The Crescent Spy (17 page)

A
few weeks later, Josephine was in New Orleans and desperate. She’d spent most of the eight dollars she’d kept in the Oriental box and had nothing to sell but the box itself. She took it to a curio shop in Exchange Alley in search of a good price. The owner was out, but his wife offered seventy-five cents and stood firm at that price.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait until your husband is back,” Josephine said stubbornly. “The box is worth far more than that. Feel it. It’s heavy, it has good workmanship.”

The woman snorted. “Believe me, it’s not. It’s the sort of thing sailors pick up in Hong Kong to give to their sweethearts back home. Seventy-five cents is generous. But if you want to wait, suit yourself.”

Josephine did, only to get a similar answer from the woman’s husband. She tried two more stores, but neither offered her more than four bits. Discouraged, she returned to her dingy hotel, which was barely a step up from a brothel. She was down to her last thirty-two cents. Either she figured something out in a hurry or she’d be spreading her legs to keep herself fed and scrape together enough for a passage to St. Paul. God willing, the newspaper position would still be open. If not, the leg spreading may become her permanent occupation.

Upon the realization that she was actually contemplating whoring herself out, she dug her fingernails into her palm and stifled a scream. She looked at the box, wanting to smash it to pieces. Of all of her possessions—books, journals, clothing—it was the blasted box that had been saved. She hated the damn thing. It only reminded her of her mother, of the Colonel. She determined to go back to the curio shop and sell it for seventy-five cents.

Why did the Colonel think it was so valuable? That made no sense. The man had won and lost all manner of treasures over the years. Yet he had taken the biggest gamble of all to run into the middle of the burning heart of
Cairo Red
to rescue this box. And then given it to her in what seemed like a fit of guilt and despondency. Even a rat could suffer a guilty conscience, she supposed, but the box? Why would he risk his life for it?

Josephine opened the box and searched for a catch or false compartment. The most likely place seemed to be the lid, which was about an inch thick, and fairly heavy. But though she held it up to the oil lamp and ran her finger along the underside, there didn’t seem to be any place to open it. She thought about smashing it open to be sure, but she couldn’t afford to. She needed that seventy-five cents.

So she shut the lid and set it on her lap, where she ran her fingertips across the red-and-green-painted harbor scene. One of the carved Chinese junks moved beneath her thumb. Josephine caught her breath. Working carefully at the boat, she got it slid open and then eased her little finger into the tiny space revealed below. There was a click, and the lid popped open.

The lid of the box held its own separate compartment, a box within a box. With an invisible seam and an ingenious hooking mechanism of fine metal wire and hinge, the space was large enough to hold a few folded-over bills or a handful of gold coins. The perfect hiding space for a gambler needing to transport wealth. During a flush period, this particular gambler had given the box to his mistress’s daughter for safekeeping. Like a bank, for if he ever needed emergency funds.

It was stuffed with wads of cotton, to keep whatever was inside from rattling around. She removed this carefully, then tipped the lid and gave a gentle shake to ease the items within first to the corner, and then into her hand. Several cool, hard objects dropped into her palm, like tiny stones. They glittered green and red when she lifted them to her eye.

There were ten rubies, each the color and size of a pomegranate seed, and two large, glittering emeralds, the size of wine grapes. For a long time she admired them in the palm of her hand, where they glittered with reflected lamplight. So beautiful. And obviously so valuable.

She would have to be clever and very, very careful. Men would see a girl in possession of such a treasure and immediately set about stealing it by fraud or violence. But if she could change the gemstones for money, it would provide the answer to all of her problems.

Josephine carefully put each of the stones back into the secret compartment, shut the box, and hid it. Then she began to scheme.

J
osephine made it known at the newspaper that she was looking for the turtle-like
Manassas
, and Solomon Fein, with his instincts for sniffing out a good story, soon gave her a critical hint. He’d heard that Stanley Ludd from the
Picayune
was in the river off New Orleans on Commodore Hollins’s flagship, CSS
Calhoun
. Three other ships from the mosquito fleet,
Jackson
,
Pickens
, and
Tuscarora
, had pulled in to join
Calhoun
.

“Something is brewing if Stinky is on board,” Fein said. “Might be this business with
Manassas.
”

Four Union vessels had crossed the sandbars and come up the river as far as Head of Passes in late September, where the river broke into the numerous swampy channels of the delta. A few days ago, on October 5, the lightly armed Confederate steamer
Ivy
floated down to reconnoiter Head of Passes, where she briefly engaged the powerful lead ship, the twenty-two-gun
Richmond
, before fleeing for her life. Josephine knew there was talk of an attempt to drive the Union out of the river, but that was an expedition that could easily result in disaster. With the two big ironclads still under construction in the yards, having the ram would be critical to success.

Ludd looked irritated when Josephine came aboard
Calhoun
later that afternoon. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have society gossip to cover or some such rubbish?”

She smiled and set her carpetbag significantly at her feet. He had been dismissive every time they’d met, but with each story she filed, his attitude became less amused and more defensive. In this case, she could hardly blame him for being annoyed. Had the situation been reversed, she’d have been equally irritated. Smaller boats were bustling back and forth from the four small warships to shore, and the general activity of the crew made it obvious that they were about to draw anchor and set off downstream. Yet there were no other newspaper writers aboard; Ludd had been expecting to scoop whatever story was developing.

Ludd had a notebook out and had been interviewing Commodore Hollins, a sharp-eyed old sea dog with a black-and-gray-streaked beard; a round, bald head; and a penetrating gaze. She had met him briefly at one of Mrs. Dubreuil’s fetes, and he had been polite, but reticent.

Now it seemed that the government had ordered him to cooperate with the local press, so he endured a joint interview from the two reporters from the
Picayune
and the
Crescent
. When they asked difficult questions, he gave vague answers, his expression not unlike that of a man having a tooth extracted.

“He wasn’t very forthcoming,” Josephine observed, watching Hollins’s proud, erect carriage as he made his escape.

“He was before you showed up,” Ludd said. “Thank you for that,” he added sarcastically.

T
he mosquito fleet steamed downriver with the five-knot current, and they arrived at the forts on the evening of October 11. There they found the turtle-like
Manassas
sitting at anchor off Fort St. Philip, a few of its civilian crew lounging in the cool air on its ironclad back, smoking, playing cards, and swatting at mosquitoes. Nearby lurked
McRae
and
Ivy
from the mosquito fleet, keeping an eye on the privately held commerce raider as if to ensure it wouldn’t try to escape.

Shortly after their arrival, Hollins sent across a boarding party to seize
Manassas
. The longshoremen on the deck of the raider watched passively until Hollins’s men drew near, when panic set in. They dove down the hatch like rats scurrying into holes, which made the men watching from
Calhoun
laugh and slap their knees, and the boarding party shout and cuss. When Hollins’s men reached the boat, there was a brief scuffle, then the rats started jumping into the river and swimming for shore. Those who remained surrendered.

“Damn fools,” Ludd muttered. “Bet half of them are Yankees. They’d just as soon turn her over to the enemy.”

Doubtful. They weren’t Yankees
or
Confederates, Josephine thought. They were vermin drawn from all points on the river, and from no point in particular, on the commerce raider to make a fortune engaging in legal piracy. When it looked like they might be pressed into the actual Confederate navy, forced to do some real fighting, they wanted nothing to do with it.

“Hope they string them up,” Ludd said. “Make a good example of them.”

None of the crew of
Calhoun
paid the reporter any attention, so he turned his beady eyes to Josephine, who wished he would shut up so she could take in every detail of the drama still playing out in front of them.

“It won’t be long now,” Ludd continued. “We’ll set off downriver at once.”

“Do you know something?” Josephine asked.

“Only that we’re going to drive those cowards out of the river. I have no idea how they’ll do it, but I’m sure Hollins has a good plan.”

Josephine had no idea how they’d do it, either, and it seemed quite unlikely from where she stood. Six small boats, plus an untested ram, against four of the Union’s massive sloops of war. Any one of the federal ships should be able to whip the Confederates single-handed. In fact, if she’d known how to send a message downriver to warn them, they could set out a trap and bag the whole of the mosquito fleet. Maybe a fisherman could take Josephine down.

No, she decided. That would end any chance she had to spy in Confederate territory, and surely the Union ships would have no difficulty, warning or no.

T
hey didn’t set off at once. Instead, when morning came, Hollins had the new crew of
Manassas
steam up and down the river trying to get a feel for the ram. It was sluggish and poorly maneuverable. After about an hour of watching this, Josephine was given the opportunity to go to shore at Fort Jackson to meet with the defenses. Figuring the commodore wouldn’t set off for Head of Passes until dark, she took the opportunity to do some additional scouting.

To her dismay, the fort had been transformed since her visit in August. Slaves were at work reinforcing the earthwork, while engineers had already put in a new water battery and bombproofs—rooms, powder stores, and storehouses covered with thick sod roofs. The thickest beams and dirt berms reinforced the new magazine, which made it less likely that a single shell would blow the whole thing to kingdom come. Older quarters had been renovated and new ones constructed. The garrison had increased to nearly three hundred men and growing. Several dozen flat, barge-like fire rafts loaded with pitch-soaked wood sat moored upstream of the forts, ready to be lit and towed into service should enemy craft approach.

Major Dunbar also seemed transformed. Gone was the dour, thin-lipped man of August, replaced by a man in a better uniform with a better attitude, and now confident of his own defenses. He praised General Lovell’s new leadership and happily showed Josephine that many of the old cannons had been sent out, replaced by heavy-caliber rifled guns. He told her about the new entrenchments being planned, the earthen breastworks that would be thrown up to protect the water battery, and showed her the dilapidated hulks of old ships being towed to form an unbreakable barrier chained across the river.

Josephine was worried. What would have been easily run by a Union armada a few short weeks ago was now a strong, dangerous gauntlet of fortifications and guns, and growing stronger by the day. She hid her dismay and took furious notes. When Dunbar warned her not to publish specifics in the paper, she nodded her agreement and kept writing. The only thing enemy spies would take from her article, she assured him, was that the forts were now impregnable.

“You are a true patriot and a fine lady, Miss Breaux,” the major told her. “May I have the honor of your company in the officer’s hall for supper?”

She looked him over. Dunbar was a handsome man in his early thirties and, with his position and manners, would be considered a fine catch for any young lady. Assuming Union troops didn’t storm the fort and shoot him dead, of course. But she remembered the hanging of Caleb Freedman. It was an unnecessary death, and this man had let it happen. She hardened her heart.

“You are too kind, Major, but I need to be on
Calhoun
by dark,” she said. “The commodore hasn’t told me when he’s leaving, and I can’t risk missing what is sure to be a glorious victory. My publisher would never forgive me.”

Major Dunbar looked momentarily disappointed, then inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps another time. Best wishes, and stay safe.”

Josephine felt momentarily sorry for turning down his invitation, but by the time Hollins’s men were rowing her back to
Calhoun
, the excitement of the pending battle swept aside all other thoughts.

C
ommodore Hollins waited until after midnight, when the moon went down, and then he ordered the mosquito fleet to pull anchor and make for Head of Passes, towing a number of fire rafts.

A lieutenant made a halfhearted attempt to talk Josephine into going to shore for her own safety, but when she pointed out that nobody was sending away her rival from the
Picayune
, he let her stay. The man had seemed more motivated by chivalry than any real fear for her life. The crew of
Calhoun
was in good spirits, and nobody expected anything but success.

These men were still naïve, untested by battle. Josephine remembered too well the hell of the battle at Manassas, the dead and groaning wounded. Put together with her memory of the explosion on
Cairo Red
, it was easy for her imagination to construct a number of terrifying scenarios.

Head of Passes was only ten miles downstream from the forts, and all too soon Hollins ordered lights extinguished as they came drawing around the last bend. To Josephine’s surprise, there had been no Union pickets to send up signal rockets, but it was unclear whether the dark and cool mist over the river had shielded them, or if the Union had simply neglected to send out men to watch.