The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “What do you think Pinkerton’s got in store for us?” she asked Kate.

  Kate’s blue eyes were wide. “Have you heard that Colonel Ellsworth was killed in Baltimore? The secessionists are rioting. They’ve been burning bridges and they even cut the telegraph wires connecting Baltimore to Washington.”

  Hattie sighed. “I thought Maryland hadn’t seceded.”

  “I’ve seen firsthand how those rebels can sow the seeds of revolution,” Kate had been undercover in Baltimore for weeks prior to the Lincoln incident, pretending to be a Southern belle and cultivating friendships with the wives and daughters of high-ranking Confederates.

  “That’s about the only thing they don’t need slaves to sow.” The voice belonged to John Scully, Hattie’s least favorite co-worker, a red-bearded Irishmen who was about Hattie’s age. “Right, Warne?” The man had spoken Kate’s last name, but his eyes were directed at Hattie.

  “Lewis,” Hattie replied pointedly. Although the two women had become fast friends the moment Hattie had started at the agency, they looked nothing alike. Kate was slightly taller than Hattie, with short blond hair and expressive blue eyes. Kate was graceful with all the confidence in her abilities that Hattie seemed to lack. Her broad, honest face, lightly sprinkled with freckles, caused fellow operatives and criminals to easily divulge confidential information. Scully should have known better, anyway: his frequent partner on missions was Pryce Lewis, an Englishman, of no relation to Hattie despite the shared last name. Had Hattie realized there was another operative named Lewis in the office, she would have chosen a different nom de guerre.

  Pinkerton cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, and... ladies.” The inclusion of Hattie and Kate was, as always, an afterthought, but Hattie could hold no ill will toward her boss, who was the only man in the world as far as she knew who hired female detectives. “We have been asked to perform a task of great importance. Due to the destruction of the telegraph wires leading to the Capital, Mr. Lincoln has asked me to personally oversee communications from Chicago to Washington. A messenger must be dispatched immediately. It will not be an easy task by any means, but one that will be of honorable service to our country.”

  At these words, Hattie sat up in her seat. She had no sentiment that she would be chosen for the monumental task, but she had a slight inclination it could be Kate.

  “Mr. Webster will be traveling to Washington to offer our services to begin what I’m calling a ‘secret service.’” Pinkerton held up a sheet of paper. As Webster rose to accept it, there was a murmur of approval from the rest of the department followed by a modest ovation.

  Hattie gave her friend the tiniest of smiles. In truth, Webster’s operation was going to be quite dangerous and rebels would not look in favor of a woman trying to get through the lines by herself, pass or not. Kate winked at her and then turned her attention to Webster.

  Hattie had not spent a significant amount of time with Timothy Webster, but she knew of his spotless reputation. With his graying hair and eyes beginning to crinkle at the sides, Webster looked to be in his late 30s or early 40s. His eyes were the type of blue that appeared gray at a distance. Surely that, combined with his tall frame, would make him stand out in a crowd and render him nearly useless as a spy. Still, Hattie thought, there was something about his good-naturedness that made you instantly trust him.

  Pinkerton turned to the detective to ask, “Timothy, knowing what you know of the task that lies before you, will you undertake its performance?”

  Webster drew up to his full six feet. “I understand all perfectly.” Even from where Hattie sat, she could see his gray-blue eyes flash. “If my country demands my services, I am ready to perform my duty, even if it costs me my life.”

  Pinkerton nodded, the slight upturning of his mouth indicating he was pleased with Webster’s response. “Miss Lewis.” His eyes searched the audience before landing on Hattie. “Your presence is requested.”

  Hattie’s heart thumped in her chest and she rose and stepped forward. Would this be her big break—her chance to avenge the Union? “Yes, Mr. Pinkerton?”

  Pinkerton gestured to Webster, and the latter shed his jacket and waistcoat, a well-toned chest and arms were visible beneath his shirt. Hattie dropped her gaze to the ground in an attempt to maintain her modesty, looking up just in time to see Pinkerton grab a pile of papers from the table beside him. He handed them to Hattie. “These will need to be sewn into the linings of Mr. Webster’s finery, if you do not mind.” Without a word, Mr. Webster extended his accouterments toward Hattie. Shoving the sheaf of papers most unladylike under her arm, she accepted them.

  Chapter 8

  Belle

  July 1861

  A week passed after the soldier was killed. Belle’s fear of Union reprisal diminished with each day that went by without incident. But one morning she had just walked downstairs when she espied a group of soldiers making their way up the front path.

  “Dear God,” Mother said when she also caught sight of the brigade. She folded her hands in front of her and said a quick prayer before opening the door. “May I help you gentlemen?”

  “Is this the Boyd residence?” a man in a Yankee officer’s uniform asked.

  “It is indeed. I am Mrs. Boyd.”

  He pulled a notebook out of his satchel. “I am General Patterson and these are my men. We have been dispatched to ask you and your daughter a few questions about what happened during the afternoon of July 4th.”

  Mother stepped aside and gestured for the men to enter. The man in charge caught sight of Belle on the staircase. He touched the tip of his hat. “You must be Miss Boyd. We’d like to query your mother first, if you don’t mind.”

  Belle nodded but did not move from her post as the men and her mother went into the parlor. Mauma Eliza came into the hallway.

  “Remember, Mauma, if they question you, make sure you tell them what the German was trying to do to Mother.” The three women had prepared what to say if the Union soldiers came back. Southerners would never dare take a slave’s word, but Belle made sure Mauma Eliza had her story correct backwards and forward should the Yanks dare to question her.

  When it was Belle’s turn to meet with the men in the parlor, she made it clear that shooting the man was her only means of protecting both her mother and herself. Luckily the men did not ask her if she felt any sorrow for what she had done, for Belle held not even a shadow of regret for killing the German. His blood had left not a shadow of burden upon her conscience nor any stain on her soul.

  At long last, General Patterson sighed before closing his notebook. “I apologize if Private Martin threatened you harm. I never met the man, but as he was a Union soldier, I doubt he was intent on hurting you or your mother.”

  “But we will never know, will we, sir?” Belle kept her voice light.

  “No.” General Patterson gazed at the stain on the floor that, try as she had, Mauma Eliza could not get rid of. “We never will know now. Next time, I advise you to trust in the jurisdiction of the Union before you go killing any more of its soldiers.”

  Belle bit her tongue from insisting she would never trust a Yankee. She pasted on her most saccharine smile. “I wouldn’t be able to anyway, sir. Your soldier has confiscated my pistol.”

  General Patterson stood. “That is for the best.” He nodded at one of his men who stood in the corner of the room. “We will establish a watch outside the Boyd home just in case.”

  To Belle’s both horror and delight, men were stationed at all hours outside her home. Martinsburg was still under Union control and the federal flag flapping in the square was visible from the Boyds’ upstairs windows. Every time she set eyes on that flag, her indignation grew, and she became determined to do what she could to rid her town of the Yankee soldiers.

  Lucy Buck, an acquaintance of Belle’s, visited for lunch a few days later. Lucy’s brother had a furlough after Manassas Junction and had shared stories of the Confederate victory. Belle laughed aloud when Lu
cy spoke of the Yankees who had ventured out to watch the battle brandishing picnic baskets and wine.

  “I guess they must now realize that we will not be defeated,” Belle said, taking a bite of a sandwich.

  “Indeed. And when General Jackson stood his ground, General Bee likened him to a stone wall. Now that’s what they are calling him: Stonewall Jackson.”

  Belle smiled. She had always had a sweet spot for General Jackson.

  “And did you hear?” Lucy continued. “The intelligence that helped us win Manassas was provided by a Southern lady living right inside Washington City.”

  “What was her name?” Belle asked.

  “A Mrs. Greenhorn?”

  “Rose. Rose Greenhow.” Belle was familiar with her reputation, having spent last winter in Washington. Mrs. Greenhow’s parties were the most exclusive, the kind every debutante such as Belle aspired to attend.

  “A girl just about our age was the one who delivered the missive. Bettie Duvall,” Lucy continued.

  “Ah.” Belle wrinkled her nose, picturing the thin-boned Bettie, fragile as a bird. “I’m surprised she had the nerve.”

  Lucy picked up her tea. “Many of us find strength to do what we can for the cause.”

  Belle nodded. She longed to contribute something other than sewing, killing a drunken Yankee notwithstanding. She wanted other Confederate women to discuss her own daring at tea, to applaud her for her bravery and sacrifice.

  That evening, Belle and her mother were invited to meet General Jackson himself at Ramer’s Hotel. When the general entered the parlor of the hotel, everyone rushed to greet him at once. Belle hung back, watching while small children pulled at his trouser legs and daughters and mothers batted their eyelashes as they curtsied. Stonewall Jackson was a thin man, dressed in a tattered single-breasted coat. An equally shabby cap was flung over his eyes so coldly blue they were nearly gray. He was a somber man who rarely smiled, but he good-naturedly let some of Belle’s mother’s friends cut off his uniform buttons for souvenirs, joking that this was the first time he’d been attacked at close range. Finally, Belle saw her chance to approach the general. She walked over and held up a bouquet of wildflowers. “General, do you have any more buttons to spare for my own collection?” She did not have a collection yet, per se, but having one of the respected general’s buttons would be an auspicious start.

  Jackson threw his head back as if to laugh, but no sound came out. He held out the flaps of his coat like a pauper. “No, ma’am. Not a one.” Belle could see the vest underneath had also been robbed of buttons.

  Belle batted her eyelashes. “Maybe next time we meet then?”

  Jackson nodded before turning to yet another demanding admirer.

  Belle watched as his heavily lined face smiled at the newcomer. He was not a handsome man, but his kindness made him attractive. Belle made a vow that there would be another meeting between them.

  The next morning, Belle was pleased to note that the Union trooper standing below her bedroom was young and, despite his homely and ill-fitting blue uniform, handsome. “You there,” she called from the opened window. She waved a lace handkerchief at him as he looked up. “What is your name?”

  He saluted her. “Franklin Smith.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Ohio.”

  “What’s that?” Belle held a hand up to her ear for good measure. “I can hardly hear you.”

  “Ohio,” Smith shouted.

  “Oh bother.” Belle hurried downstairs to continue the conversation.

  If Smith was startled to see her at street level, he did not show it.

  “Is it terribly hard to be so far away from your wife?” she asked him with a bat of her eyelashes.

  “I’m not married.”

  “Your girlfriend, then.”

  “I’ve not one of those either.”

  Belle tilted her head. “How could such a fine-looking soldier be unencumbered?”

  The man shrugged. “I was just out of military school when the shots at Fort Sumter were fired.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Belle asked Smith a few more questions about himself in a lilting voice before warming up to the subject of the Union army. She pretended to brush a piece of lint off of Smith’s coat before asking his opinion on General McDowell. “Is it true he is trying to reorganize his scouts?”

  “He had a great plan for Bull Run, but most of his troops weren’t experienced enough to pull it off. The people in Washington are calling for his removal. They are talking about replacing him with McClellan.”

  Belle nodded sympathetically, repeating the name McClellan in her head so she would not forget it.

  That night, as soon as Mauma Eliza bade her goodnight, Belle re-lit the candle and went to her writing desk. She quickly wrote down everything Smith had told her. She resolved to have Mauma Eliza deliver her letter to General Jackson’s camp in the morning, thinking that the Yankees wouldn’t question a Negro servant on an errand for her mistress. She was not sure whether the information would be of value, but that was no matter. General Jackson could glean what he could. She paused in her furious writing for only a moment, considering what she was doing might be treason in the eyes of the Union. It is no matter, she thought, dipping her quill back in the inkwell. It is not treason in the Confederacy. And, after all, if they did not hang her for the murder of one of their own, what harm could a note written by a mere woman do? She signed her name and blew out the candle before retreating to her bed.

  Chapter 9

  Hattie

  July 1861

  Webster successfully reached Washington and returned to Chicago carrying a message from Mr. Lincoln in a hollow walking cane. Although Lincoln had stated that his services would be a great help to the government, Pinkerton’s obvious excitement at the prospect diminished each week that went by with no further communication from Washington.

  Finally, a letter came from General George McClellan, newly appointed commander of the Army of the Potomac, directing most of the Chicago operatives to report to Washington City for an undisclosed period of time. Hattie’s heart soared when Pinkerton read the missive aloud to the office. It was finally going to be her time to serve the Union!

  Pinkerton went on to explain that their immediate concern was whether Kentucky’s neutrality was to be maintained or whether the state would become hostile to the Union. In addition, McClellan had requested intelligence regarding Confederate troop numbers, equipment, and intended movements.

  “He says Washington City is teeming with spies and it is his suspicion that intelligence provided by them resulted in our terrible loss at Bull Run. We are packing up the entire operation and moving to the Capitol.” Pinkerton added as he set the sheet of paper down on a nearby desk. “Oh, blessed be McClellan for his fortitude in seeing the necessity of our service.” He nodded at Webster. “Tim and I will go as soon as possible to set up operations in Cincinnati. Mr. Bangs will stay here to run our daily operations.”

  “Of course, Boss,” George Bangs confirmed. “War or no war, the criminals will still need to be apprehended.”

  With those words, Hattie’s heart sank like a brick and she shot a worried look at Kate, who returned a hesitant smile before focusing on Pinkerton.

  “Miss Lewis,” Pinkerton rose and headed to his inner office. “Will you help me sort what to pack?”

  Hattie followed him, determination setting in her soul like a red wine stain.

  “Are you acquainted with McClellan personally?” Hattie asked, tucking papers into a carpetbag.

  “Indeed,” Pinkerton rubbed his chin as he cast his eyes about his office, most likely wondering what else to bring to his new place of operation. “Our acquaintance goes back to when he was vice president of the Illinois Central Railroad. I know him to be a fair and intelligent man.”

  As she picked up his ledger, she caught sight of a newspaper. “Mr. Pinkerton?”

  “Hmm?” he returned, obviously distracted with the task of packing.<
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  “You are aware that some of the suspected spies are female?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir.” Pinkerton finally met her eyes. “Don’t you think that you would need females in Washington City?”

  “Yes. Miss Warne…”

  “I would like to come.” Even Hattie was surprised at the commanding tone of her voice. “The Secret Service will need the kind of finesse only a woman could bring.”

  Pinkerton covered his mouth with his hand and stared at a space above Hattie. “Of course,” he said finally. He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” He gave an uncharacteristic chuckle as he shut his carpetbag. “Did you hear that my dear? This would-be barrel maker is going to head the President’s Secret Service!”

  “Yessir!” Hattie’s enthusiasm matched Pinkerton’s as she realized she would indeed have a chance to help President Lincoln in saving the Union.

  “Do you trust Pinkerton?” Hattie asked Kate when they had settled on the train to Ohio.

  Kate looked at her friend, her blue eyes curious. Thus far, Hattie had only told Kate the superficialities of her story: that she was originally from Connecticut and was married at a young age and moved to “Bleeding Kansas” at the desire of her new husband. “I’ve never had cause to doubt the Boss,” Kate replied. “What is your opinion?”

  Hattie gazed upward. “I trust no man more than Allan Pinkerton. Except maybe President Lincoln.”