The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  Hattie soon excused herself as well. When she got back to the room and shut the door behind her, she took a deep breath. It had been a close call, but it seemed they had convinced McCubbin of their authenticity. For now, at least, Hattie told herself as she undressed.

  Chapter 26

  Mary Jane

  February 1862

  Jefferson Davis had initially been appointed president under a provincial government, but last November, he and his vice-president, Alexander Stephens, were elected for a term to last six years under the Constitution of the Confederate States of America.

  Mr. Davis’s official inauguration speech was scheduled for February 22, George Washington’s birthday. The day dawned gray and thunderous, fitting weather for such an occasion, at least in Mary Jane’s opinion.

  Mary Jane was not invited to attend the ceremony, but Mr. Garvin, as the Davises’ coachman, accompanied Mr. Davis and told Mary Jane afterward how the muddy streets were filled with people. “Businesses had been ordered to close and the trains ran overtime. It seemed all of the Confederacy had gathered at the Washington Monument in Capitol Square to witness their President be sworn in.” Mr. Garvin went on to tell her that Mrs. Davis had been dismayed by the arrangements he had made for her arrival. He’d ordered four more Davis servants to walk beside the carriage, two on each side, dressed in black suits and white gloves.

  “As though it were a funeral?” Mary Jane asked.

  Mr. Garvin grinned. “When Mrs. Davis demanded to know why they walked so slow, I replied, ‘That’s how we always does it for funerals and sich-like,’—as if I didn’t know the difference.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She told the men to go back to the house and change their clothes before resuming their normal tasks.”

  “Was she angry?”

  “Nah. I think Mr. Davis was amused, but it seemed to dampen Mrs. Davis’s spirits.”

  “Did Mr. Davis say anything about slavery in his speech?”

  The smile disappeared from Mr. Garvin’s face. “No. After he accused Lincoln of being barbarous for imprisoning what he called ‘peaceful citizens and gentlewomen’ for opinion’s sake, he then stated that the Confederacy has made no act to impair personal liberty or freedom of speech.”

  “A lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “Indeed. But the Southern crowd seemed pleased—their ending applause was louder than even the storm.” Mr. Garvin heaved a heavy sigh. “And now the Confederate Government is official.”

  “But at least they suffered a great loss with Fort Donelson.”

  “Yes.” A hopeful spark gleamed in Mr. Garvin’s eyes before it extinguished as abruptly as it had appeared. “I heard that the Confederates have been driven out of most of Tennessee.”

  Mary Jane clasped her hands together. “Praise the Lord the same will happen to Richmond soon.”

  Mr. Garvin nodded before bidding Mary Jane goodbye.

  That evening, the Davises hosted a reception. The mansion’s front hall overflowed with well-wishers waiting for their chance to speak to President Davis. Mary Jane’s job was to escort them as quickly as possible into the west parlor, where they were introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Davis by the President’s staff. After Mr. Davis greeted them warmly and his guests expressed earnest wishes for the welfare of the Confederate States, they were then escorted through the central parlor back to the hall and out of the mansion. The Armory Band was stationed on the lawn and filled the air with the notes of Confederate pride songs such as Dixie and Maryland, My Maryland.

  Chapter 27

  Hattie

  February 1862

  Timothy soon became a fixed part of the Richmond Confederate Contingency. He wined and dined with important Confederate leaders in an effort to continue the guise of Rebel courier. He’d tour the surrounding camps with his secessionist friends, returning to the hotel late at night to fill out detailed reports regarding troop numbers and movements. He always informed Hattie of the information he’d gleaned.

  “What about you, Hattie?” he asked as he was preparing to meet some of his Rebel friends, including Doc Burton, for drinks. “Have you been able to gather anything?”

  “Not anything of use. These women will gossip about practically anything, such as getting new fabric from the blockade, the high prices of food, even the weather, anything but the war.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “Is that so different from Chicago?”

  “From the women I knew, for sure.”

  “I know you were great friends with Miss Warne.” Hattie felt a tightness in her chest upon hearing Kate’s name. “Did you socialize much else?”

  She sat on the bed. “Not really. I leased a room in a boarding house, but I didn’t really talk with the other boarders often.”

  He settled into the desk chair. “Pinkerton hinted once that you had an intriguing back-story. I’ve come to realize that we know very little about each other.”

  “What of your family?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I do know that you are a master at changing the subject. I have a wife, Charlotte, whom I’ve been married to for over twenty years, and two children: one son and one daughter. My son is almost 18 and wants to join the Union army, but Charlotte won’t think of it. She says it’s enough to fret over losing one man in the war.” He sighed. “But of course there are plenty of wives and mothers who are worried about multiple loved ones… on both sides.” He stood up, placing his customary hat on his head. “I’d better leave for another suffering dinner with those secessionists.” He shot her a grin. “Although I’d probably find your conversation much more entertaining. Maybe someday you’ll tell me about your background?”

  “My story is not that interesting.”

  “Oh, but I’m sure that it is. There must be some explanation for the sadness behind those brown eyes.”

  Startled at his insight, Hattie cast those same brown eyes downward. “Mrs. Atwater invited me to dine with her and a few other wives tonight.” She’d managed to garner the friendship of Mrs. Atwater, the wife of Captain Atwater, who was also staying at the Monument, but, as she told Timothy, hadn’t been able to pick up any intelligence of worth from her or her associates.

  That night proved to be no different. Hattie met up with Mrs. Atwater and her companion Mrs. Mary Chesnut, whose husband was an aide to Jefferson Davis, in the dining room.

  As they were served dinner, Mrs. Chesnut told them that last week her husband had two of their slaves arrested for stealing whiskey, but when he’d then heard that they had spent the next few days lying on a cold prison floor without blankets or suitable covering, asked that they be released. She glanced about the room before leaning forward. “He then told the slaves to escape and even gave them money for shoes to run away with.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Atwater put a hand to her mouth. “What did you do?”

  “I told him that he just aided in a felony, but he replied, ‘Woman, what do you know about law?’” Mrs. Chesnut gave a tinkling laugh and Mrs. Atwater joined in.

  “Did you hear whether the slaves made it to freedom?” Hattie asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Chesnut returned. “John hired two more to take their place, so I suppose all is well.”

  Mrs. Atwater wiped her mouth with her napkin before replying, “I’m surprised more darkeys don’t try to escape, what with the Yanks so close and all.”

  “You’d think, to hear all those abolitionists talk, all the Negroes in the South would be marching over the border. But we’ve barely lost any,” Mrs. Chesnut replied.

  Hattie pushed her plate away as Mrs. Atwater harrumphed, “They expect from us Southerners a virtue they themselves never exhibited. The Northerners sold their slaves down river to pick more cotton for their mills.”

  “And they expect their freed colored to work and behave as a white man would,” her friend added.

  “But of course we know that will never happen.” Mrs. Atwater set her fork down. “Why, Mrs. Webst
er, is something wrong with your food? Your face has gone terribly white.”

  “I think something at dinner did not sit quite well with me.” Make that multiple somethings. She removed her napkin from her lap and rose from the table. “I think I will retire to my room and hope that I feel better in the morning.” She walked off, part of her regretting that she would have no chance to glean anything of value from the wives. But the other part could not stand to listen to their hateful conversation anymore.

  “Anything new to report?” Timothy asked when he returned to the room that night.

  Hattie sat up in the bed, carefully pulling the sheet over her chemise. “Besides the prejudice these women exhibit to the very source of their livelihood? No.”

  “I’m sorry.” Timothy sat down in the desk chair to remove his boots. “I can’t stand their talk any more than you. But the good news is that I’ve been given a pass to head south to Kentucky. I should be able to pick up a good amount of information on Confederate movements, as well as the state of the railroads down there.” He began undoing his tie. “Will you be okay here on your own?”

  Hattie nodded.

  Timothy retreated behind the wardrobe to change, as was their custom. He returned with the blankets and pillows he used to make his roost on the floor. “About your background—”

  Hattie reached over to turn out the light.

  Timothy’s voice had a hint of resignation. “G’night, Hattie.”

  She lay back on the pillows. “My husband beat me.” As comfortable as she had gotten with Timothy, she felt better about talking with the light off, especially as she would not have to see the sympathy that was sure to form in Timothy’s kind eyes as she told the story of her marriage and how she came to be under Allan Pinkerton’s employ.

  “I’m sorry, Hattie,” Timothy stated when she finished. “But I am grateful to your brother for rescuing you. There are many in this world who have no choice but to endure that kind of cruelty.”

  “I know,” Hattie said softly.

  As she tried to fall asleep that night, she couldn’t help but wonder about the fate of Mrs. Chesnut’s escaped slaves. She did agree with one thing those women had spoken about: she too was surprised that more slaves didn’t try to escape over the border.

  Timothy left early for his journey the next day. Hattie went down to have breakfast in the lobby, where she noticed Mrs. Atwater was reading the Chicago Tribune.

  “Why do you read such Northern trash?” Hattie asked her.

  “Because I find it amusing to read the slander they report about us Rebs,” she told Hattie. She tapped a headline regarding possible Southern movements. “Besides, this here tells us that there are spies in our midst.”

  “Spies?” Hattie asked, her heartbeat accelerating.

  “Oh yes, there are spies everywhere, how else would they know what type of defenses exist in Richmond?” She leaned in conspiringly. “Do you recall Mrs. Morton’s story?”

  Hattie shook her head.

  “They were living in Washington City when the war started. Mrs. Morton was under suspicion of being a Southern sympathizer, can you imagine? They set that rat Pinkerton onto her.”

  The mention of her boss jogged Hattie’s memory: Pinkerton had Scully and Lewis investigate the house. Although they didn’t find anything incriminating, the government exiled the entire family anyway. The Mortons evidently had relocated to Richmond.

  “But enough discussion about the war.” Mrs. Atwater placed a gloved hand over Hattie’s. “I know that Mr. Webster will be out of town these nights. My husband and I are hosting a tea this evening and would love for you to attend.”

  Hattie’s smile was authentic. For weeks she’d been attempting to infiltrate the ranks of Richmond society. So far the ladies had proved unfruitful, but perhaps there would be something to be gained from associating with the fine Southern gentlemen of the Confederate capital.

  Hattie took great care in dressing for the tea, choosing her best petticoat and dress, a green and yellow striped calico print. After arriving at the Atwaters’, Hattie soon realized that having tea was really a euphemism for downing bourbon aperitifs. When Mrs. Atwater introduced Hattie to her husband, Hattie could tell from his lingering gaze that he would be easy enough to charm. She waited until he was on his second glass of bourbon before inquiring about his purpose in Richmond.

  “I oversee the Tredegar Iron Works,” he replied. He took another swig of bourbon. “Of course, I’d rather be at the front, killing Yanks, but duty necessitates.”

  Hattie knew that Tredegar was the largest iron manufacturer south of the Mason Dixon line and assumed that it supplied munitions to Confederate troops. “Oh, I’d love to see where our Rebel guns are made,” she said sweetly, adding an eye bat for effect.

  He placed an arm across the fireplace, causing him to be closer to Hattie than polite society would approve of. “Of course, I’d be happy to escort you. Would tomorrow work for you, knowing your husband is away on business?”

  “That would be delightful,” Hattie stated, taking a casual step back.

  Atwater dropped his arm as his wife sauntered over. “Caroline, I’ve just invited Mrs. Webster on a tour of the iron works.”

  Mrs. Atwater placed a hand over her bosom. “Why, Husband, I’ve been asking you to take me on a tour for weeks now.”

  Hattie reached out to squeeze Mrs. Atwater’s hand. “I wouldn’t dream of going without you.”

  Atwater cleared his throat. “It’s settled then. Tomorrow morning at nine, we will pick you up at the Monument and proceed to Tredegar together.”

  Hattie straightened her shoulders. “Wonderful.”

  But when Captain Atwater met her in the lobby of the hotel the next morning, he greeted her with sincere apologies that he had been summoned on another mission. “To see a test of an underwater boat, what they’ve been calling a submarine,” he added.

  “Oh, I’m sure I would enjoy that very much,” Hattie replied.

  Atwater’s eyes lit up. “Would you? Mrs. Atwater had no interest and insisted on staying home.”

  Hattie clamped down her obvious enthusiasm at seeing the Confederate secret weapon. “Well, that is as long as there would be no danger.”

  “None at all,” Atwater assured her. “And I’m sure there will be other ladies present at the waterside.”

  Hattie seated herself in the carriage across from Atwater and one of his servants. Atwater asked Hattie several questions about her background, which she answered as best she could while the servant remained silent, his eyes cast downward.

  When they arrived at the designated spot on the James River a few miles south of Richmond, Hattie noted the abundance of men in Confederate uniforms. As Atwater had predicted, there were quite a few well-dressed women milling about. A weather-beaten dinghy sat in the middle of the flowing river in front of them.

  The crowd hushed as a man in civilian clothes stepped onto a platform. He introduced himself as William Cheeney, and began informing the crowd of what they would see. He gestured to a floatation device located near the shore and told them that the submarine was just below. The float had been painted a dark blue, “to match the surface of the water,” Cheeney explained. Hoses affixed to the device would supply air to men while they were in the submarine and also while they were submerged outside of the boat. According to Cheeney’s description, the submarine would be directed to approach an enemy ship. The navigators—a crew of only three—would then leave the vessel suited in full diving gear and attach explosives to the side of the target. At first, Hattie felt relief: the whole thing sounded far-fetched—like something out of a novel. Cheeney directed their attention to the barely discernible floating apparatus, which had now reached the dinghy in the middle. Cheeney explained that the divers were attaching underwater magazines containing gunpowder. Assignment completed, the crowd stared in bewildered silence as the float moved away from its mark.

  Hattie was still watching the maneuverings of the
floating device above the submarine when she heard a deafening sound. To the crowd’s delight and Hattie’s secret horror, the dinghy had exploded. Cinders of what had once been wood and cloth drifted toward the astonished onlookers on shore while the remains of the dinghy sank into the river.

  After the roar of the crowd died down, Cheeney explained that the underwater vessel was a prototype. A larger submarine was nearing completion and would soon be targeting the federal gunboats that guarded the mouth of the James River. “The South will be able to move freely, trading cotton and tobacco with England, without the fear of Northern blockades.”

  Hattie bit the inside of her lip as she realized the lethal implications these submarines could have on the Union. If they took out the blockade, the Confederacy could then turn their weapons of destruction up river to Washington City. She had to somehow pass this information up North, but how? Timothy had already left on his courier mission. She was so deep in thought that she did not notice the gray uniformed man shaking hands with Atwater. He lifted his chapeau off his head as Atwater introduced him. “Mrs. Webster, may I present Major Lawton.”

  Hattie could not prevent her mouth from dropping open in recognition. The man, formerly known as Captain Lawton, the one who featured a prominent place in Hattie’s dreams, bestowed a dazzling smile. “Mrs. Webster?”

  Hattie recovered herself as best she could and offered her hand. “Indeed.”

  “Have you two met before?” Atwater asked.

  Major Lawton’s hands were soft as he held Hattie’s hand to his lips for the briefest of seconds. “A long time ago. Would you be of relation to Timothy Webster, the Rebel dispatcher?”

  Hattie tucked her now free hand into her skirts. “He is my husband.”

  “Ah,” Lawton said. The two once staunch abolitionists stared at each other as the Southern sun dropped lower in the sky. Although nearly four years had passed since Hattie had last seen him, he looked as handsome as ever, as if he had just stepped out from her imagination. Hattie tried to read what was written behind Major Lawton’s brown eyes, but he remained inscrutable. Did he know she was a spy? If so, would he give her away? If not, did that mean he supported the Confederate cause?