The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  Loreta purchased several dresses as part of her trousseau, choosing a smart gray dress trimmed with blue ribbon to wear during the ceremony. They were married in the parlor of the Gayoso in front of a few soldiers from the hospital. In the end, the couple declined to consummate their marriage that night, thinking it wisest to wait until Tom had recovered a bit more.

  The morning after the ceremony, they were just about to depart for breakfast when there was a knock on the door. Loreta opened it to find the desk clerk.

  He seemed agitated as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ma’am, we are evacuating the hotel. The Yankees are marching toward Memphis as we speak.”

  “The Yanks are coming?” Tom asked, coming to the threshold. “But we just got married.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the Union army doesn’t wait for a convenient time to invade.”

  Tom nodded as he shut the door. He began packing his army-issued knapsack.

  Loreta asked him to untie her corset.

  “Why?”

  “So I can put my uniform on.”

  “Loreta, you are a married woman. You can no longer keep up the guise of being a soldier.”

  She turned to face him. “I’m going with you. We are going to fight side by side just like we did at Shiloh.”

  “I was almost killed at Shiloh, remember?”

  “And you are still not quite recovered. I can make sure you are protected.”

  “No. You have served your country well enough, but we both know what life is like in camp. You cannot continue to risk endangering your reputation, nor mine.” The corners of his mouth turned upward, lessening the sting of his words. “I’ll fight twice as hard this time, for the both of us.”

  “What will become of me?”

  “What about your family?”

  Loreta shook her head. “I can’t go back to New Orleans.”

  “And your inheritance?”

  Loreta shook her head again. She’d spent the last of the money William had left her on her trousseau, and her father had written her out of his will a long time ago.

  Tom sat on the bed. “You will go to Richmond. I have a house there. It’s not large, but it is comfortable. You can make it into a home so that when I return we will live out our lives together.” He patted her hand. “And we can finally be together the way God intended.”

  Loreta assented, seeing it futile to argue now that Tom was officially her husband. It was true she should not be living a soldier’s life anymore. She helped him to finish packing and kissed him goodbye before shoving the rest of her woman’s clothes into a carpetbag.

  Chapter 45

  Belle

  July 1862

  Belle did not have much recollection of departing from her mother nor the train ride to Washington City. She vaguely recalled Cridge sitting across the aisle from her, but not much else. She remained in a sort of half-awake state, doing the minimum to get by, but not much else. All she could think about was how she was leaving her family and friends, her material pleasures—indeed, everyone and everything that she loved, to the will of the enemy.

  Belle had once spent a winter in Washington City, and the city had changed little, despite how much the country around it had. The Capitol building was still unfinished and Belle recognized many of the beautiful houses which she had spent time in as a debutante.

  The jail of Belle’s final destination had once housed members of Congress during their sessions. Now the brick exterior hid its inmates: smugglers, blockade runners, and political prisoners alike. And a Confederate spy, Belle thought to herself upon arriving.

  She was immediately presented to William Wood, the superintendent of the prison. Belle found him to be a short, ugly man in an ill-fitting uniform. “So this is the celebrated Rebel,” he confirmed with a flash of his strange hazel eyes. “I am beyond pleased to welcome a woman of your reputation.”

  Belle nodded, unsure of how to interpret his statement.

  He continued, “Whatever you desire, ask and you shall have it.”

  Belle curtsied and thanked him, thinking perhaps prison life wouldn’t be as horrifying as she predicted.

  Wood led her to her cell, informing her that Rose Greenhow’s old cell was on the floor above hers. He promised Belle that she would most likely not be there for long, especially if she became a model prisoner. He placed a small pamphlet on the bedside table before leaving, shutting the door gently behind him.

  Belle picked up the pamphlet and traced her finger over the title: Rules and Regulations of the Old Capitol Prison. She flipped through it, her eyes falling on a tenet stating she was to have “no communication whatsoever with fellow prisoners.” She let the document flutter to the floor before glancing up at the cracked ceiling. She’d read of Rose’s imprisonment—the Virginia newspapers had carried stories of starvation and mistreatment of Mrs. Greenhow for months. Belle had thought she’d receive similar treatment, and hoped the Southern newspapers would also make her a martyr. She had not been prepared for a somewhat kindly superintendent and a room that was not so different from the one in her aunt’s cottage. But perhaps if she did not act the “model prisoner,” she’d receive harsher treatment.

  She heard the march of boots outside her door. Finding it unlocked, she opened it to see a sentry standing adjacent to her quarters. “Sir,” she commanded.

  “Yes, Miss Boyd?”

  “I’d like for this fireplace to be lit.”

  “But it’s the middle of July.”

  “Superintendent Wood told me I could have whatever I desired and I desire a fire to warm my chilled bones and brighten up this dreary room.”

  The soldier looked up and down the empty hall. He sighed to himself before entering and did as Belle wished.

  “Anything else?” he asked in a sarcastic tone when he had finished.

  “I would like a rocking chair.”

  The soldier shook his head as he left. Belle went to the window, noting that it offered a view of Pennsylvania Avenue. She recognized one of the houses across the street as belonging to John Floyd, the secretary of war under the previous President James Buchanan. During the winter she had spent in the city, Belle had attended many a party at that house, bedecked in beautiful dresses with her hair neatly pinned. Compared to her memories of the boisterous parties, at which her voice was probably the loudest of them all, the room seemed eerily silent, the crackling of the fire the only other sound besides Belle’s own breathing. The silence was mercifully interrupted when the rocking chair was delivered.

  Belle expected a meager dinner of bread and water, but the meal included fresh vegetables as well as meat and potatoes. After dinner, Superintendent Wood knocked on her door. He was accompanied by a man he introduced at Lafayette Baker, who called himself the chief of detectives.

  Belle invited them to sit before stating, “I thought a man named Pinkley was the head of the Union secret service.”

  “Pinkerton?” Baker waved his hand. “No. He’ll be lucky if he’s not kicked out of Washington City entirely for all the mistakes he’s made. I’m authorized under Secretary of War Stanton.” He unfolded a small notebook and leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve come to get you to make a full confession of what you’ve done to our cause. As we’ve got plenty of proof against you, you might as well acknowledge what you’ve done.” His voice held the twang of a frontiersman.

  “Sir,” Belle said. “I have nothing to say.”

  “Ain’t you tired of your prison already?”

  Belle shook her head. “I will make my statement when you have informed me on what grounds I have been arrested and given me a copy of the charges against me. But not until then.”

  Baker dumped a document on her lap. Belle picked it up, holding it between two fingers. It was a copy of the Oath of Allegiance to the United States of America.

  Baker began to expound on the implications of Belle’s supposed crimes and finished by saying the South’s cause was hopeless. “W
on’t you now take the oath of allegiance? Secretary Stanton has sent me here to ensure that you do.”

  Even through Belle’s anger, she saw that the men had left the door standing open. She thought of Rose’s time in prison, and how her vocal denouncement of the Yankees had ended up in the paper. Seized with the sudden desire to emanate her idol even more, Belle declared loudly, “Tell Mr. Stanton that Miss Belle Boyd has stated that when she commences the oath of allegiance to the United States Government, her tongue may cleave to the roof of her mouth.” She took a breath before adding, “If I ever sign one line that will show to the world that I owe the United States Government the slightest allegiance, I hope my arm falls paralyzed by my side.”

  Baker’s lower jaw dropped. He gave her a long penetrating look with his colorless eyes before stating, “If this is your resolution, you’ll be here until you are dead. Serves you right.”

  Belle raised her head and met his gaze. “Sir, if it is a crime to love the South, its cause, and its esteemed president, then I am a criminal. I am in your power, do with me as you please.” Her voice escalated in sound with every word. “But I fear you not. I would rather lie down in this prison and die than leave it owing allegiance to such a government as yours.” It was time for the crescendo. “Now leave the room for I am so thoroughly disgusted with your conduct towards me that I cannot endure your presence any longer.”

  “Bravo!” Both Wood and Baker’s heads turned as cheers echoed up and down the hallway. As intended, Belle’s fellow prisoners had overheard her tirade.

  Superintendent Wood turned to Baker. “I think we’ve had enough for tonight. The lady must be tired after her long journey.”

  “We will continue this presently,” Baker sneered before leaving, banging the door shut behind him.

  Belle paced anxiously around the room. She could feel the presence of past senators, who might have stayed in the very room she was now imprisoned in. Perhaps John C. Calhoun had written his statements favoring the states’ right to secede here. Or perhaps Henry Clay had brainstormed the Compromise of 1850 while staring into her fireplace. Some solution that was—by allowing California to join the Union as a free state while at the same time strengthening the Fugitive Slave Act to please the South, it only delayed the inevitable. What if they had decided to fight it out then and there, way back in 1850? The conflict would have been over already, Belle figured, and she’d be married to a nice Southern man, not completing a prison sentence in the Northern Capital. But there’s no use in dwelling on what might have beens.

  The combination of her stressful pacing and the activities of the past few days exhausted her. As she lay down in the cramped bed, the earlier exchange with Baker replayed in her head. She was quite pleased with the outcome: though Baker had left furious, Superintendent Wood had appeared bemused. Belle closed her eyes and recited lines from a poem her father used to read to her:

  Stone walls do not a prison make,

  Nor iron bars a cage;

  A free and quiet mind can take

  Those for a hermitage.

  Chapter 46

  Hattie

  August 1862

  More and more prisoners taxed the already overcrowded Castle Godwin. At the end of the summer, Hattie was informed that she was being transferred to the newly appropriated Castle Thunder. The latest addition to Richmond’s military prisons was located a few blocks from the notorious Libby Prison and consisted of three buildings. Hattie was installed in the former Whitlock’s warehouse, along with about 100 other female prisoners, mostly women like her who were accused of being spies or “suspicious characters” as well as escaped slaves.

  Hattie’s new roommate was a loquacious older woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Francis Abel Jamison of New York. After asking Hattie to call her Frankie, she revealed that she had followed her husband to war and had fought for the Union in the Battle of Bull Run, but after he was killed, she had left the army to become a nurse. Finally, she concluded by stating that she’d been in prison since October of last year.

  “Under what pretense?” Hattie asked.

  “I was still in male disguise, so they arrested me.” She puffed out her chest. “It took them a while to figure out that I was a woman.”

  Frankie could curse like a man and often directed her vitriol at the guards, who were not quite sure what to do with her. Hattie was more amused by her than anything else. As the weeks dragged by, Frankie tried to suss out “Mrs. Webster’s” story, to no avail.

  One day as Frankie was telling another one of her stories, a guard dropped a packet on the floor.

  Frankie paused her diatribe to demand what was in the packet.

  “Letters for Mrs. Webster,” the guard remarked.

  Frankie raised her eyes at Hattie. “From your family?”

  Hattie shook her head as she picked up the packet and untied the ribbon. There were six envelopes in all, addressed to her at Castle Godwin, and dating back to April.

  “Who is Major Lawton?” Frankie asked, picking up one of the envelopes.

  Hattie snatched it back. “An acquaintance of my husband’s.”

  She easily opened the first one, for the seal had already been broken. The single page inside contained multiple creases, evidence that at least one other pair of eyes had read it. Hattie scanned the letter before letting it drop to the floor. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Frankie picked it up and began reading.

  My Dear Auntie,

  I am sorry for not writing before, but I was not sure whether you would be able to receive my letters. The Yanks scour all letters addressed to Richmond, especially to prisoners. You’ll be happy to hear that my sister, your niece, Susannah, is on the mend.

  Yours affectionately,

  Hugh Lawton

  Frankie set the letter down. “What’s wrong with that? It sounds like your niece is doing better.”

  “I don’t have a niece, nor a nephew for that matter.”

  Frankie narrowed her eyes. “So this supposed nephew or, acquaintance of your husband…” She picked up the letter again. “Where have I heard the name Lawton before?” A look of understanding came to Frankie’s face. She went to the door of their room and opened it, looking out to see that there were no guards in the vicinity before she walked back and dug her fingers between her bosom, muttering to herself.

  Hattie watched her, bewildered both by the mystery letter and Frankie’s actions. Her roommate finally pulled a tiny bottle out of her décolletage. She put the letter on the desk and turned her back toward the door, blocking what she was doing to anyone outside of their cell. Hattie stood and watched over Frankie’s shoulder as she uncapped the vial and smeared a cream-colored liquid onto the paper. Soon words appeared in the blank space at the bottom of the letter.

  My Dear Mrs. Webster,

  I have heard about the dire circumstances of Mr. Webster and I want to extend my sincerest apologies. Rest assured that our previous activities resulted in stopping our enemy’s naval attempts. I hope that your fate has not turned you against such future activities, and if not, I look forward to working with you again. I also want you to know that our authorities are attempting to secure your release.

  The signature remained unchanged.

  Frankie and Hattie turned to each other. “How did you—” they both started at once.

  “Well, well, well.” Frankie stated. “You are definitely not what you claim. You were aware of your husband’s activities as a spy for the Union?”

  “He wasn’t my husband,” Hattie finally admitted. “And why do you have that with you?” She gestured toward the vial Frankie had curled in her hand.

  Frankie cocked an eyebrow. “I too am a Union spy. Sometimes the best way to avoid suspicion is to act as dubiously as you can.”

  Hattie didn’t think it necessary to retort that Frankie had apparently done a poor job of avoiding suspicion, seeing as she was currently in prison.

  “I’ve heard the name Lawton before.”
Frankie whistled a low note. “He’s a fine man, in multiple ways.”

  “He’s—”

  “I know, I know. He was an acquaintance of the man who wasn’t your husband.” Frankie picked up another letter off the floor. “Let’s see what else he had to say.”

  Hugh’s next correspondence contained terse remarks regarding the leadership in Washington City, stating that “the men in charge are never in agreement.” Consequently, he was having a hard time obtaining clemency for Hattie.

  “By men in charge he must mean McClellan and Lincoln,” Hattie mused.

  “McClellan. What an ingrate,” Frankie said. “And his lackey Pinkerton, he only served to confirm McClellan’s whining.”

  “Pinkerton was my boss.”

  “That stooge?” Hattie cringed at her coarse words as Frankie continued, “Why’d you work for him?”

  Hattie knitted her eyebrows. “You didn’t?”

  “Nah. Pinkerton’s not the only one claiming to be in charge of Washington City’s detectives.” She nodded at Hugh’s letter. “And with the kind of mistakes he’s been making, his good friend McClellan shouldn’t be head of the Army of the Potomac for much longer.”

  “Pinkerton’s a good man, and a good boss.”

  “He might have been a good detective, but he’s terrible at gathering military intelligence.” Frankie paused and tilted her head. “I think someone’s coming.”

  Hattie hurriedly gathered up the packet of letters and stuffed them under the mattress while Frankie replaced the vial into its hiding spot between her breasts.