The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  Loreta set her mug down on the table, attempting to match the general’s aggressive tone. “You would be surprised at how many girls appreciate a refined man.”

  “Are you implying that I am not a refined man?” General Peters rose from his chair with some difficulty and loomed over Loreta.

  Loreta had spent enough time amongst the male species to discern that most men with exalted family names who thought themselves great were usually not, and that patriotism was a very thin disguise for egotism. A man who is a true gentleman will continue to act gentlemanly even in the dispiriting midst of warfare, but one who merely claims to be a gentleman will soon reveal the scoundrel concealed within at the earliest sign of strife. Loreta could see that the soldier standing before her would be the latter type—a lackey to his superiors, a bully to those who served under him, a coward during battle, and a thief when given the opportunity.

  Loreta did not wish to indulge in his drunken insults, but at the same time, she had no wish to get into a brawl with him. She’d quickly learned at camp, where petty jealousies were even more pronounced than they had been at her all girls’ boarding school, that a bully delighted in antagonizing one he didn’t think would fight back.

  Loreta replied, “See here, sir, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, so if you would please go away and let me be. Otherwise I will make it worse for you.”

  The general’s eyes narrowed with inebriated passion. “What d’ya mean ‘worse’ for me? I can lick you and a dozen more like you.” He began swinging his arms wildly. Loreta instinctively backed away as Captain De Caulp stepped in. “I think Harry and I will adjourn for dinner.” He grabbed his jacket off the stool. “You men have a good night.” He put a comforting arm around Loreta and guided her out of the saloon.

  The simple, nonchalant contact from the captain had a not-so-simple effect on Loreta’s insides. She thought back to her contention that she’d met every kind of gentleman. Scratch that—she never before had met the likes of Captain De Caulp.

  After a pleasant supper at a nearby restaurant and the resultant cigars—or cigarette in Harry’s case—Captain De Caulp grew impatient and begged Loreta to meet his intended. Not being able to think of a valid excuse, Loreta finally agreed and the two set off down the boulevard.

  When they arrived, a servant greeted them and showed them into the parlor. Loreta took a tentative seat, folding one leg over the other perpendicularly, the way she’d observe other men do at such an occasion.

  Two young ladies soon entered. As De Caulp seemed more enthusiastic in his greeting to the petite, towheaded Miss Margaret Miller, Loreta tried to converse with Miss Emmeline Carter, a brunette with large, fawn-colored eyes. Miss Carter soon proved herself very reticent and bashful and, as Loreta herself was far from ease, conversation proved incredibly cumbersome. Soon Miss Carter left the room and returned with a darkey bearing a tray of apples. Loreta was grateful for the distraction, for De Caulp and Miss Miller, who hitherto had been in the corner, deep in conversation, came over to enjoy the apples.

  “Let’s see who can eat their apple the fastest!” Miss Carter commanded.

  They each began to chew the fruit down to the core. De Caulp was the winner, Loreta noted, wiping juice off her chin with the back of her hand.

  “Now we can read our fortunes.” Miss Miller twisted her core in half and then counted the seeds within. “I got five.”

  “Oh, that means a marriage is in the works for you, Maggie!” Miss Carter announced.

  That’s the most I’ve heard her speak all night, Loreta thought.

  De Caulp gave Miss Miller an earnest look, which, Loreta noted, she deliberately ignored, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

  De Caulp had three seeds in his apple, which Miss Carter said foretold bad luck. Loreta shifted her eyes to see Miss Miller’s reaction. Instead of looking sympathetically at De Caulp, Miss Miller met Loreta’s gaze squarely. “How many seeds did you have, Lieutenant Buford?” she asked.

  “Four.”

  She put her hand on Loreta’s arm. “That implies a great surprise is in your future.”

  Her forwardness surprised Loreta, but she was quickly seized with an idea and assumed Harry’s best smile before giving Miss Miller a wink.

  De Caulp cleared his throat. “Margaret, do you mind if I talk to you?”

  Miss Miller gave Loreta’s shoulder a squeeze before dropping her hand. De Caulp attempted to seize it, but she folded her arms in front of her as she followed him into the corner.

  “What do you suppose they are talking about?” Loreta asked Miss Carter, crossing her fingers out of sight. Miss Miller certainly did not seem to care as much for De Caulp as he did for her.

  Miss Carter, clearly resorting back to her shy ways in the absence of the apple seeds, shrugged.

  Loreta sat down, watching the couple in the corner. Miss Miller still had her arms crossed, her head and neck held in a stiff posture. Loreta could hear a pleading tone in De Caulp’s voice but she couldn’t discern what he was saying. His voice rose in protest as he threw out his hands. Miss Miller shook her head.

  De Caulp appeared beside Loreta, his voice resigned. “Are you ready to leave, Lieutenant Buford?”

  Loreta jumped from the couch. Miss Miller and Miss Carter escorted the two to the door. When Miss Miller bid them farewell, she grasped Loreta’s hand with more strength than their brief interaction had justified and bid her to call again as De Caulp’s frown deepened.

  Loreta’s assumption that her ploy had worked was confirmed when she asked De Caulp what was wrong.

  “We had a falling out,” he said, a fervent tone in his voice. “She stated she ‘did not, could not, and would not, love me.’” He stopped in the street and faced Loreta. “Do you suppose some other fellow is cutting me out?”

  Mainly me, Loreta thought, but she threw an arm about his shoulders. “Don’t spend too much time thinking about one girl, Captain,” she replied. “I’m sure there are plenty of other belles that would fall at your feet.”

  “Thanks. And, seeing as we’re friends, you can call me Tom.”

  “And I’m Harry.”

  Tom nodded. “Ain’t women damned deceitful things?” he continued. “A fellow has to give a girl so much attention, buying her all kinds of little presents. It takes a sight of trouble and women are so fickle a species that it is almost impossible.”

  Loreta sighed loudly as a sign of solidarity, but inwardly she was thinking that she would like some male attention and little gifts, especially if they were from Tom. “We ought not to complain about women being what they are. After all, our mothers were women.”

  Tom shot a grin her way. “True, true. A good woman is better than the best of us men. I suppose we’ll have to put up with it.”

  They’d reached the hotel, and Loreta gave Tom a playful swat. “I wouldn’t give up on all women, just Miss Miller.”

  He nodded. “G’night, Harry.”

  “Night, Tom.”

  As Loreta was making her way back to her room, inspiration again overcame her. Grabbing a quill and a sheet of paper, she wrote Tom a letter from the widow Loreta, stating that she was in the area and remembered the kindness he extended when William died. I’m all alone in a strange city and was hoping to meet up with a friend. Do you suppose we could have dinner? She named a different hotel and suggested that he come by to visit the next day. She sent Bob down to the front desk to have the letter delivered to Tom’s room, making the slave promise not to say who it was from.

  Loreta rented another room at the Gayoso Hotel and spent the day purchasing a dress, parasol, and all the trimmings of a well-dressed woman, including the biggest bonnet she could find in order to hide her short hair. The clothing felt foreign and greatly constricting. Loreta summoned a Negro female with hot water so she could bathe and remove her mustache glue. She then used powder to lighten her swarthy complexion. When she was done, the darkey helped her get dressed. “I’ve forgotten how hard it is to b
reathe in these things,” she gasped as the negress tied her corset.

  “Yes’m,” replied the darkey.

  “Can you also curl hair?” Loreta asked, patting her short coif.

  “Yes’m.”

  “It’s desperately important I look my best tonight. I’m about to meet my future husband.”

  The darkey said nothing as she got to work, coiling the front of Loreta’s hair with tongs heated over an oil lamp. Loreta gazed in the looking glass, shocked to see a woman staring back. “I’m beautiful again,” she said aloud.

  “Yes’m.”

  Loreta, who had forgotten the darkey was still there, dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

  Tom seemed as equally pleased with Loreta’s appearance when she entered the dining room that night. As he kissed her hand, he stated, “William always talked about his gorgeous wife, but I had no idea his exalted words would be so inadequate.”

  Loreta blinked several times, as if to hold back tears. “Oh, my poor William. I’ve been so lonesome and afraid since his death.”

  Tom extended a handkerchief to her. “I’m sorry to hear that. I trust his inheritance finds you able to survive?”

  Loreta delicately wiped at each eye. “I have enough to get by. My father also put me back in his will after hearing of William’s death, although Lord knows what will happen to his investments now that I’m the only heir.” She carefully sat in the chair Tom held out for her, unaccustomed to the weight of her skirts. “God rest both of their souls. And tell me about you, Captain De Caulp.” She was careful to not call him by his first name. “What have you been doing since last I’ve heard from you?”

  He took a seat across from her and began to explain what company he was in and that he was in the area because they were expecting the Federals to make a move.

  “The Yankees?” Loreta put a hand over her décolletage, noting that Tom’s eyes followed her movement. “I shall fear for my life.”

  “Never. I would never let those blue devils harm a woman.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.” Loreta put a flattering hand on his arm, searching for a way to change the subject. “Do you have a girl you will write to while you are at the front?”

  “I did, but I’m afraid she is unworthy of my love.”

  “Oh, how could she?” Loreta dusted off long forgotten powers of coquetry, channeling the masterful Miss Boyd. “I would consider it a most desirable position if I were to be your pen pal.”

  Tom’s face brightened. “Would you now? I would be delighted to have a beautiful woman such as yourself to write to. Have you a daguerreotype I could carry around to remind myself of your face?”

  Loreta nodded, digging through her reticule to retrieve one. “I’m sorry it’s rather dated—I haven’t found the time to sit for a new one.”

  Tom accepted the proffered picture with an eager hand. “Thank you. I could send one of me to your room if you’d like. The talk is that the Union army is planning to attack Corinth, Mississippi, and I will most likely need to leave for the front soon.”

  Loreta didn’t tell him that she would have no need for his picture as she intended to fight the Yanks by his side, but she replied, “I shall have a hard time forgetting your face, but please do send one to me.”

  Loreta never received the picture as the next day Harry and Tom, accompanied by Bob, set off for the field. Heavy spring rains had deteriorated the roads and their progress was slow.

  Loreta’s heart was glad to be near Tom again, and she wished she could reveal herself to him, knowing that to do so would mean giving up her chances at glory. She realized, however, she could get Tom’s true opinion of Loreta. “What did you get up to last night?”

  “I met up with an old friend’s wife.”

  “Oh?” Loreta put a hint of impropriety in her voice.

  Tom glanced at her. “It’s not like that. Her husband died, leaving her a widow. And, from what she says, a hefty amount of inheritance.” He looked wistfully toward the horizon. “I intend to marry her as soon as I am able.”

  “You love her?”

  “Indeed.”

  That was enough confirmation for Loreta and she decided to drop the subject, thinking the more he spoke about her, the more tempted she would be to drop the charade of Harry Buford. They had to halt in a small village called Monterey located halfway between Corinth and their destination: a little meeting house just outside the federal picket lines called Shiloh Church.

  Chapter 30

  Hattie

  April 1862

  Timothy returned a few days later. He’d first gone to Fredericksburg to deliver the Confederate messages, making detailed reports on the troops assembled there before crossing the Potomac at Monroe Creek to drop off said information to Pinkerton in Washington City.

  “The Confederate troops are in rather dire straits, with sickness and low morale,” he told her. “They’ve passed a conscription law, meaning that Southern men are being drafted. I’ve heard people in Virginia speculate that—with their men gone off the plantation—the slaves are going to rise up in rebellion.”

  Hattie sat up in bed, thinking again of Aaron and Major Lawton. “John Brown would finally be avenged.”

  “But of course they won’t. I’m surprised more slaves don’t leave, what with the Union army only miles away. I wish they would.”

  She gave him a wistful smile. “Someday they will all be free.”

  He opened his carpetbag and began to unpack. “Anything of note happen here while I was gone?”

  Hattie was pleased to tell him that, for once, she had made her own progress. She filled him in on the submarine demonstration and about Major Lawton leaving to deliver the information to Washington.

  Timothy nodded. “I had heard that Lawton was in town. But how did he know to contact you?”

  “He’s an old friend of my brother’s.”

  “Ah,” Timothy said slowly. “I didn’t make the connection to John Brown before.” He nodded to himself. “Lawton’s a trustworthy man. He’ll be able to get that intelligence to Pinkerton and McClellan. What they do with it from there is not our job, I guess.” Webster’s tone carried an uncharacteristic bitter note to it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Timothy sat heavily in a chair. “President Lincoln and General McClellan are at odds with each other. McClellan may be the head of the Army of the Potomac, but politically he is a democrat and, while I wouldn’t say he is pro-slavery, he is not exactly against it.”

  Hattie gasped. “How could that be?”

  Timothy’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t know. McClellan wants more and more power, but Lincoln, probably rightfully so, refuses to give it to him. And Pinkerton, for reasons still unknown to me, refuses to see the general for what he is.” Timothy paused to take a long sip of water. “McClellan is excusing his lack of offense on the fact that the Union army is outnumbered, but I can’t see how he could possibly think that. In my last report, I put the Confederate forces at around 60,000, yet McClellan claimed they were 200,000, a gross exaggeration.”

  “Why are the numbers so off?”

  “Either the Boss is amplifying the intelligence we give him, or McClellan is lying.”

  Hattie lay back and stared at the ceiling. “Neither way helps our cause.”

  “No.” Timothy took a long breath. To Hattie, it was not quite a sigh, more of an attempt to get more air in his lungs. “Despite their radically different views, it seems the Boss will back McClellan right into a Southern victory.”

  Hattie watched as he took yet another long sip of water. “Timothy, are you feeling all right?”

  He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m just tired from the trip is all. A long night’s rest will set me right.”

  “You should take the bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  He set the glass of water on the table and retrieved the quilt he used from the closet. “I would never. You take it. G’night, Hattie.”

  “Good night
, Timothy.”

  Hattie woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of labored breathing. “Timothy?” she called out in the darkness.

  “Hattie,” he gasped. “Can you possibly get me a glass of water?”

  She retrieved the glass as well as a washcloth, wetting both of them in the hallway sink. When she returned, she knelt beside her partner. “Timothy, you’re burning up!”

  “It’s my rheumatism,” he gasped out. “It started after I helped those women cross the river last winter. I guess it’s come back to haunt me.”

  Hattie insisted that Timothy move to the bed and he was too weak to argue. She spent the night in his nest on the floor, snatching sleep in between refilling his water glass and re-wetting the washcloth before placing it back on his forehead.

  Timothy stayed in bed all the next day while Hattie fetched the doctor, who confirmed what Timothy had told her. “Inflammatory rheumatism. His joints have swelled to the point where it is difficult for him to walk.”

  She glanced at the sleeping patient. “Will he get better soon?”

  “It is difficult to say.” The doctor picked up his bag. “The symptoms come and go on their own, but it is something that will most likely occur off and on for the rest of his life. The best you can do is keep him hydrated and make sure he gets plenty of sleep.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” She escorted him to the door and then grabbed the water glass by Timothy’s bedside. As Hattie left the room, she nearly walked straight into a man standing in the hallway. “Oh, sir, I’m sorry.”

  “Mrs. Webster, it is entirely my fault.” He extended his hand. “We’ve met before, albeit briefly. I am Captain McCubbin. I will be your neighbor now.”

  “Of course,” Hattie said. He was the same man that followed them around Richmond their first morning. She placed a clammy hand into his.

  “Is everything all right?” McCubbin asked as he released his grip. “You seem to be in quite a worry.”