On Secret Service (29 page)

Lon's eyes glared from the thicket of his hairy face. “Son of a bitch tried to take my jackknife.”

 

To Retz he said, “I thought I was a goner. The commandant threw me in a detention cell in the basement, dark as a cave. No food or water for three days, not even a bucket to pee in. Then they sent me back to the second floor and I found Turner had elected me sergeant of the floor in absentia. I behaved myself. I organized the details that bring food from the kitchen twice a day, I stopped fights, I wrote letters for some who couldn't. Presently Turner called me in and said he needed another orderly, someone who wasn't a fool or a crazy bully. If I was trustworthy, if I wanted to serve the Confederacy the way I said, I'd be released for short errands, then longer ones. Turner set one condition.”

Lon showed his left wrist. The iron manacle gleamed in the gaslight.

“Anyone who sees this knows I'm a fish. Trusted a little more than some, but a fish. I had to take a loyalty oath. I didn't like it, but my boss sent me to do a job, so I went along. They fitted me out in gray so I wouldn't get knocked in the head every time the lieutenant sent me somewhere. A couple of weeks ago I felt it was safe to start gathering information. That's the story.”

“Yah, sure, quite a tale,” Retz said, his admiration evident. “You spies are smart fellas.”

“Only by accident. There's nothing smart about this war, Sig. It's a bunch of wild animals tearing at each other. My dead partner taught me that.”

“You going to keep bringing me messages?”

“As often as I can.”

“You want more beer before you go?”

“No, thanks, but I would like to sit a few minutes with those newspapers. Prisoners aren't allowed any, except for a little handwritten sheet they publish themselves.”

Sig Retz gestured. “Be comfortable, stay as long as you like. I got to see what's become of Hiram. I might get a customer. Pigs might fall out of the sky too.”

Lon dropped into Retz's cushioned chair. It amused him to sit on a coded report that could get him executed.

On page two of a
Richmond Dispatch
, next to a jeremiad about food shortages and outrageous prices, he spied an item that hit him harder than any fist. At a reception hosted by Britain's consular representative, J. Cridland, Esq., the guests included another citizen of that country, businessman Donal McKee, Esq., of New York City.
Mr. McKee, who has substantial commercial interests in the Confederacy, is temporarily in residence in rented quarters on Church Hill, together with his wife.

At the foot of the stairs Margaret said, “Has Mr. McKee come down yet, Eudora?”

“Came down, ate, and left.” Eudora whisked her feather duster over an ornate Chinese jar decorating the foyer. She was a full-bosomed black woman in her early thirties. Her beige complexion suggested a white forebear or two. Eudora cooked and cleaned; her brother, Morris Thompson, did the other chores. Both were slaves. They belonged to the fine ten-room house on Twenty-fourth Street, Church Hill. The house belonged to the estate of a bachelor attorney who had died the previous December. Donal had leased the house for six months. It was a dusty old place, unnecessarily large, though it had a lovely garden planted with cherry and apple trees, and trellises heavy with sweet Carolina jasmine.

“Did my husband say where he was going?”

“Exchange Hotel, for a meeting.” More likely another marathon card game. Sometimes they ran on all night. When the sun rose, Donal and his new friends would go home, bathe, and freshen their linen before resuming play.

Margaret found it hard to believe that four months ago, a giant Union army had stood six miles from Richmond; so close, people said, the watch fires of the enemy were visible from the city's hills. The Yankees were turned back, the war moved north again, and an elite class of Southern gentlemen carried on with business and pleasure as though other men were not fighting and dying for them. If you chanced to drive too near Chimborazo or Winder hospitals, the screams and lamentations of the injured reminded you of the fact.

“Is there any real coffee?”

“No'm, only the mix with parched corn. I'll bring it to the dining room. You brother be here again?”

“We have breakfast every Wednesday, Eudora, you know that.” Finding Cicero safe and well in the Confederate capital was one of the few good things about this enforced stay. “He should arrive by nine. Please be ready to serve him.”

“All right, ma'am.” Eudora's lovely brown eyes reflected the dislike the two women felt for each other. From the first night, all of Eudora's smiles and pleasantries had been lavished on Donal. She was plainly taken with him, and jealous of Margaret or anyone else with a claim on him.

Which perhaps explained why, in late September, Eudora had whispered to Margaret about a trip she'd made downtown in search of food. Leaving a grocery that had nothing to sell, she saw Margaret's husband drive by in an open carriage with an attractive white woman Eudora knew to be a widow. Jealousy distorted Eudora's pretty face as she passed the tidbit to Margaret, who promptly reprimanded her. Ever since, Eudora had been not merely her rival but her enemy.

Margaret hoisted the skirt of her beautiful morning dress of amber silk and walked to the dining room. The dress was part of the Paris wardrobe Donal had bought her before they came South.

Although the coffee was partly substitute, it took away some of the lingering torpor of sleep. Outside the window, crimson maple leaves drifted down. A woman passed with a market basket on her arm. Miss Van Lew was a well-off spinster of the neighborhood, an odd little creature with ringlets and an unlovely big nose. Eudora cheekily dismissed Miss Van Lew by saying, “Folks call her Crazy Bet.”

The whole city was a bit crazy in Margaret's opinion. Its masses of wounded and crippled depressed her, as did its empty shelves and indifferent storekeepers and resentful housewives. With an air of desperate gaiety, young ladies continued to attend hops at the better hotels, or visited Camp Lee, the old fairgrounds, toasting marshmallows at campfires and singing “The Bonnie Blue Flag” or “Lorena” in the purple dusk. Jefferson Davis's wife, Varina, a gracious, olive-skinned woman whom Margaret liked, openly said she found Richmond a standoffish place, lacking the friendliness of the Mississippi frontier where she'd grown up. Margaret hoped it wouldn't be too long before they embarked from Wilmington or Charleston on a risky run through the blockade squadron.

Still, she preferred a beleaguered Confederate city to New York, in Yankee territory. Wherever they were, Donal would find pliant women; she was resigned to it.

Happily for Margaret, Rose Greenhow and her daughter were in residence at the Ballard House. Rose was writing a memoir of her imprisonment. She had a certain weary gauntness now, was less ebullient than Margaret remembered. Her hair showed a great deal of gray. Little Rose was growing and developing and taking an interest in boys.

Rose said Jefferson Davis had personally paid her $2,500 for services in Washington, claiming that but for her, the first battle of Manassas would not have been a victory. Mary Chesnut, the sharp-tongued wife of a Confederate congressman, spread a story that Seward or Stanton had sent Rose to Richmond to spy. Margaret heard it from Varina Davis, who laughed. “Of course Mary thinks ill of nearly everyone. She keeps a diary, you know. I pray I'm not in it.”

Certainly Varina's husband would be. There was a large anti-Davis faction in town, led by the editorialists of the
Examiner
. They said that because of his West Point training and Mexican War service, Davis believed he could dictate to his military commanders. Varina said the torrent of criticism caused Mr. Davis severe dyspepsia.

Twice a week Margaret met with Rose and a circle of ladies to knit socks and gloves for soldiers. On other days, she walked, trying to wear away her unhappiness by tiring herself. On the streets she saw painted women openly soliciting trade. She saw recruiting parades, usually with a Negro or two marching in the impromptu band. She found it ironic that a black drummer or fife player helped to find men to preserve the system that enslaved him. As often as not, the band played “La Marseillaise” instead of “Dixie.”

Several times she saw a procession of poor Negroes from the country, led or driven by a white man, on the way to one of the so-called slave jails. The slave trade was still brisk, with frequent auctions. Once, taking a wrong turn into a narrow alley near the canal, she was transfixed by the sight of a black youth naked on an auction block. As white gentlemen surrounded her and urged her to leave, her gaze locked with the tormented eyes of the human merchandise. He seemed to cry out silently for succor, or at least recognition that what was happening was sinful. She slept badly for nights afterward. In Baltimore she'd seen nothing so harrowing, though perhaps she'd consciously avoided such sights.

Cicero arrived on the dot. He roomed at the Spotswood Hotel, deeming it easier than looking after a house. She'd found him by placing a small advertisement in the
Enquirer
, among the many ads offering a high price for an army substitute. Cicero worked for the military Signal Service, in a civilian capacity. That's all he would say, though he assured her that he was doing important work.

“It hurts the Yankees, and I quite like it,” he remarked once. “Every few days I take another pound of Yankee flesh for Father. I've taken plenty for you too, Margaret.” His smile was warm and benign, disturbingly so.

“Sister dear, good morning,” he said as he limped into the dining room. He bent to kiss her forehead. His eyes sparkled. His brown suit of checked wool, his bottle green waistcoat, and the matching scarf knotted around his collar testified to a salary that kept him well above the poverty level.

“You seem quite cheerful,” she said.

“We've caught a Union journalist posing as a patent-medicine salesman. He was brazenly passing out business cards at the Spotswood bar. I expect he's a spy. We'll find out. We have some methods I wouldn't dare mention on such a beautiful day. Hello, Eudora.”

“Day, sir,” Eudora said as she placed a small portion of scrambled country eggs in front of him, together with two slabs of fatty bacon whose price Margaret didn't want to guess. Eudora then served a basket of coarse bread baked in the kitchen. She had a smile for Cicero, but none for Margaret. He tucked his napkin into his shirt and briskly attacked the food.

“I thought Donal might be joining us.”

“He's gone off to another of his infernal card games. He says it's a way to meet important businessmen. I hope that's all he's doing. I really have no way of knowing.”

“Do I hear the faintest hint of wifely jealousy? You're barely a new bride, Margaret.”

“Perhaps I have cause for suspicion. You know Donal's reputation.”

“You alluded to it a few times before I left Baltimore, that's all. You aren't suggesting he's seeing another woman?”

“I know he went buggy-riding with one. Some cotton planter's maiden aunt, no doubt.”

Cicero said, “Ow,” and ducked, as though avoiding a bullet. He covered her hand with his. “I hope you're imagining these things. Donal's a splendid catch. He helped you out of a hellish situation.”

“Yes, he is, and he did,” she agreed. “May we talk of something else?”

She wouldn't admit to Cicero that her relationship with Donal had deteriorated subtly but quickly since the honeymoon in Washington. Donal had grown less attentive as the weeks went by, although he remained a tender and considerate lover. When he chose to visit her room at night, he could arouse her to a state beyond anything she'd ever imagined. Shamefully, when they made love, she sometimes imagined the Yankee detective in her arms.

She and her brother gossiped and speculated about the new Union commander, Burnside, who had replaced McClellan. Cicero left shortly before ten, dragging his thick-soled shoe down the mansion's marble steps with excruciating slowness. At the window Margaret watched his progress along the brick sidewalk. What did he do that gave him such pleasure? If he was taking revenge for their father's murder, why did it trouble her?

In the afternoon she again took tea with Varina Davis and several cabinet wives in the pillared mansion on Clay Street that everyone called the Confederate White House. The President looked in at one point, greeting the ladies with Southern courtesy, bowing to kiss each hand and tickling Margaret's with his chin whiskers. Like the cushions and draperies and everything else in the mansion, he smelled of cigars. She thought he looked tired and worried.

She chose to walk home. The day had grown bleak. Factory smoke stained the slate-colored sky. Leaves scurried at her feet. Eudora greeted her the moment she stepped in the house.

“Man brung this a while ago. Axe me to give it to you right away.” She put a folded sheet of wallpaper into Margaret's gloved hand. A dab of maroon wax sealed the note.

“Who was he? What did he look like?”

“Like somebody what ought to come to the back door, which he done. Not so old, but weary-looking. Beard down to here”—she touched her bosom—“thick enough for a bird's nest. Had on old gray things, like soldier castoffs. Oh, and he was white.”

“Thank you, Eudora. You may go.” Eudora had no choice but to leave with the mysterious note unread.

Margaret carried the note into the parlor. She sat on a horsehair sofa and drew off her gloves. Distant cannon fire rattled windowpanes. Only the local artillery practicing, she hoped.

She broke the wax seal. The inside of the wallpaper was unprinted. The message was inscribed crudely by a blunt pencil.

Why only one word capitalized? Who…?

“Oh, God.” It was him; she had no doubt of it.