“Josephine the Colonel? Lovely name.”
He winced. “It’s Hancock. I didn’t share that because . . . well, there were men who wanted me dead. Still are, but seems they’ve gone north for the duration of the war.”
“So, Colonel Hancock. What regiment did you serve in?”
“Well, I—”
“You are how old—forty-five, maybe? And you seem in fine health to me. A genuine officer would have no trouble getting a commission. When do you ship off to join the Army of Northern Virginia to fight the Yankees? No? A Union fellow, then? I’ve heard they need men, too.”
“I will seek a commission. Shortly.”
“You’re no military man. I knew that a long time ago, and I can see it even more now.”
“Josie, please. Be reasonable. There’s no need for us to be enemies.”
“You killed my mama. And after four years with no word—not the first time you’d vanished, mind you—I come home to find you trying to rob me.”
“I wasn’t going to rob you. I only wanted to find the box. Then I was going to share my emergency stash with you, I swear it.”
“Go into the hallway. Wait there while I think it out.”
He looked like he was going to protest, but after a nod, he complied. She shut the door and flipped the latch, in case he was tempted to pick the lock again.
When Josephine was alone, she opened her carpetbag and removed the Oriental box, which she always took with her when she would be gone for more than a day or two. She sat on the bed with the box in her lap, and she slid the carved boat to reveal the catch. A thick wad of banknotes was stuffed into the lid. She removed two twenty-dollar Confederate bills. After a moment of thought, she peeled off two more bills.
Shortly, she had the box closed and hidden. She opened the door and handed the Colonel the greybacks. “This is all you’ll get.”
“I didn’t ask for charity,” he said, but nevertheless took the money and pocketed it.
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Mama. That’s what she would have done, even as she cursed your no-good hide. Use the money to get back on your feet, or throw it away gambling and drinking. It makes no difference to me.”
“Thank you, Josie.”
“Either way, it’s the last money you’ll see from me. Go back to Memphis and never trouble me again.”
Josephine changed domiciles again after the visit from the Colonel. This time she took care in finding the right place, deciding to dispense with hotels entirely. They were expensive and drew attention to someone supposedly living on the salary of a newspaper reporter.
Instead, she found a woman on Villere with a room for let. Nellie Gill’s husband was a lieutenant currently stationed with the garrison at Fort Henry, Tennessee, and she needed a lodger to get by.
Nellie was a true Southern patriot, born in South Carolina and married into a family of cotton exporters whose fortunes had crashed with the onset of war. The woman organized dances, raffles, and bazaars to raise money for the cause, and was so excited to have the famous Josephine Breaux as a lodger that she wanted to set off at once to tell all of her neighbors. But when Josephine expressed worry that the Union would send an assassin to punish her for spying in Washington, Nellie listened, wide-eyed, and swore she wouldn’t breathe a word.
Josephine continued to meet with Franklin throughout November, joining him every Sunday afternoon at Congo Square. There was no word, either positive or negative, about her proposal to take New Orleans. It didn’t seem that the government was paying attention. Instead, word came of an armored fleet that the Union was constructing upriver. These were nicknamed “Pook’s turtles,” after Samuel Pook, the builder, though they weren’t rams like Manassas, but shallow-draft gunboats. Everybody, both North and South, seemed to be bracing for the river fight to begin up on the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers.
Nevertheless, General Lovell stayed busy fortifying New Orleans and its approaches. Thousands of slaves and poor Irish worked with pick and shovel to extend the entrenchments from New Orleans to Lake Pontchartrain. Downriver, the work on Forts Jackson and St. Philip continued apace. Lovell finished his barrier across the river, comprised of several hulks—old ships, no longer seaworthy but still able to float—held together with strong chain and fifteen massive anchors. Any Union ships trying to break the chain would find themselves under withering attack from St. Philip ahead, and enfilading fire from Jackson. Josephine still thought her plan could work with a strong enough force, but seeing the strengthened defenses in early December eroded her confidence.
In mid-December, Josephine showed up at Congo Square to meet Franklin, but she searched the crowd in vain. It was chilly, and she wrapped herself in her shawl, eating ginger cakes and sipping hot cider while she watched the dancers and waited. It was lonely without Franklin’s company. She’d come to depend on his conversation to break the pressure of the daily subterfuge that had become her life.
At home, Nellie Gill was decent company, albeit stuck on her husband in Tennessee and how he would whip the enemy single-handed. Josephine hadn’t grown tired of war talk—the subject endlessly fascinated her—but she was exhausted by the constant need to denounce Lincoln as a Black Republican, to talk up the bravery of Southern boys and the cowardice of perfidious Yankees.
It was much the same at the newspaper. Solomon Fein had a delightful, irreverent humor, and her fellow reporters were cynical and idealistic in turn, characteristics she recognized in her own temperament. But there was never any question about the politics of the New Orleans Daily Crescent. They were Southern, Louisiana, and Democrat partisans, in that order.
Only with Franklin could she be open. Admit her loyalty to the Union, share the depth of her observations. Almost every meeting was accompanied by verbal sparring, but in their conversation she sensed a probing, intelligent mind equal to her own.
And so, when the sun began to dip and the dancing and singing grew frenzied in anticipation of the closing of Congo Square, she was excited to see Franklin pushing his way through the crowds to where she waited beneath the sycamore trees next to her favorite beignet stand.
Josephine looked him over. “You’re flushed. Are you ill?”
“I feel fine.”
He looked around, taking in their surroundings in a way that had become familiar. Searching for anyone who seemed to be watching the two of them instead of fixed on the spectacle. Yet this time he was jumpy, nervous.
“Something is happening,” she said. “Did Washington send news about my plan?”
Franklin didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. “I have something for you.”
Josephine started. She began to reframe his nervousness. What the devil was this—a repeat of the Major Dunbar incident? Except Dunbar, with his supper invitation and obvious intentions, had been a handsome stranger. Franklin Gray was her associate, with a long-cultivated familiarity that had passed to friendship.
“I really don’t think—” she began.
“Go ahead, open it.”
“Mr. Gray, please. Let’s think about this for a moment.”
“‘Mr. Gray,’ is it? Aren’t we—” Then his eyes lit up with amusement. “Ah, I see. That’s funny. No, it’s nothing like that, as if I would ever. Hah.”
That quickly, her worry flashed to anger. “I’ll have you know that plenty of men have been, and continue to be, interested. So don’t consider yourself such a fine specimen of manhood as to be above the likes of me.”
“Josephine, no. That’s not what I mean. You caught me off guard, that’s all. But I merely brought something to assist you in your duties. It wasn’t a declaration of amorous intent. Of course, as a woman we both know you are . . .” He waved his hand vaguely.
“No, please. You don’t need to say it.”
As fast as Josephine’s anger had flared to life, now it deflated just as quickly. In its place was burning embarrassment. Not o
nly had she leaped to erroneous conclusions upon sight of the small box, but then, when thinking he was dismissing her, she’d bristled like a scorned lover.
Why was she so touchy of late? It was that conversation with the Colonel, still eating at her. Learning the truth about her family origins. It was a hidden blemish, a terrible, leprous patch of skin that would show if she didn’t keep her collar buttoned high and her face veiled.
She reached for the box, but he pulled it back with a frown. “A moment. Are you all right?”
“Please, I’d rather not discuss it.”
“There’s something wrong. I saw it pass over your face.”
“Embarrassment. I reacted badly.” She reached again for the box, but when he hesitated, she added, “Be a gentleman, Mr. Gray. Don’t press me, I beg you.”
He handed over the box.
Inside was a man’s pocket watch. It wasn’t an expensive thing, with a gilt cover, not gold. The design on the cover was unusual: a crescent with a star. Ottoman, she thought. Or maybe Persian. She looked up at Franklin with a questioning expression.
“You wanted a way to contact Washington independent of me,” he said. “This is your means.”
“Explain.”
“There’s a man who works at the Cabildo who’s in the sworn service of the Union. If you need a telegraph sent, go in late on a weekday, sit on one of the benches for seeing the magistrate, and take out the watch to consult it on a regular basis. Make sure it can be seen by anyone who is watching. When you’ve done that for a good bit, go outside. There is a brass message box on the corner of the building with slots for each of the clerks and other officials. The brackets are rusting, so the box hangs loose from the wall. Stick your telegram in an envelope and wedge it behind the box where it can’t be seen. Wait until evening to make sure our man has retrieved it. Sign your telegram C.S.”
“C.S.?”
“‘Crescent Spy.’ That’s how you’re known in Washington.”
She smiled at this. “Cloak and dagger—like a French novel. Why can’t you simply tell the man to expect me? I’ll go in as a reporter and announce my presence. He can find me in the square after dark and I’ll hand it to him directly.”
Franklin shook his head. “Our friend is too cautious for that.”
“That makes no sense. Is he trustworthy, or not? Does he think we’re the untrustworthy ones? That we’d give up his name under hard questioning?”
“He is a slave,” Franklin said.
“Oh. I see.”
She thought of the condemned man at Fort Jackson. Caleb had been hanged for the simple crime of counting men. At the same time, his supposed white coconspirator had been sentenced to a few months of hard labor. This man at the Cabildo had assessed his risk, figuring that if his white counterparts fell under suspicion, they might turn over a black slave to save their own necks. Josephine would never do that, and she didn’t believe Franklin would, either. But could they blame the man for doubting?
“Yes, now I understand,” she added. She took the watch and tucked it back into the box.
“Don’t test the system. It’s only for emergency use. I have my own, similar watch. This one I had made on Exchange Alley to match the design. But it would be unfortunate if someone besides our man had noticed my watch, and then saw yours. He might think how curious it was that two different people had watches with the same Mohammedan crescent and star.”
She nodded. “Emergency use only.”
It was now dark, and the police blew their whistles to call order to Congo Square. The men with the beef bones continued banging for several more seconds in a small show of defiance, and then the music and dancing ground to a halt. Awnings dropped on the food carts, and vendors shouted suddenly reduced rates for their wares. A mass of bodies, both black and white, streamed toward the side alleys.
Franklin glanced around the square, eyes picking through the crowd. “I have something else important to discuss, but it’s not safe here anymore.”
He hailed a cab on the edge of the square, which led them clomping in a serpentine path through the city, south toward the river. Franklin asked why she’d found new lodging, which she explained away as the need to leave the hotel and find something more homelike. He should probably know about this business with the Colonel and Francesca, but she didn’t know how to broach the subject without prying open the entire stinking barrel of fish.
They came into the uppermost section of the Garden District, where Franklin ordered the driver to halt his horse two streets up from the waterfront. After climbing the little dirt path to the levee, they took a stroll along the river.
The weather had turned cool and windy, which drove away both the mosquitoes and the thick smell of the river. One of Commodore Hollins’s gunboats puffed upriver past the levee. It was a side-wheel steamer, either Ivy or Tuscarora, but she couldn’t tell which from the thin light cast from deck lanterns.
“Not that I don’t enjoy an evening constitutional,” she began, “but you said you had something important. Now I’m worked up wondering what that could be.”
“Now that I’ve got you here, I’m having second thoughts about asking your help. It will be dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of danger.”
“A little fear is healthy. You don’t do us any good dead, Josephine. That business at Head of Passes had me worried.”
“Is there another battle brewing? I haven’t heard anything.”
“When the battle comes, you’ll know it. The whole country will see it developing.”
“Now you’re toying with me.”
“Have you been to the new Marine Hospital?”
“I saw it from the street. Large place, many buildings. A sure sign that the Confederacy is settling in for a long, hard road if they’re expecting that many wounded.”
“But it’s not filled yet, only two or three wards occupied from fighting up Tennessee way.”
“And?”
“So General Lovell has occupied near half of the hospital and turned it into his arsenal,” Franklin said. “He is shipping in powder by the ton, and building a factory to make cartridges and shells. It won’t only be the army that benefits—Commodore Hollins is counting on that arsenal, too. The Navy Department won’t give him what he needs, so he needs it manufactured locally.”
Josephine had heard some of this already. Lovell had been at work in the hospital since before its completion. But if powder was arriving in quantities measured in tons, the pace must have accelerated.
“Seems sensible given the neglect of the city’s defenses,” she said. “Lovell thinks New Orleans is under threat. Jeff Davis doesn’t agree. So if Lovell wants to defend the city, he’ll have to take matters into his own hands.”
They fell silent as a couple strolled toward them on the levee in the opposite direction.
“Without that armory,” Franklin continued after waiting for the couple to pass out of earshot, “the rebs will have a devil of a time keeping their forces in the fight.”
Josephine stopped abruptly and grabbed Franklin’s elbow to pull him around. “Hold on. So there is a battle brewing.”
“Naturally,” he said, his voice teasing. “We’re in a war.”
“Right here? In New Orleans?”
“That was the plan all along, remember? That was your plan.”
“Thank heavens. Five months since I left Washington—seemed like it would never happen.”
“It might be another five months still,” Franklin said. “I don’t know. I don’t even know from which direction it will come—upriver, or down. Either way, we’ll have a dogfight. Meanwhile, I’ve got orders, and that is to blow General Lovell’s arsenal straight to Hades.”
A few days later, Josephine arrived at the Marine Hospital to find reporters from the Bee, the Picayune, and the True Delta already on site and harassing the several patients who had just arrived from Vicksburg by way of a hospital boat.
Rumor had spread among the newspape
rs that a famous patient was on site. Perhaps the poet Henry Timrod, who was reportedly serving at one of the forts upriver. There was no famous patient; that was a rumor spread by Josephine herself. In reality, she needed cover so she could poke around the hospital without falling under suspicion. She couldn’t have people remembering how she’d shown up a week or two before the sabotage. Her fellow reporters provided cover.
Naturally, one of the other reporters was Stanley Ludd. When Josephine stepped out to take a stroll through the yard, he was already outside having a smoke. He watched her with a beady, pig-like expression.
“A curious waste of time, Miss Breaux. Curious indeed. We all rushed out to chase this phantom story, only to find that the most celebrated patient is a fellow who once won a ribbon at the county fair for the virility of his prize bull.”
“I don’t intend to waste my time, Mr. Ludd,” she said, only catching herself at the last moment from using his nickname at the Crescent: Mr. Stinky Lard. “Good stories are everywhere you look.”
And ahead of her, she spotted a very good story indeed. The brick buildings of the factory and arsenal lay at the far end of the hospital lot, where men came and went through a back gate, itself guarded by several armed soldiers. Along that side of the compound lay the stables as well, a ramshackle construction of boards and lumber odds and ends, nailed together in a slipshod manner. The picket fence that encircled the hospital lot followed the back wall of the stables for a stretch. Beyond the fence lay a marshy, poorly drained field.
Ludd puffed his cigarette as he fell in behind her. “You’ve been a machine, Miss Breaux. A veritable one-woman printing press. If the quality of your writing weren’t so uniformly strong, I’d wager that Fein had been throwing your byline onto stories written by his typical stable of hacks.”
“All those stories are mine, Mr. Ludd.”
“So I believe, so I believe. I don’t know how you manage.”
“I am young. I have energy to spare.”
She felt herself puffing. That was only the writing he could see. Ludd knew nothing of her prodigious output on behalf of the Union.
The Crescent Spy Page 17