Alias Dragonfly Page 10

  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.

  A day and one night passed. Then, I got an assignment!

  “You must listen for the signal—sharp, short whistles, in threes, a ninety-count pause, and then three more whistles,” Mr. Webster said as we huddled by the fireside. “Come down the front steps, straight to the southwest corner. I’ll be waiting.”

  I waited, too. And waited. I was cleaning my aunt’s cherished old ceramic tureen (we’d mended it after the poor old Colonel fell on it,) and Nellie was waxing the table when I heard the signal, the sharp, piercing whistles over the cries of the ragpicker and the oysterman. I began counting the seconds.

  “I’m going for a stroll with Mr. Webster, Aunt Salome,” I called out as she was in the next room. “He promises to show me the Capitol again today.”

  I counted twenty-five seconds. “Nellie, is all well?” I whispered to her. “Has Isaac been here?”

  “No. Things is steady for now.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said.

  “And you, Miss Madeline, don’t take no Rebel guff from that cotton man, Webster.” She looked into my eyes. “Or is this about something else?”

  “No. Yes. I can’t say, Nellie.”

  I counted sixty seconds.

  “The Capitol building? What do you want to see that unfinished pile of scaffolding for?” Aunt Salome called out, as I grabbed up my bonnet and cloak. I’d only seen it from a distance. With its missing dome, it looked like an old nobleman who’d got his best top hat squashed under the wheels of a carriage. “Be back by supper, Madeline. Your chores are waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, hoping she wouldn’t come into the room.

  I counted ninety seconds. Then there they were, the three whistles!

  In my haste, as I swept on my shawl, the fringe caught on the darn old tureen, rolling it on its side like a beached whale until it hit the floor and smashed to pieces.

  “What broke? Nellie? Madeline?” As my aunt was coming through the door, I ran past her. “Oh, not my precious tureen!” she cried.

  “It slipped out of my hand what has the stiffness, Missus Salome. I’m frightful sorry,” Nellie said.

  “No pay for a week, you clumsy thing!” I heard my aunt yell.

  “She didn’t do it! I did! Stop blaming her!” I shouted. Before my aunt could catch me, I fled the house.

  Fifteen

  I found Mr. Webster on the street corner. He glared at me. “Three seconds late. Don’t let that happen again.”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t tell him I’d yelled at Aunt Salome when she blamed Nellie for what I broke. I hated my aunt for that.

  Mr. Webster was out of his usual planter’s whites, back to his clergyman’s guise. His eyes were fixed on the Greenhow house.

  “Seconds are crucial, timing is crucial,” he said. “These Rebels are like scorpions, and this city is their battlefield.”

  The air was thick and so hot; I had a bit of trouble breathing.

  “Can you endure this work?” He studied me.

  “Yes,” I answered, and in spite of the sweat running down my face, never so sure of anything in my life.

  I followed him past the Greenhow house. He stopped at a flower stand just beyond it. Webster plucked a pink rose from an assortment tucked like bright jewels in a basket. The flower seller was an older man with a round, pink, jowly face. He wore a yellow felt slouch hat. He had a large white gardenia flower in his lapel. He took the pink rose from Mr. Webster and handed him a white one.

  Mr. Webster nodded to the flower seller.

  “Mrs. Greenhow knows she’s being watched,” he told me. “Sometimes we speak the language of flowers.” He tipped his hat to the flower seller and handed him two double eagle coins.

  “All our scrutiny doesn’t seem to matter, that’s the devil of it. She’s been able to get her dispatches out right under our noses. Back before the Secession, Colonel Thomas Jordan ran the Rebel espionage ring here in the city. Now he’s passed the responsibility to her. And she thrives. Jordan gets Greenhow’s reports to the Confederates.”

  “Through Betty,” I said.

  “Yes, and likely others. Greenhow consorts with men of power to the lowliest butcher to achieve her ends. We need to get someone into that house, someone she won’t suspect. The right person, of course.”

  The door of Mrs. Greenhow’s house opened. A small woman in a maroon gown and straw sunbonnet walked down the stairs, fanning herself.

  “That’s not Betty,” I said quickly.

  “Tell me why it isn’t her.” He spoke rapidly, demanding an answer.

  “Betty is taller and is graceful, even when she flounces like a peacock. This other woman, well, she is much stouter and waddles, putting weight on both her feet at once, like she has something heavy in her skirts. She is past middle age, as there is a roundness in her back common to older women.”

  “Might she not have suffered an accident?” Mr. Webster said. “How are you sure of her age?”

  “One side of her bonnet has been torn. There is a patch of gray hair peeking through.”

  “Good,” said Webster.

  Before I could soak up Mr. Webster’s praise, someone was right next to me, seeming to materialize out of the air.

  “She’s hardly fit, this girl. I could have harmed her and been gone in an instant,” the woman said, her face not visible under a large feathered hat. I stiffened at her rudeness. Something about her was familiar . . . “We don’t need her. He doesn’t need the likes of her,” she said.

  Yes, I knew the voice. It was the woman Mr. Pinkerton called Mrs. Warn.

  “I’m to tell you we make the Greenhow arrest the morning after next,” she told Webster, pushing in front of me. “Whether we have her courier or not.” With that, she was gone.

  “Never let anyone get that close to you again,” Webster said. “Even in a crowd, keep one hand at your side, your revolver close, and learn to spot even a hazy shadow out of the corner of your eye.”

  “Yes, sir.” I was flushed from the heat and humiliation. Had I failed already? Mr. Webster offered no comfort. He never did. That was part of his method. He was an amazing teacher without making the lessons obvious. Hard as it was, I learned to mask my feelings. I could not show fear or distress. That would make me vulnerable, and put me, put them all, at risk.

  “Do you know who that was, Miss Bradford?” I knew he expected an immediate answer.

  “That lady was Mrs. Warn. I recognized her from my meeting with Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “Yes!” Mr. Webster said. “Good.” Oh, how I basked in that small praise from him. For just an instant, of course. “Mrs. Warn was the first woman Mr. Pinkerton ever hired on, a remarkable accomplishment in itself. Mr. Pinkerton tasked her over and over until he knew she was ready. It was she who accompanied Mr. Lincoln on the train from Baltimore. Mr. Pinkerton believed she helped to save the President’s life. She has prized that, and him,” Mr. Webster said. “Mrs. Warn is
not easy with other women.” As he spoke, he never looked straight at me. He was always watching the street and passersby without seeming obvious.

  I watched all about me, too, but I could not help thinking about Mrs. Warn. Was she married, or a widow? Or was she a single woman making her way in a difficult trade? I knew that women had no true rights and were considered their husband’s property. Mostly they roll bandages and pie dough, and bear children. I decided I’d rather be someone independent and forceful like Mrs. Warn, no matter how tough I had to learn to be.

  “Are you managing to evade your aunt, Miss Bradford?” Mr. Webster asked.

  “Do you suspect my Aunt Salome, Mr. Webster? Is that why you board with her?”

  He chuckled. “Would that it could be that easy. Your aunt is a Rebel sympathizer, like over half the people in this city. That is distasteful but hardly dangerous. Her boarding house was convenient, as she is so close to the Greenhow place.”

  I wondered if he knew what else went on in Aunt Salome’s house as I thought about brave, furious Isaac, the escaped slaves, and Isaac’s mother’s complicity. My dear Nellie. I’d grown to care for her so.

  “You’ll not see me in the morning,” he said. “I cross the lines to Richmond tonight.”

  “How will you do that, cross the lines? What route do you take?”

  He didn’t answer that. It was impudent of me to ask. It was likely a secret route. Was I growing too brash? Should I tell Mr. Webster that he was important to me, and that I was blooming in his keep? I didn’t say anything. I must have been really red as a tomato, though.

  He offered me his arm. “Drink cold tea, often. The air in the swamp that is this city sickens even the strong. And continue to justify your absences,” he said.

  He was in silent rumination as we walked. As was I, remembering a song I’d heard once from my mother, and once only:

  Silent as daybreakJust as brightShe will not perish this dark night.Light and ready, this bold maid, is dueling danger in the glade—

  I stopped short. Betty, the Rebel courier, was stopped near an omnibus. She was smiling broadly, her gloved hands resting on the reins of a man on a huge, dappled stallion.

  I decided to call her by name, and if she responded, Mr. Webster could make a positive identification. But I didn’t want her to see my face. I pulled my shawl nearly over my head. “Betty!” I cried, in a high-pitched child’s voice, rushing toward her. She stiffened and then quickly turned away, the smile leaving her face in a flash. The man on the horse was Colonel Jordan. He spurred the animal hard, gripping a sword at his side that was sheathed in an ornate leather covering.

  “Best pray they did not see your face. They’ll be followed,” Webster said. “Now you have identified them. Good, very good.”

  “What now, sir?” I asked, proud and worried all at once.

  “Go back home right now. I don’t want you to be a familiar figure at this location.” In a rare gesture of affection, he patted my hand. “You’re a very special girl indeed.” Before I could answer or thank him, or turn absolutely scarlet, he was off.

  Sixteen

  That night things got really scary. It was no kid’s dream about monsters like the kind I used to have back in Portsmouth, when I thought witches with puckered faces and arms like tentacles were reaching for me. This one was real.

  I stepped out to use the privy. Before I reached it, someone grabbed me from behind, ripped away my shawl and the gun with it. Before I could make a sound, a gag was in my mouth. I kicked and struggled against my captor, but was no match. Strong arms, like bands of metal, held me fast. I was dragged away, my feet flopping like a cloth doll. Sickly sweet scents of gardenias, violets and musky tuberose flooded my nostrils. My stomach heaved.

  I was forced into the back of a carriage, blindfolded, and thrown face down on the seat. A gun barrel was pressed to my temple. I could hear the snorting of a horse, and smelled the sharp tang of linseed-oiled leather.

  “Stay still, Yankee brat!” A rough, guttural voice was close to my ear. My hands were tied with a rope so they were nearly straight out in front of me. The carriage was moving. I could sense that there were two people in the cab of the conveyance, one on either side of me. There must have been a driver, too, because I heard the snap of reins as the horse went faster.

  I forced my breathing to slow as the gag made me gasp for air. It was fear I felt, sure, but more than that. I felt anger, a hot, steady anger at the Rebels who’d captured me. I would not die like this!

  I counted seconds, then minutes. Finally the carriage stopped. I was lifted into the strong captor’s arms and carried up some stairs. I kicked hard again. My boot slammed into someone’s leg.

  “Damn you!” It was another voice, a female one. I heard a bell sound three times. There was a rush of air as a door opened.

  I could hear low murmurings in a hallway that stopped as soon as I was carried past.

  Another door opened. I was pushed into a room down onto a carpeted floor that smelled of pomade, rust and musk oil perfume. No light from the room was visible through my blindfold. The door closed with a thud, followed by the sound of a lock clicking shut.

  I struggled to my feet, my bound hands in front of me. I groped around the room, feeling for any furnishings, any other doors. Nothing.

  I heard a knocking. What in heaven’s name was happening?

  “Yes?” I answered. There was silence. “Who’s there?” I tried to keep my voice low and calm. Another knock. I fumbled my way to the door. I groped around it, feeling for a knob. The door was flat. No knob. There was no way to open it. Now what?

  Suddenly the door swung open, nearly smacking me in the face. Before it closed, there was enough light through my blindfold to see that a female form had come into the room carrying a lamp and a stool. Her head was down so I couldn’t see her face.

  “Sit,” she ordered. I stayed right where I was. She put the lamp on the floor. She grabbed my shoulders and forced me to the stool.

  “What is your name?” I raised my head. “Don’t look up.” She spat the words. “Answer!” She grasped my chin, pulling off the gag.

  My hands were sweating, and my wrists were getting numb from the tight, tight binding. Someone else was in the room. I smelled gardenias, and strong tobacco.

  “We’ve captured your father,” a man said.

  My hands shook. I willed them to stop. Dear God, my father . . .

  “Sergeant Summoner Bradford. Of the Second New Hampshire. Those cowards ran like rats in fire smoke at Bull Run.” His voice was slow, deliberate, and now, in my ear.

  “He did not run!” I was shouting. “Don’t you dare hurt him. Keep me, and let him go. He knows nothing about—”

  The woman chuckled. “Do you know a Yankee spy called Timothy Webster?” she demanded.

  “No!” I shouted. Mr. Webster was known to them. My God.

  “Liar!” she hissed.

  “What do we do with her?” the man asked.

  “She’ll talk after I’m done,” the woman said. “If not, shoot her.”

  I heard them leave the room. Again, the door closed and locked. If they were going to kill me, I’d give them a fight! I waited, hearing my heart beating in my ears. I twisted my hands against the rope, but they wouldn’t come free.

  At least twenty minutes passed by my count. The air grew more stifling. What was happening? Would I be here forever?

  I lowered myself to the floor. I pitched and rolled and bucked my body up and down along the floor.

  When I reached the door, I kicked it with both of my legs. It didn’t move. What next? My hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon, and a wide-toothed comb fastened the rest. I shook my head furiously until the comb fell out. I grabbed it in my mouth and continued my thrashing. Finally, my wrists burning and raw, I freed one of my hands from the rope by twisting them. I tore off the blindfold and slid my other hand free. The room was so dark. I held the comb to my eyes, and broke it, leaving a long, sharp piece.r />
  I heard footsteps. Someone was approaching. The door opened. I raised the jagged comb. As a man came in, I stepped in front of him. He grabbed my hand, twisting it, but not before I stabbed the comb into his wrist. He cried out in pain.

  “Enough!” a woman shouted. I heard the door swing open.

  Suddenly the room was flooded with lights.

  I blinked hard, dizzy and nauseated. I tried to run but smacked right into a large cart, piled with food. Cakes, sandwiches and a teapot crashed to the floor.

  I saw that the woman binding the man’s bleeding hand with my blindfold was Mrs. Warn! Two other women stood there, smiling. One was older, fair haired and wore silver-rimmed spectacles. The other was small with red hair. I recognized her. She was the woman from the park, the one who called me Fiona. What was happening?

  I may sound calm now in the telling, but I swear I was so stunned by what I was seeing that my head whirled, and my knees were so wobbly that I could hardly remain standing. Don’t take it all in at once, I told myself. Focus on one person at a time. Try to calm down.

  I looked at Mrs. Warn. Focus hard, I said to myself. Remember I’d never really seen her face until then. It was narrow, her chin and cheekbones prominent, her lips full but at that moment, set in a hard line. She had wide-set blackish-brown eyes that looked like they were shooting sparks straight at me. She was wearing a plain black frock with an embroidered lace collar. Mrs. Warn didn’t look like a powerful woman at all. She looked like a little brown wren. Her hair was up and fastened in a wilted chignon. She was shorter than I remembered.

  “Tea is waiting, dears,” the older lady said, salvaging what she could from the mess on the floor. “I’m Agnes Crawford,” she said to me, “and of course you know Jane Smith from the park.” Jane Smith? A name as common as a dust speck, I thought. An alias, likely. “And perhaps you’ve seen Mr. Riley, or bought some of his lovely blossoms?” In spite of the fact that I’d just stabbed him, the man she called Mr. Riley smiled at me. The scent of blossoms that emanated from him was overpowering, and I knew then that he was the flower seller just near the Greenhow house.