The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  Mary Jane wanted to ask her if she believed that was true. Coming from Maryland, Mrs. O’Melia could veer either way, or, as Mary Jane was beginning to suspect, she held no particular allegiance to either side and remained loyal as long as she was employed.

  Mary Jane went over to examine the gray granite fireplace. “It’s cast iron,” Mrs. O’Melia stated proudly, thumping it with her knuckles.

  Mary Jane was beginning to suspect that a lot of the adornments in the Executive Mansion gave off a grand surface impression that belied what they were underneath. Like Mr. Davis himself attempting to equate himself with Washington.

  Mrs. O’Melia led Mary Jane through the parlor, showing her how the pocket doors could separate it into two “twin” rooms if need be. “Mrs. Davis is in the room the Davises call the ‘snuggery.’”

  Mary Jane followed her into a smaller room lined with scarlet wallpaper. An elegant woman sat primly on a gold and red brocade sofa. Her pink dress contrasted greatly with her olive complexion and, as she focused her brown eyes on her new servant, she reminded Mary Jane of some of the mulattos, or “quarter-breeds” that she knew.

  Mrs. O’Melia curtsied. “Mrs. Davis, may I present your newest maid, Little Mary.”

  Mrs. Davis nodded a greeting. “You are from Miss Van Lew?”

  “Yes’m,” Mary Jane said. Knowing her place, she did not meet Mrs. Davis’s eyes and instead stared down at the white wool carpet.

  “It was very good of her to offer us your services,” Mrs. Davis continued.

  “Yes’m,” Mary Jane repeated, recalling the shyness most new maids exhibited upon arriving at the Van Lews. There, Mr. John and Miss Lizzie, as well as old Mrs. Van Lew, would ask the servants questions or carry on conversations with them, but Mrs. Davis acted as if Mary Jane was not even in the room when she informed Mrs. O’Melia that they would be having company, a Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut, over for tea that evening. “We will be served in the parlor after supper. You can have the new girl assist.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. O’Melia replied.

  This unfamiliar behavior continued when Mary Jane served the Davises the evening meal. Mrs. O’Melia had instructed her to stand in the corner when she was not clearing plates or delivering food from the kitchen. Mary Jane did as she was told, and it was as if she had disappeared into the shadows. When Mrs. Davis mentioned Mary Jane’s arrival, she did not bother to introduce her to Mr. Davis, simply stating that “a new maid had arrived.” Mr. Davis kept his austere blue eyes on his obviously much younger wife, and nodded, the somber expression on his gaunt face remaining unchanged.

  Mrs. Davis set her fork down. “I’m still not sure it’s enough, though, with so many of the help gone now and good maids hard to find.”

  “Don’t forget that everything is double the price now, Winnie.” Mr. Davis wiped his mouth. “These Richmonders are a tough lot. We don’t want to look extravagant in their eyes.”

  “No, but a woman has to have help. With the baby coming, the work will be all that much more come December.”

  Mary Jane didn’t bother to cover the shock on her face with the mention of such a private matter in front of her. It didn’t matter—the Davises obviously thought their slaves were invisible as well as deaf and dumb and paid her no heed unless they needed a refill. All the better to spy with, Mary Jane mused.

  Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut arrived after dinner and were escorted to the West Parlor. Mary Jane resumed her role of server/shadow, doing her best to blend in with the gold-embossed wallpaper.

  Once they were seated and the tea had been served, Mrs. Chesnut stated, “If what they say is true, and that every Southerner is the equal of three Yanks, we could be a match for twelve Union men right now.” She gave a gay laugh.

  “Yes,” Mr. Davis ventured, “From what I’ve seen in my experience so far and in the war in Mexico, we will do all we can do with pluck, dogged courage, and red-hot patriotism.” His tone did not match his enthusiastic words, however. To Mary Jane, it was almost as if he spoke by rote and did not necessarily believe in what he said.

  “Do you think the war will continue on for much longer?” Mrs. Chesnut asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Oh, but Jeff, don’t you think this war is already about played out?” his wife cried.

  “No, Winnie, I don’t. We are in for a long, bitter fight. We must not be fool enough to doubt the willingness of the Yanks in battle. Instead of them accepting defeat, Manassas seems only to have roused them—we have bruised their egos.”

  Mary Jane was cheered that even the leader of the Confederacy acknowledged the doggedness of the Union, but she did not think that this was the type of intelligence that Miss Lizzie or Mr. McNiven would be looking for.

  Mrs. Davis took a thoughtful sip of her tea. “If they hate us so, why don’t they just let us go?”

  Mrs. Chesnut answered, “They say that slavery is so horrid for the Negroes, but they don’t see that we are offering a better life than they would have had otherwise. Their intellect is far inferior, they aren’t cut out for much more than menial labor.”

  “Not to mention the North is the one who profited the most from our cotton,” Mr. Chesnut added.

  Mary Jane kept her eyes on the floor through most of the exchange, not wanting to meet the eyes of any of the conversationalists. But no one looked up to see her reaction on the topic of slavery. Most likely they didn’t think her reaction was one worth noting. Or else maybe they thought her inferior brain couldn’t process what they were saying.

  “Yes, it’s always about money with the Yanks, isn’t it?” Mrs. Chesnut agreed.

  “Still, they don’t fight for the fun of it, and once the war is no longer profitable for them, they will be ready to give in,” Mr. Chesnut predicted.

  Just then, two little boys ran into the room.

  “Jeff Jr. and little Joe,” Mrs. Davis set her teacup in the saucer. “Say goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut.”

  “Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut,” they called in unison. One of them looked to be about four and his brother was probably about half his age. They ran to the fireplace and placed kisses upon the white marbled women flanking each side.

  “They do that every night,” Mrs. Davis commented with a tone of motherly pride.

  “Adorable,” Mrs. Chesnut agreed.

  A white servant came into the room. “I will take them upstairs now, Miss.” Like Mrs. O’Melia, her accent was heavily Irish.

  “Thank you, Catherine,” Mrs. Davis replied.

  The conversation continued in much the same vein. The Southerners did not veer too much from chiding the Yankees and exalting their own way of life. Mary Jane marveled at their foolishness: the Southern ways would not last through the war if the Union army was as dedicated to avenging their stung pride as Mr. Jefferson said they were. One can only hope, Mary Jane thought after the Chesnuts had left and the Davises had retired. She crossed her fingers briefly before resuming her duty cleaning up after the Confederate president and his guests.

  Chapter 17

  Loreta

  October 1861

  Loreta left Front Royal for the headquarters of General “Shanks” Evans but was told there were no officer vacancies. Again she found herself without a regiment, and nothing to do but wait to see if anything should turn up. As she set up camp with the Confederates who were stationed southeast of Leesburg, she was ordered to the office of Captain De Caulp. Loreta immediately recognized the name: De Caulp had been her late husband William’s commanding officer and it was he who sent the fateful letter informing Loreta of his death. The tragedy of their first encounter notwithstanding, meeting him as Harry Buford greatly amused her.

  Captain De Caulp, a handsome man in his early 40s, had no idea that the dapper young man standing before him was not who he said he was. He seemed to take an interest in Harry and asked him several questions about his background. Again, Loreta was forced to make up a story on the spot, telling him that she belonged to the Mississ
ippi regiment. This seemed to satisfy him and the captain pulled a bottle of whiskey out from his pack and offered some to Loreta. She declined with a pat of her stomach. “I never drink anything strong: it doesn’t agree with my constitution.”

  Captain De Caulp poured himself some, saying, “A drink of the right kind of liquor now and then is a good thing, I think. Here’s to the Confederacy,” he said, raising his glass. He swallowed the contents without blinking an eye. Loreta watched, thinking that he was one of the most good-looking men she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Lieutenant Buford, you are more than welcome to turn in here if you haven’t been assigned to quarters.”

  Oh, if only I weren’t in the disguise of a soldier! “Thank you, sir, but I have my own tent.”

  “Well, be sure to visit often. I’ll be glad to talk with you.” Loreta couldn’t have agreed more. De Caulp nodded toward a map on the table. “Seems like we’re all in need of a good night’s sleep tonight, though.”

  Loreta focused her mind, trying to block out sinful thoughts of De Caulp. Even though she was a woman at heart, with all the needs of the female sex, there were other, more important things she had to accomplish first. “Are there Feds in the area?”

  “I’ve heard tell that General Stone’s troops have crossed at Edward’s Ferry.”

  Loreta nodded. “Well, I guess that means I best be heading to my tent.” Loreta put her hat on and then bowed. The masculine movement combined with the heaviness of her hat brought her back to reality. “Thank you again, Captain De Caulp. Goodnight.” Loreta strode back to her tent, shoving her womanly desires deep into her boots. She found her slave Bob fast asleep and shook him awake to tell him to be up by 3 am. “And be sure to cook plenty of provisions. I expect we’ll need them, as I can feel that something’s about to happen.”

  Only the white of Bob’s teeth were visible in the dim light. Although Confederate laws prohibited him from participating in battle, his appetite for other soldiery duties such as marching, cooking over a fire, and digging trenches was nearly equal to Loreta’s. Bob never spoke much of anything but sometimes Loreta caught him whistling at work. She supposed it was better than working as a field hand, or maybe it was the fact that he took a special joy in witnessing the white soldiers having to obey their superior officers just as a slave would a master.

  Loreta and Bob arose early the next morning. Presently the two began to hear the crack of gunshots.

  “If I’m not mistaken, the time for fighting’s coming soon,” Loreta told Bob.

  “Yessa, Massa Harry.”

  After having a hearty breakfast, Loreta left Bob and pushed in the direction of the gunshots, up Ball’s Bluff overlooking the Potomac River. At the top was a thick growth of trees and it was impossible for Loreta to discern which man belonged to which army. The woods seemed to be alive with soldiers. Colonel Burth and his 18th Mississippi regiment advanced on the left of the line while Lieutenant Colonel Janifer and his Virginians held the center.

  Loreta spotted a group of Rebels that seemed lost. “Where’s your officer?” she shouted at a private.

  He shrugged in return.

  Loreta cast her eyes around the line, and, spotting a gap, shouted at the men in the company to follow her. The line again complete, it seemed that there was little to no maneuvering to be done. Loreta set about keeping the men together to hold the line. The fighting continued without interruption for three taxing hours until at last the Confederate forces succeeded in overpowering the enemy near the end of the chilly October day. As the sun went down and the day became even more gray, the enemy suddenly broke. Instead of marching as an organized army, they became a confused mob running towards the edge of the cliff and the river below. The Confederates rushed after them, hooting and hollering the banshee shriek of the Rebels. Loreta’s sense of satisfaction overwhelmed her and she joined in the shouting as she ran, feeling no need to deepen the pitch of her voice. They pursued the Feds through the woods to the top of the bluff. General Evans gave the order to “drive them into the river or capture them.” Complying, Loreta advanced the company she’d taken command of, but as they neared the edge, she called them to a halt. The Union soldiers, backed up against the cliff with enemy weapons pointed at them, began plunging over the cliff into the cold waters of the Potomac below. Watching the helpless wretches reminded Loreta of the stories her father used to tell her about Indians pursuing buffalo over ravines.

  “Shall we shoot at them?” one of the men asked.

  Loreta cleared her throat and, in Harry’s voice, stated, “That would be favorable work, but I think they are badly whipped.” She glanced down below at the river. In the twilight, she could just make out men in dark uniforms floundering in the wide river. Her comrades around were whooping in victory. She gave an involuntary shudder. Despite the fact they were her foes, they were still human beings. And she was still a woman with no heart to bear the ruthless slaughtering of men. Hours before, these same Feds had fought valiantly and now there they were, suffering a slow death in freezing water. She turned away from the fiendish shouts of her men, blinking back tears. For the first time since she put on her uniform, she was thrown off guard and might have done something foolish to betray her secret. But then she caught a glimmer of silver in the little ravine directly below her. A Yankee sergeant crouching in the narrow crevasse was reaching for his pistol. If she hadn’t seen him, he might have shot her. Loreta leveled her musket at him. “No, you don’t! Drop that and come up here.”

  He gave an audible sigh before tucking the pistol back into his belt and scrambling up the side of the cliff. When he got closer, Loreta folded her shaking hands across her chest. Harry’s voice affected a bravado that Loreta did not feel. “If I wanted to do the dishonorable duty of murdering a prisoner, I would shoot you in a heartbeat.”

  “I don’t care whether you do or not,” the sergeant answered in a sullen tone. He watched the waters below, and then, pointing with a shaking finger, stated, “There goes my colonel.”

  Loreta watched the man he indicated, who was attempting to swim across the river. “What is his name?”

  “Colonel Devens of the 15th Massachusetts.”

  The two watched as the colonel struggled against the current of the river. Loreta fervently hoped he would reach the other side safely. She had seen enough death for the day.

  Other men did not seem to be as strong a swimmer as Colonel Devens and the night air was filled with the shouts of drowning men.

  Soon after she’d directed a soldier to take her prisoner to Captain De Caulp’s tent, a man dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant approached her. “Sir, I heard that it is you I must thank for taking command of my unit.”

  “Where were you?”

  “The Feds had taken me prisoner, but I made my escape in the confusion of their defeat.”

  Loreta narrowed her gaze in scrutiny. The lieutenant avoided her eyes and instead focused on the river. This and the sheepish tone to his voice led Loreta to believe the man was lying to her. He probably found a way to slink to the rear of the line to stay out of danger. He was just another dandy officer who strutted about the city streets in his uniform, the type of man who liked to show off by bullying the soldiers in their command but who panicked the moment a gun was fired. He ought to be court-martialed and shot, Loreta concluded to herself, but, knowing the hierarchy of a soldier’s life, she told him to report to the commanding officer to explain himself.

  She watched him as he sauntered off, grateful for at least a temporary distraction to the tragedy that was taking place below her. The Confederate higher powers will probably believe his lies, but hopefully someday he would pay for his betrayal. That man, and others like him, were a disgrace to the uniform. They felt themselves so superior to colored men, but Loreta knew a great many darkeys who would have fought more bravely than they, if given a chance. Bob especially.

  Chapter 18

  Hattie

  October 1861

  Hatti
e and the other Pinkerton operatives continued their investigation of Rose Greenhow, unraveling the secrets of her underground spy network. So far they had implicated a dentist, a banker, even a former clerk in the Department of the Interior. Greenhow had friends in high places in Washington City and Pinkerton’s largest fear was that she would be released from house arrest.

  When Hattie uncovered a note from Eugenia Phillips, wife of a former congressman with the unfortunate name of Philip Phillips, Pinkerton had her and her adult daughters arrested and confined with Greenhow. Although the women were forbidden to have contact with each other, they joined in chorus to sing “Dixie,” and other songs rebellious in nature. The women continued to insult their captors, even complaining about Hattie using a gas light to read her newspaper when on guard in the evening.

  Hattie showed Mrs. Greenhow some of the things the papers had written about her. Rose was particularly amused by the cartoons featured in Harper’s Weekly under the inauspicious title, “How to Deal with Female Traitors.” Some of their suggestions to keep the women in line included “Let them see but not touch all the latest novelties in Hats, Dry Goods, etc.” and “Make them wear very unfashionable uniforms.”

  “They don’t think much of women, do they?” Rose asked.

  “No,” Hattie replied. She folded the paper before tucking it under her arm. She decided to take advantage of Rose’s conciliatory tone and press further. “Did you have many other females working for you?”

  Rose waved her hand. “Nice try, Miss Lewis, but I refuse to incriminate anyone else.”

  “Don’t you understand you might be tried for treason?” she replied. “They might lessen your sentence if you give us more names.”

  “I am a widow and a mother. Only the Union would serve to persecute such a victim of their worthless cause as me. But let them come, I am ready for them,” she said, looking up at Hattie with her black eyes. As if she had foretold what happened next, the doorbell rang.