Benjamin Tallmadge was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel in 1783. Shortly after, he married Mary Floyd, the daughter of the Declaration of Independence signer William Floyd, and fathered seven children. He became a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, representing Connecticut in the Federalist Party for eight terms. Although he wrote a book about his experiences during the Revolutionary War, he was notoriously vague regarding his intelligence sources. He died in 1835 at age 81.
Robert Townsend, like his sister Sally, also never married. Due to the reticence of most of the ring after the war, Robert Townsend’s role was lost to history until historian Morton Pennypacker uncovered it in the 1930s. Ironically, it was Townsend’s handwriting that gave him away as Culper Junior—in life, one of his biggest fears was that his secret identity would have been discovered due to his unique penmanship. At his death, Townsend left a considerable amount of money to a man named “Robert Townsend Junior,” It is unclear exactly who fathered him: Robert’s older brother Solomon, in a journal in the possession of the Raynham Hall Museum, speculated the boy actually belonged to William Townsend.
Afterword
A note on 355 by the author
Abraham Woodhull’s cryptic mention of a 355, translated from the Culper Code into “lady,” has puzzled historians for centuries. I first heard of her when I researched “forgotten women of history,” and was immediately hooked. There are a myriad of theories for the identity and personality of 355. In his book A Peculiar Service, published in 1956, Corey Ford wrote that he “liked to picture 355 as the opposite of the reserved and sober young Quaker (Robert Townsend): small, pert, vivacious, clever enough to outwit the enemy, but feminine enough to give Townsend a brief interlude of happiness that he would never know again.” According to Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger, authors of George Washington's Secret Six, 355 was the sixth member of the Culper Ring. All of this misinformation seems to stem from amateur historian Morton Pennypacker and his 1948 volume of the Culper Spy Ring legend. In it he cites 355 as being Robert Townsend’s paramour, who was imprisoned aboard the Jersey and later died. However, Pennypacker provided no proof for this wild tale—there is no record that women were ever even held aboard the prison ships let alone anyone who would fit 355’s description.
I chose Sally for my 355, as it was not unlikely that Abraham Woodhull was acquainted with Culper Junior’s sister and both Simcoe and André were guests of the Townsends shortly before Arnold’s treason. While we may never know to whom Woodhull referred, it is clear that the women of this book, and countless others, played a crucial role in the fight for America’s freedom, and I have dedicated this book to them for that reason.
Selected Bibliography
Berkin, Carol. Revolutionary Mothers: Women in the Struggle for America's Independence. Vintage Books, 2006.
Ford, Corey. A Peculiar Service. Little, Brown and Company, 1965.
Kilmeade, Brian, and Don Yaeger. George Washington's Secret Six: the Spy Ring That Saved the American Revolution. Sentinal, 2016.
McCollough, David. 1776. Simon and Schuster, 2005.
Misencik, Paul R. Sally Townsend, George Washington's Teenage Spy. McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2016.
McGee, Dorothy Horton. Sally Townsend, Patriot. Dodd, Mead, and Company, 1952.
Moncrieffe, Margaret. Memoirs of Mrs. Coghlan. New York Times, 1971.
Pennypacker, Morton. General Washington's Spies on Long Island and in New York. Scholar's Bookshelf, 2005.
Rose, Alexander. Washington's Spies: the Story of America's First Spy Ring. Random House Inc, 2014.
Schouler James. Americans of 1776. Corner House Historical Publications, 1999.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank folks at kboards.com and to all of the people who nominated this book during its Kindle Scout run.
A special thanks to my critique partners: Ute Carbone, Theresa Munroe, and Karen Cino, for their comments and suggestions. Once again, I am eternally grateful to Rhonda Sergeant for being the best proofreader in the world.
And as always, a special thank-you goes to my loving family, especially Tommy, Belle, and Thompson, for their love and support.
Underground
Traitors and Spies in the Civil War
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review
Although this book is based on real events and features historical figures, it is a work of fiction. Most of the dialogue and incidents in the story are products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as historical fact. For more information on fact versus fiction in the Civil War, see the Epilogue at the end of this book
Copyright © 2018 Kit Sergeant
Published by Thompson Belle Press
All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the Civil War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women upon whom these characters are based.
Chapter 1
Hattie
February 1861
Baltimore’s men were up in arms. Even at the unseemly early hour of three in the morning, shouts from angry secessionists echoed through the slats of the depot, drowned only by the train whistles announcing each new arrival.
“It will be coming soon, boys,” a man in a straw hat and full beard announced. “Remember,” he told the men who gathered around him, “no damned abolitionist shall pass through this town alive.”
Hattie Lewis’s eyes shifted to her friend and supervisor, Kate Warne, who stood just to the right of the mob. Kate’s face held her usual inscrutable expression, but Hattie could tell from the way she gripped her handbag that she was as uncomfortable as Hattie. Most of the employees of the Pinkerton Detective Agency had arrived in Baltimore only a few days prior, but the depth of the anti-Union sentiment had greeted them almost as immediately as the concierge at the Barnum Hotel. Maryland was a swing state, and its Rebel proclivities had boiled over with the election of the anti-slavery Lincoln to the Presidency.
Hattie turned at the sound of horses approaching. A plain coach stopped near the tracks, the horses whinnying as the driver pulled them to a halt. She hurried toward them. As she entered the coach, snatches of Dixie followed behind her, ceasing mercifully when she shut the door.
“No doubt there will be a good time in Dixie, by and by,” a deep voice offered.
Hattie gave the man a tentative smile. The President Elect was dressed in a simple traveling suit, the shawl draped over his head taking the place of his stovepipe hat, which was placed beside him. She’d read multiple descriptions of Abraham Lincoln in the papers—most focused on the newly grown beard in response to the young lady Grace Bedell’s request for him to cover his sunken jaw—but none of them had properly described his dignified manner, nor the fact that the beard still grew sparse over his gaunt cheeks. His eyes held an amiable crinkle as they focused on Hattie. She regretted that the tight quarters of the coach offered no room to show Mr. Lincoln the proper obsequies. She introduced herself to Mr. Lincoln and then told him, “Miss Warne has arranged an empty sleeping car for our purpose.”
He nodded. “I am to be your brother, then,” he stated, addressing Hattie.
She cast a sidelong glance at the man sitting beside her, her employer, Mr. Allan Pinkerton. He leaned forward. “It is for your safety.” Even though he’d been in America for nearly two decades, his accent still resonated Scottish when he was anxious.
“I still think it is all nonsense.” Ward Hill Lamon, Lincoln’s personal bodyguard, sat back into the ripped velvet of the coach. “And ridiculous for our new President to be skulking about a city, unknown, in the middle of the night.”
“It would be even more ridiculous to have our new President not arrive at his inauguration alive,” Pinkerton replied eve
nly. He opened the door to the coach. With a swish of her satin skirts, Hattie scooted past him to retrieve the wheelchair the driver had unloaded. Lincoln looked down and sighed before climbing out of the coach and arranging himself into the chair. He made to replace his hat, but Hattie pulled the shawl up to obscure his face instead, knowing his customary hat would only serve to give him away.
“Brother, I believe our train has arrived.” Hattie’s hands tightened on the chair as she pushed forward toward the station. Lincoln was so tall he nearly reached Hattie’s height sitting down. She did not look up, even as she passed by Kate, who stood in line waiting to board a car near the front of the train.
“May I be of assistance?” Hattie was about to refuse the train operative who loomed in front of her until she recognized him as another Pinkerton employee, Timothy Webster.
Hattie affected a Southern accent. “We have reserved the back car. My brother here needs to be isolated.”
Timothy, with his usual capableness, bent down to hoist the front of the wheelchair up the steps to the car. Hattie, pushing forward, peeked at the man in the straw hat. He and his companions stood with their arms crossed, searching the crowd. According to the posted schedule, Lincoln’s train was not due to arrive for another several hours. After uncovering a potential assassination plot, Pinkerton had insisted on rescheduling and sending the President-elect in on an earlier train from Philadelphia. Hopefully the man in the straw hat would not realize he’d been outwitted until long after Mr. Lincoln arrived at the Capitol Building for his inauguration speech.
At last Mr. Lincoln was safely ensconced in the sleeping compartment. Webster locked the door behind him as he left, and Hattie allowed herself one sigh of relief before retrieving the small pistol hidden underneath the seat of the wheelchair. Lincoln had boarded the train, but that did not mean his life was no longer in danger.
Mr. Lincoln had to double up his legs to fit in the sleeping berth, a position that, when Hattie dared to cast her eyes at him, seemed too lowly for a man of his status.
She stretched her cold hands to the warmth of the stove as she heard the cargo door bang shut. She immediately cursed herself for leaving her gun out of reach. Amateur. But the intruder was only Allan Pinkerton, come to check on the precious cargo. As usual, the heavy smell of Cuban cigars clung to his clothing and beard. Hattie assumed he’d been chain smoking them on the bridge.
“How does he sleep like that?” Pinkerton wondered aloud as the train whistle blew.
“How does he sleep at all, knowing what he knows?” Hattie asked in reply. It was not just that his life was in danger, but he was about to take on a nearly impossible role. Seven states had already seceded from the Union in protest after his election. It was up to him to try to repair the conflict that was building between the North and the South and to solve the moral question of slavery as a whole. Hattie knew she and Pinkerton were of the same mind as Lincoln, but that the rest of the country would not come to an agreement so easily. “I am fairly sure I will not be able to get a wink in myself.”
Her boss smiled wryly. “The nature of the job. We Pinkertons never sleep.” He went to the window. A flash of light broke through the darkness. He tapped the window. “All’s well,” he said, turning back to Hattie. She knew Pinkerton had placed several operatives at train stations along the way. They were instructed to flash lanterns stating that no known evil forces were at work.
Hattie glanced again at Mr. Lincoln, visions of all the ways the plotters could still attack temporarily blinding her. They might be out of Baltimore, but henchmen could still burn bridges or derail the train. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
The train arrived in Washington, mercifully without incident. The Pinkerton detectives unloaded from different cars, avoiding each other’s eyes, but silently congratulating each other nonetheless. Hattie marveled that no one would ever know of the danger their new President had been in, and that the threat of murder could have been resolved not by apprehending the alleged criminals, but by a mere switching of the train time table.
And yet the guilty parties walk free, Hattie reminded herself as she scanned the people surrounding her. Mr. Lincoln was still wrapped in his shawl and the crowd seemed blissfully unaware that the potential savior of the Union was the man in the wheelchair.
A man dressed in a fitted frock coat walked rapidly toward Mr. Lincoln. Hattie fingered the pistol in her handbag. The man extended his hand and was about to give a salutation when Hattie stepped forward.
“Sir?” she asked quietly.
He looked Hattie up and down before turning back to Mr. Lincoln. “Mr. Presi—”
“My brother here is very tired,” Hattie declared, conscious of the lanky figure in the wheelchair attracting multiple pairs of eyes.
“This is Miss Lewis. She is a friend of the railroad company,” Mr. Lincoln told the man.
The man, obviously catching on to Mr. Lincoln’s double meaning, nodded. “Your carriage is waiting, sir.”
Pinkerton appeared next to the man. “Miss Lewis. You can ride in my car.”
Hattie relinquished her grip on the wheelchair as her boss and the man exchanged pleasantries.
Mr. Lincoln reached out to grasp Hattie’s hands in his. “I am aware that you put your life at risk for me last night. I truly thank you for your service,” he said in his quiet tone.
“Thank you for yours,” Hattie replied. She wanted to say more, that she knew he had a lot riding on his shoulders, although if anyone could save the Union, he could. But, knowing her place, she kept quiet.
Pinkerton had one final question for Lincoln. “Mr. President, shall we move forward with arresting the would-be assassins?”
Mr. Lincoln focused his solemn eyes on Pinkerton. “No. I do not wish to make martyrs out of cowards and madmen.”
Pinkerton bowed his head. “As you wish.”
They followed Lincoln’s carriage to the Willard Hotel off 14th Street and watched Lincoln exit, glancing up and down the street as he did. He was still in disguise and seemed curious as to why none of the passersby paid him any note. Lamon, his chief of security, came out of the hotel and hustled him inside. Pinkerton gave Hattie a wry smile before nodding his head at Pennsylvania Avenue just behind them. “Lincoln’s only steps away to the White House now,” he said with a wink.
Hattie sat back. “Thanks to you.”
“And you, Miss Lewis. You have proven yourself.”
She nodded, pleased. She’d been with the agency for nearly a year now, but the Lincoln plot had been her first major assignment, and one of national importance at that. Hopefully she had indeed finally shown her fellow agents what she was capable of.
The Pinkertons were off-duty for the inauguration, but Hattie could see many policemen spread far and wide over the city, watching for any sign of trouble. The day had dawned gray and rainy, but it was now bright and sunny. Just like our country: what began today in darkness as a fractured nation will now come together in light and jubilance under our new President. There were thousands of people spread on the grounds of the unfinished Capitol building: the vivid parasols of women sprinkled throughout the neutral suits of the men. When Mr. Lincoln appeared on the platform erected on the eastern portico of the building, the crowd greeted him with thunderous cheers. After the marine band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” Senator Baker introduced the new President. Mr. Lincoln walked to the front of the podium and bowed to the enthusiastic approbation. He put on his spectacles and rearranged the papers in front of him before beginning his speech. Lincoln’s booming voice had a musical lilt to it, and, despite her distance from his podium and the hordes of people in between them, Hattie could hear him clear as day. As she had predicted, Lincoln urged reconciliation and discouraged secession. He closed by saying:
We are not enemies but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patrio
t grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.
As he spoke, Hattie could not keep her eyes from shifting over to that fire-eating Texan, Senator Wigfall. If anyone was Lincoln’s enemy and not friend, it was he, who leaned against the Capitol building with his arms crossed over his chest. Hattie felt heat rise in her face. Texas was the most recent state to secede from the Union and, along with the rest of those deserters, had formed the Confederate States of America. Consequently, he should not have even been there. You have your own slave-holding, supposed president, Hattie thought. What do you want with ours? Wigfall made a sudden movement and Hattie pulled her bag, with the gun concealed within, closer. But Wigfall merely nodded to himself, as if he had made a silent decision.
Chapter 2
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 30