The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Have you any further commands, then, Boss?” Webster asked.

  Pinkerton’s shrewd gaze fixed on the would-be couple. Hattie dropped Timothy’s arm. “No, Tim. I have no other commands, other than for you to take care of yourselves. And each other.”

  Webster buttoned up his winter overcoat. “I’ll try to do that, sir.”

  Chapter 21

  Mary Jane

  December 1861

  Mrs. Davis had given birth to a son, William Howell Davis, nicknamed Billy, in the beginning of December. To her credit, she still planned a gathering at the mansion to celebrate the holiday a few weeks later.

  The morning of the party, Mrs. Davis was dismayed to hear that the busts and friezes she had ordered from Europe had been seized by the blockade. “I’ll have to cancel it: I cannot have such important guests seeing an empty ballroom,” she wailed as she wrung her hands in distress.

  They had opened the doors that separated the parlors so that it was one big, still vacant, room. Mary Jane paused her dusting of the mantel. “I have an idea, Mrs. Davis.” Mary Jane walked out of the room and returned with several trinkets that had been made by soldiers and given to the First Lady throughout her many hospital visits.

  Mrs. Davis pawed through the items and picked up a wood carving. “I suppose it’s better than nothing,” she consented. “And they can’t possibly say anything about my spending on these. Let’s put this statue over the fireplace.”

  Mary Jane did as she was told. She was so busy in her decorating that she forgot about Mr. McNiven until she happened to glance at the clock on the mantle. “The bakery truck!” she gasped before she hurried outdoors.

  Mr. Garvin, the coachman, was standing beside the truck, holding a tray of muffins. He winked at Mary Jane when she arrived, gasping for breath.

  “Don’t you worry about nothin’ Little Mary,” Mr. Garvin said with another wink. “Mr. McNiven and I go way back.”

  Mary Jane gave him a tentative smile, unsure if he knew the real reason why Mary Jane made it her mission to meet the baker every morning. Mr. McNiven handed her a loaf of bread, but did not say anything else.

  The guests that evening included the Chesnuts, Secretary of War Judah Benjamin, Mrs. Davis’s sister, Maggie, and various other associates that Mary Jane didn’t recognize. They gathered in the large parlor to enjoy eggnog, port, and ginger snaps, their gossip centering on the recent incident of the Union navy seizing passengers from a British mail ship off the coast of Cuba. Two of the captives had been newly appointed Confederate envoys to England and France. Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Chesnut were convinced that the incident would be the impetus they needed for England to take up arms against the North.

  Even though the hour was late when Mrs. Davis finally dismissed her servants, Mary Jane was still fretting over the possibility of England joining the war and knew that sleep was not going to be forthcoming. She took the leftover port with her to the outbuilding.

  Mr. Garvin was sitting on the steps of the servants’ quarters, smoking a cigar. “How was the party?” he asked Mary Jane in between puffs.

  She sat next to him on the steps. “It was a party.”

  He picked up the cup next to him, dumping out the water and holding it out to Mary Jane, who filled it with port.

  Mr. Garvin took another puff on his cigar before asking, “You learn anything good to report to Mr. McNiven?”

  Mary Jane’s eyes widened against her will.

  Undaunted, Mr. Garvin continued, “I know all about Mr. McNiven’s, shall we say, ‘underground’ activities.”

  Mary Jane stood up and looked around the garden.

  “It’s all right, we’re safe out here.” He set down his cigar on the steps to take a sip of port. “In the big house, no. You must watch out for Mrs. O’Melia and the children’s nurse. We’re not sure if they would report anything to the Davises. But here, we are all friends. Some of them in there,” he indicated the outbuilding behind them with his thumb, “are planning to run when they get the chance. And most of them aided the ones that already left.”

  “Did McNiven help too?”

  Mr. Garvin shook his head. “He did before the war, for sure. Helped my wife and son escape when they was still slaves under another master. But now that Mr. McNiven’s attentions are otherwise occupied, he doesn’t want to do anything that would look suspicious to the rebels.” He picked up his still smoldering cigar and examined it. “Mr. Davis gave it to me as a Christmas present,” he stated before putting it back in his mouth.

  “That was… kind of him,” Mary Jane said, for lack of anything else.

  He shrugged. “Kind enough.”

  “Are you still here because of your loyalty to Mr. Davis?”

  “No,” he let out a breath of smoke. “I reckon I’m here same as you.”

  Mary Jane gave him a sidelong glance, trying to ascertain his true meaning, but it was so dark that his expression was masked.

  “Mr. McNiven ain’t the only acquaintance we have in common. Did you know I used to work for the Van Lews?”

  “No,” Mary Jane gasped out. “I don’t think—”

  “You wouldn’t have remembered me. You were but a baby when I got my freedom. But I knew your ma. She too wanted to leave, but Miss Lizzie wouldn’t let her. Miss Lizzie wanted to oversee your education herself.”

  Mary Jane nodded. “She sent me up North when she couldn’t teach me anymore.”

  “And what did you think of Liberia?”

  Not for the first time Mary Jane wondered how Mr. Garvin knew so much. She put her hand on the railing and traced her finger up and down the simple design. “I hated it. Much as I hate what the South stands for, I missed America. They brought our forefathers here, tore them apart from their families in Africa, and enslaved them and their descendants. Now that some of us want to be free, they don’t know what to do with us. Their best solution is to send us back, not to let us make a home for ourselves here. Not to let us be free in our adopted country. So I came back to try and make that happen.”

  “Someday, little girl, someday we will all be free. And with your and my assistance, maybe that someday will come sooner rather than later.” He stamped out his cigar on the steps. “If you ever need any help, remember you’ve got friends.”

  Mary Jane wanted to inquire more about her mother, and if he knew anything about her paternity, but she was afraid of Mr. Garvin’s answers. “What happened to your son and wife?” she asked instead.

  He drained the rest of his port. “My wife died a long time ago. My son was a freedman up North, but he risked all that to come back and be part of Mr. McNiven’s courier service.”

  Mary Jane tightened her grip on the railing. “They could arrest him or worse, have him hanged.”

  He stood up. “He knows that. But he’s real stubborn, my son. He won’t listen to nobody but that inner voice inside of him. Reminds me of you in that way.” He tipped his hat to her. “G’night, Miss Mary Jane,” he said before going inside.

  Chapter 22

  Belle

  January 1862

  The incident over the whiskey made headlines. Belle was pleased to read that the “bloody fracas” had occurred between rivals for her “stimulating donations and sweet smiles.” Belle’s mother, however, had a different take. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to be a spy. Not to mention dangerous.” Still worried over her daughter’s safety, Mother arranged for soldiers on leave for the holiday season to accompany Belle to the various parties and celebrations.

  Belle thoroughly enjoyed the season—especially the brief flirtation with the older Dr. Cherry, who had proposed to her shortly after the holiday. Belle told her friends and family they would be married next February, more out of boredom than any particular conviction. But what she really wanted was for spring to come, and, with that, the continuation of the war. She was restless and had grown weary of being under her mother and Mauma Eliza’s never-ending guard. At least the war provided the pleasure of peril, as w
ell as both grief and joy.

  Her cousin James, on leave from the army, offered to chaperone her and Dr. Cherry for a day of riding in mid-January. But as they came to a clearing, a gunshot sounded, and though it was barely audible from their distance, it spooked Fleeter. He began galloping away. Belle shouted at him to stop, pulling hard on the reins, but Fleeter kept going, taking Belle deeper and deeper into the Valley, and closer to the Union lines. Belle managed to look back once during a break in the trees but did not see her cousin or Dr. Cherry following her.

  When Fleeter finally slowed to a canter, Belle heard a voice shout, “You there!” She sighed to herself upon catching sight of a few Yankees standing guard underneath a pine tree.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Belle said in a breathless voice. “My horse was frightened and ran away with me on him.” She patted the sweaty steed. “I beg you to permit me to return to my friends.”

  One of the men walked up to Fleeter. “You have a beautiful horse.” Belle’s grip tightened on the reins—she’d heard of Yankees stealing horses at their whim. The young man continued, “And you yourself would have made a beautiful captive, but we would never think of detaining you.” He glanced up at Belle and she noticed his kind brown eyes. “Are your friends with the Rebel army?”

  Belle nodded.

  “It is no matter.” He nodded at his companions. “May we have the honor of escorting you back? That is, if you promise those cowardly rebels won’t take us prisoner,” he added with a wink.

  Belle managed a tiny smile at the Yankee. How dare he say cowardly and Rebel in the same sentence! “A pass would have been just as well. But if you insist on becoming my escort, I shall do you the honor of accepting.”

  The Yankee mounted his horse and fell in line with Fleeter and Belle as another soldier trotted just behind them. As soon as they got back into Confederate territory, Dr. Cherry and James approached. All four men were startled, each of them glowering at each other.

  “Here are my ‘cowardly Rebel’ friends whom you were afraid of meeting,” Belle told the young man before turning to her cousin. “James, may I present to you two Yankee prisoners?”

  The young man’s astonished gaze fell on Belle. “May I ask the name of our beautiful captor?”

  She touched her skirts as if to curtsy while seated. “Belle Boyd.”

  The young man drew in his breath. “Are you none other than the Rebel spy we’ve heard so much about?”

  “I am indeed,” Belle replied, pleased that her reputation had finally preceded her. Belle accompanied Dr. Cherry and James as they escorted their newfound prisoners to headquarters.

  “That seems a bit heartless, even for you, Cousin,” James told her after the Confederate officer in charge had decided to hold the Yankees for questioning.

  “All’s fair in love and war,” Belle replied, thinking that perhaps the Yankee would learn that her friends were not so cowardly after all.

  That incident was the only one to liven up Belle’s winter. When the Yankees once again occupied Martinsburg, Belle’s mother decided she would be safer with her aunt in Front Royal, especially given Belle’s spreading reputation. Mother was able to obtain passes for them to travel from the Union provost marshal, an old family friend, and, in late January, Mauma Eliza and Belle took a carriage to Winchester. As soon as Belle stepped aboard the train that would take her to Front Royal, a blue sleeve reached out to grab her arm.

  Belle was about to raise her voice in protest as a short man with sideburns demanded, “Am I in the presence of Miss Belle Boyd?”

  “Yes.”

  The man’s eyes traveled from Belle’s boots to her bonnet. “I am Captain Bannon, assistant provost. I have orders to detain you.”

  “But sir, we have travel passes.” Belle dug them out of her bag and showed them to the man.

  “Ah.” Captain Bannon’s face dropped in confusion. “These are from the Provost himself.”

  “Yes sir.” Bannon realized that Belle’s pass superseded the orders he had been given and let her proceed to her seat unmolested.

  It was almost dark when the train arrived. Belle was dismayed to find that the bridge spanning the Shenandoah River had been destroyed and the only ferry operating at that hour was one run by Union soldiers. Belle produced her pass again and, despite being exhausted by the day of traveling, managed to arrange passage to Front Royal.

  Her uncle had managed the Fishback Hotel for years, and, in his absence, the duties fell to Belle’s aunt, Mrs. Fanny Stewart. Belle had expected Aunt Fanny to be waiting up for her to arrive, but when Belle stepped into the front room, she noticed a fleet of federal officers.

  “Where is Mrs. Stewart?” a tired and hungry Belle demanded.

  A man with a droopy mustache approached her. “I am Captain Keily, Miss…?”

  “Boyd. I am Mrs. Stewart’s niece.”

  Keily bowed. “Please to make your acquaintance. You will find Mrs. Stewart in the back cottage.”

  Belle narrowed her eyes. “And why is that?”

  “Front Royal is now under the Union control of General James Shields. He has commanded the use of your aunt’s fine hotel as his headquarters.”

  Belle faked a smile. “In that case, please give the general my regards and tell him I hope he finds his stay welcoming.”

  “Will do, Miss Boyd.”

  Belle did an about-face as Mauma Eliza followed her outside, carrying her bags. She struggled to keep her balance on the narrow brick walkway that led to the back cottage.

  Although she’d heard distasteful gossip about the fifty-one-year-old General Shields and his preference for young females, Belle decided to make his acquaintance anyway. When he paid a call on her aunt, Belle chatted with him, finding him to be a polite Irishman with a good sense of humor.

  After exchanging pleasantries about the hotel accommodations and the town in general, Belle asked if he could grant her a pass to Richmond. Shields laughed. “I would not dare trust a beautiful woman like yourself to the Rebel’s tender mercies.” He helped himself to more cake before adding, “Luckily we will have annihilated them in a few days, and then you can wander wherever you please.”

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” he continued, spilling a crumble of cake onto his whiskers. “We will be meeting tonight at your aunt’s very own hotel to plan TJ Jackson’s and his army’s demise.”

  Belle put a hand to her mouth. “I see.” She let her eyes travel the length of his coat. “I don’t suppose you’d have any buttons to spare for a little Southern girl like me?” A Union officer’s button would be a nice addition to her collection.

  Shields ripped one off and handed it to her before rising from the table. “I best be getting going. The best laid plans and all.” He tipped his hat to her before he left the cottage.

  That night, Belle stole out of the cottage and glided up the brick walkway to the hotel. She made her way to an upstairs closet, which was positioned right above the drawing room. A small hole had been carved into the wood floor a long time ago and now Belle lay down to put her ear over it. Below her she could hear the men greeting each other before getting comfortable in their seats. Finally, the men began discussing their intentions. She heard someone mention that Stonewall Jackson was making his way toward Richmond.

  “McClellan too, is coming in,” another voice replied.

  Belle listened carefully, at times halting her breathing so she could hear every word. She wished she could sit up to write the information down, but in doing so, she might miss something important. She forced herself to memorize every minute detail, trying to ignore how hot it was in the closet and the ache in her body from being in its cramped position for so long. Shield’s cigar smoke crept its way through the tiny hole to assault Belle’s nose and twice she had to pause her listening to sneeze and then wipe her nose on her uncle’s scratchy old coat.

  The men finally said their goodbyes and adjourned well past midnight. Belle waited until the last chair scra
ped the floor and then got up and stealthily made her way back to the cottage, stretching out her sore body once she made it to the brick walkway. The cool night air felt like heaven after the stuffy, mothball-scented closet.

  She knew this was the most pertinent information she had managed to gather thus far, and, likewise, Colonel Turner Ashby, commander of the 7th Virginia cavalry and the head of General Jackson’s intelligence committee, needed to be informed of it as soon as possible. Luckily Belle had garnered a pass to go beyond the lines from Captain Keily earlier in the week.

  She pulled at the stays of her corset, unlacing it as fast as she could, and stepped out her skirts. In mere moments she was redressed in her male garb. She tiptoed to the stables and chose a horse. She had heard that Colonel Ashby was staying with an acquaintance of Belle’s aunt about fifteen miles away.

  Although she was stopped twice by Union officers, they let her go after just glancing at the pass and she arrived without incident at Ashby’s lodgings at about three in the morning. No lights were on at the house, and it took a few minutes of Belle banging on the door to arouse someone.

  “Who is it?” a male voice finally called from an upstairs window.

  Belle backed up from the porch to peer at the speaker, but it was too dark to discern who it was. “It is I, Belle Boyd. I have intelligence for Colonel Ashby and must speak to him at once.”

  “Wait one moment.” The speaker disappeared from the window and reappeared at the front door. “Come, come,” the man said, motioning to Belle. Once inside, he asked how she came about looking for Colonel Ashby at this hour.

  “I have no time to tell you about that. I must see Colonel Ashby now.”

  “Good God!” someone called from the top of the stairs. Belle turned to see that Turner Ashby, dressed in a nightshirt and wiping the sleep from his eyes, was making his way down. “Miss Belle, is that really you or am I dreaming?”