkey, between White House, a sprawling plantation owned by the Lee family, and Cumberland Landing farther south. Lon interrogated prisoners, deserters, and contrabands and daily grew more disturbed by the discrepancy between figures he turned in and those reported to the general.

Little Mac used Pinkerton's estimates to delay his advance on grounds that he needed reinforcements. Phil Kearny, the one-armed brigadier who'd distinguished himself at Williamsburg, snidely referred to McClellan as the Virginia Creeper. A drinking companion of Sledge's, a civilian operator in the Army telegraph service, said he'd decoded a War Department message in which the President bluntly told McClellan that he must move on Richmond or give up the job and return to defend Washington.

“They'd hang my pal if they knew he passed such stuff,” Sledge said. “'Course, he was drunk when he told me. Do you 'spose the general's got a yellow streak?”

“I imagine he's careful because he doesn't want to lose men needlessly.”

“Or maybe lose his reputation? I hear he may run for president as a Democrat in two years. I think he'd beat Lincoln easy.”

Lon confessed his own doubts about the general, particularly McClellan's well-known and frequent protests that Stanton and Lincoln were undermining him by withholding troops.

“We keep hearing we're outnumbered. I add up numbers from the men I question, I make some educated guesses, and I just don't believe it, Sledge. I reckon we have a hundred thousand effectives, but Johnston can only muster three fourths of that. Elvin Stein agrees, and he's been in Richmond.”

“D'you say anything to the boss?”

“He's sick again. Cross as hell.”

With another of his cynic's shrugs, Sledge said, “If you don't mind getting your ass scorched, talk to him. Maybe you'll catch him in a listening mood.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Sledge grinned. “Sure. I'm not like you. I got no conscience over these things.”

 

In the heat and stench of the windowless room, Margaret woke. A streak of lantern light showed where the door stood ajar. She'd closed it before blowing out her lamp.

A floorboard creaked. Still sleepy, she put her hands underneath her to push and sit up. She smelled the liquor on the intruder's rancid breath.

Although his face was in shadow, she recognized him by the shape of his head. He touched her leg through her sweaty cotton gown. “Come on, sweet, you must be aching for it by now.” Fingers moved spiderlike up her thigh.

She struck with her right hand. Her nails, ragged from lack of care, raked the man's cheek, making him yell. He called her a name, pushed her down, jammed his hand beneath her gown, and rubbed her privates. She hit him with the butt of her palm. He sprawled. She screamed for help. He jumped up and ran out, slamming the door.

Gasping, she pushed hair out of her eyes. A guard with a lamp kicked the door open without knocking. Margaret jerked the hem of her gown over her knees.

“What's going on, woman? Why'd you yell?”

“Hodges was here. He tried to hurt me.”

“Couldn't be. Hodges ain't got night duty.”

“I tell you it was Hodges. Call the warden.”

“Shut your clapper. The warden don't come in till seven a.m.”

He left. Margaret wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked on the cot. She slept little the rest of the night, and when she did, she woke with a scream rising in her throat, feeling that rough hand between her legs.

Warden Wood came to see her at eight o'clock. He claimed to believe her story. His hand-wringing and eye-rolling would have done credit to an actor in melodrama.

“Oh, Lord, I'm sorry, Miss Miller. I'll put Hodges on a detail outside the building, you won't be bothered again. These things happen. Men have appetites. I don't care for Hodges, but I take what I'm given, what else can I do? If you weren't an enemy of the state, I could fix a lock on your door.” Wood scratched at a nostril. “This could have been avoided. You might consider being nicer to Colonel Baker if he calls again.”

As he surely would; she knew it with sudden certainty. Had Baker put Hodges up to it to break her spirit? If so, he was succeeding.

 

In the evening damp, after Lon had questioned his last prisoner, penned his last report, darned his socks, or trimmed his beard with scissors and a scrap of mirror borrowed from Sledge, he liked to walk along the winding river, smoking and reflecting.

The night resounded with challenges from sentries and passwords called in reply. Owls hooted; insects buzzed. Heat haze on the water diffused the lights of anchored gunboats. Somewhere a bugler practiced an evening call that was new to the army. George Bangs said a brigadier on the Peninsula had composed “Taps” during the campaign. The melancholy notes brought thoughts of Margaret. War or not, he couldn't give her up. When he saw her again, he'd declare his feelings and gamble that they would matter to her.

On one of his nocturnal rambles, he decided he could no longer keep silent about the numbers. “May I speak to you, sir?” he said next morning in Pinkerton's tent at White House plantation.

The boss's sunken eyes held no friendliness. “I'm extremely busy.” It was evident. Pinkerton's field desk was all but hidden by piles of documents. Papers were stacked on the ground near his stool. Dried ink splotched his hands and shirt cuffs.

“I'll be brief, sir. It's about our reports to General McClellan. I just wonder if the figures create a false picture. Lead to the wrong conclusions.”

Pinkerton's blue-gray eyes were glacial. “Go on.”

“At Yorktown we thought we were outnumbered, but every assessment we've made since then says Joe Johnston had about fifty thousand effectives, and we had at least seventy-five. If that's true, we could have overwhelmed their defenses. Instead the general ordered a siege.”

“You're overstepping, Alonzo. You didn't attend West Point. You're not a strategist.”

“I can read reports and add, sir.” He'd wanted to speak reasonably, persuasively to the boss. He realized the atmosphere was too highly charged, given Pinkerton's blind loyalty to his patron. Yet conscience made him press on.

“I'm only saying what's common knowledge. The siege gave Johnston nearly a month to reinforce his army. Some men say Yorktown was really a defeat for us.”

“What men? Give me their names.”

“I don't know their names. I wouldn't implicate them if I did. They were only expressing opinions, which I happen to agree wi—”

“These men you refer to are insubordinate. You are tending that way.”

Lon exclaimed, “Sir, I protest. You said yourself that we inflate the figures at least ten percent, but the raw figures are flawed to begin with. We estimate the aggregate number of men present as best we can determine it, but that number includes sick and wounded. We may even be counting men who've deserted. We should estimate only the number fit for duty. Otherwise it's a false picture.”

“Alonzo, you are here to follow orders, not interpret or criticize them. I will send you to Washington with some reports too lengthy for the telegraph. Perhaps a week or two at a desk in the capital will restore your perspective. We continue to bolster our forces by every available means because the general is constantly undermined by the secretary and the President. The Washington cabal—”

Lon's temper let go. “Do we have any evidence that a cabal really exists? If so, I'd like to see it. Then I could say I'm sorry for doubting, but until then—”

“Enough! Requisition a horse and report to Mr. Bangs at six a.m. tomorrow. He will give you the material for Washington and the passes you'll require. I am frankly disappointed in you. I thought you had the makings of an outstanding intelligence analyst. I was misled. Good morning.”

 

Toward the end of the third week of May, Donal McKee visited Old Capitol again. Donal had been in the city for a week, though for what purpose, he didn't say. He and Margaret spoke privately in Margaret's room.

“I have been cultivating the British ambassador, Lord Lyons.” Whiskey on Donal's breath couldn't mask a subtler, sweeter perfume. It wasn't a scent a man would wear.

“You know I carry a British passport. His lordship therefore pays attention. Further, he knows I control one of the largest supplies of raw cotton on the continent, and that I can hire men and ships to get some or all of it through the blockade to English mills that will shut down if supply is cut off.”

Donal laid his stick and top hat on the table. He was more ebullient than Margaret had seen him for a long time. “His lordship and I met on three occasions, the last being a delicious champagne supper.”

With young ladies from a “boardinghouse” for dessert?

She was instantly ashamed of the thought. She knew Donal and his predilections. Not only was he a man of strong appetites, he was a man of wealth. Women were attracted.

He took her hand and spoke earnestly. “Lord Lyons and I reached a happy agreement. As a result, I can make a proposal that will unlock the gates of this unspeakable place.”

Margaret was almost dizzy with excitement. Donal was pleased; she read it in his confident smile. He held her hand more tightly.

“If you look favorably on the scheme, I can get you out of here in a matter of days. And no one, not that villain Baker, nor Stanton, Lincoln, nor even God Himself can prevent it.”