The Crescent Spy

by Michael Wallace

  A split second later, the building exploded. She was still in midair, halfway between standing and falling to the ground, when there was a blinding flash of light and a shuddering, terrific, bone-crushing detonation. The shock wave threw her away, and she found herself on her back, stunned, a column of fire boiling into the sky. In its light she caught sight of chunks of mortared brick the size of large carriages lifting skyward, enormous beams hurling outward.

  Suddenly, she was in the water next to the exploding Cairo Red, and she saw in her mind’s eye the killing debris of that explosion raining down and knew she had only an instant before it happened here, too. Franklin was a few yards away, also down, but trying to regain his feet.

  “No!” she cried. She could barely hear her own voice over the roar of the fire, the thump of secondary explosions, and the deafness from the original detonation.

  The heavier debris landed first, huge beams and flaming chunks of roof. They were followed by brick and metal shards falling like lethal rain. There was nothing she could do but curl in a ball, hands over her head, trying to survive the bombardment. Something struck her shoulder with the force of a hammer blow, and she cried out.

  At last it stopped, and she struggled to her feet. Her right shoulder ached, and she could barely lift her arm. The factory was a raging fire, with a dozen smaller fires across the yard. Franklin lay groaning in the middle of a heap of broken bricks. He bled from a nasty gash on his forehead, and clutched at his ribs. But he was alive, thank God. They were both alive.

  She clawed away the bricks, grabbed him with her left hand, and tried to pull him up. “Move! We’ll be caught.”

  The guard came running, shouting for help. But his attention was on the fire, not the two figures struggling in the middle of the open yard.

  Franklin seemed to be recovering his wits. He grimaced in pain as he struggled to his feet, but he didn’t make a sound. Josephine got the door open, grabbed the carpetbag—all with her left hand—and they slipped into the hospital ward. She told Franklin to hand over the bandages, grabbed them out of his pockets when he was slow to respond, and gritted her teeth against her own pain as she quickly wrapped them around his bloody forehead. Then she led him limping toward the front door of the officers’ ward.

  Chaos enveloped the Marine Hospital as they picked their way toward the front gates. The small garrison of a dozen or so men seemed equally divided between those rushing to fight the conflagration at the arsenal and those racing in the direction of town to fetch help. Those patients who could move streamed out the gates, risking cuts on their bare feet from all the blown-out glass from the windows.

  Josephine dragged Franklin along with this group of men. His head was bleeding right through the bandages, and if anyone was paying attention they might wonder why he seemed to have fresh wounds, not to mention that both of them were filthy from falling in the muddy yard and then having a cascade of brick dust and wood chips come raining down on them.

  Lamps and gaslights were on all along the edge of the city to their north, and men on foot and horse soon came hurrying up the road even as the patients evacuated in the opposite direction.

  Josephine didn’t dare hail a cab, not with dozens of people streaming toward the hospital. The fewer people who saw Franklin with his bloody head, the better. Rumors would be flying as people searched for the saboteur. So the two of them kept to darkened streets, which took them down several disreputable alleys. In one of them, two men came out of a grog house, apparently decided that Franklin was drunk and should be robbed, and threatened them with knives. Franklin drew his pistol, and the men slunk off like a pair of river rats. It’s a good thing they were so cowardly; Franklin could barely hold the gun steady.

  “I’ll never make it,” Franklin said a couple of blocks later.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Canal and Rampart.”

  That was still nearly two miles away. “Let me get a cab.”

  “We can’t risk it. Find a dark alley and leave me. I’ll take my chances. In the morning I’ll feel better.” He pointed. “Right there, behind that rubbish.”

  “You won’t feel better, and I’m not leaving you. Keep going.”

  “I tell you, I can’t make it home.”

  “My place is only a mile away. We’ll come in the side door. Nellie will either be asleep or on the corner, gossiping with the neighbor ladies about the explosion.”

  “A mile?” He groaned. Then he seemed to straighten, gather his reserves. “I’ll try.”

  He grew weaker as they continued, and she worried that he was carrying some secret wound. She threw his arm around her shoulder again during the last two blocks. Finally, they reached Nellie Gill’s cottage.

  Josephine only just got Franklin up the back stairs and onto the bed before Nellie came up looking for her. Nellie said she’d been awake in the parlor, unable to sleep after the blast, when she heard her lodger come in. Josephine claimed that she’d thrown on clothes and rushed toward the fire after hearing the explosion, hoping to cover the story. Soldiers had turned her away at the hospital gates. All this was said from behind a cracked door so Nellie wouldn’t see what a mess she was.

  Nellie prodded her to come out, anxious for more gossip.

  “I’ve already begun to undress,” Josephine said.

  “Undress? There are Yankees in the city! We’re under attack!”

  “We’re not under attack,” Josephine said calmly. “It was a lone saboteur—that’s what they’re saying. Anyway, it’s late, and if I don’t write what I saw, there will be the devil to pay tomorrow at the paper.”

  At last Nellie gave up and went back downstairs.

  Josephine latched the door and hurried to Franklin’s side, where she lit the lamp on the bedside table. He had a pale, sickly appearance, but when she peeled away the bandage from his head, the wound had mostly clotted. She wet a cloth at the basin and dabbed at his forehead until she could get a better look. The wound was superficial, and the skull didn’t appear fractured. But he didn’t look well at all.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “All over. Like I was jumped in an alley and beaten up with bricks and chains.”

  He had his gun on his lap, and she set this aside. She tugged off his boots and began to unbutton his shirt. He put his hands up.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m worried you’ve got another injury. I need to look.”

  “Do you have training as a nurse?”

  “Only what I learned from observation at military hospitals in Washington. But I should be clever enough to notice if something is amiss. Once I know, I’ll call a doctor if necessary. The bricks-and-chains story will hold well enough. You almost were jumped.”

  “If you do that, your landlady will know I’ve been here.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  She pulled away his hands and finished unbuttoning his shirt, which she peeled off and set to one side. Franklin had strong shoulders and arms, and curly black hair that trailed down from his chest to his navel and his strong abdominal muscles. A curious flutter entered her belly as she looked up to his handsome face. His eyes were closed.

  Not now, you fool. Stay focused.

  Josephine felt at his chest, running her fingers down his sternum. She hesitated at his belly but, given that her primary concern was some injury to his internal organs, felt along his stomach for anything that seemed amiss. She watched his face as she did so, as she’d seen a surgeon at a military hospital do. There was no grimace of pain.

  Since nothing seemed amiss on his front torso, she urged him to roll onto his side. If she couldn’t find anything on his back, she’d have to take off his trousers, a thought that made her blush. Franklin sucked in his breath as he obeyed.

  “What hurt just now?”

  “Ribs.”

  She got him all the way onto his stomach and lifted the lamp for a better look. Ugly purple bruises splotched his back where bricks had
rained down, leaving marks from his shoulders to the small of his back. Her own shoulder was still aching, and no doubt if she took off her dress and held up a mirror she’d see her own bruising there. It would be sore for days, she guessed. But Franklin’s injuries seemed much worse than her own.

  Franklin drew in his breath as she prodded the bruises. When she got to his left side, he made a sound far back in his throat. She touched again, poking at the ribs where they curved along the spine.

  “Ow, easy.”

  “Broken ribs,” she said. She touched again, eliciting another groan. “Likely several of them.”

  “Ouch. Careful, there.”

  “Moving you in that condition was a shock to the system. You’ve already got better color now, though. I suspect you need a couple of weeks of rest is all.”

  “I can’t be down two weeks,” he said. “What about my leg?”

  “But you were walking. Does that hurt, too?”

  “Like the devil.” He pointed at his left leg. “Just below the knee.”

  “Unbutton your trousers, please.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “It’s either that or call for a doctor.”

  He unbuttoned his pants, and Josephine tugged them off. He was wearing only his underclothes, and she was careful to look down at his legs and not . . . elsewhere.

  There was a nasty, swollen lump on his left leg roughly two inches below his knee. To her relief, the bone wasn’t deformed—that level of break would mean the surgeon’s saw—but when she poked at it, he bit down on his knuckles.

  “Broken?” he asked, voice strained.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if it is, all that walking didn’t help. I should have risked a cab.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “You’re not getting up, that’s for sure. If the bone separates, you’ll lose your leg. I’ll splint it tomorrow.”

  “I can’t stay here.”

  “You can and you will. Right in that bed, not moving a muscle except to sit up with the bedpan. I’ll sleep on the floor and bring you food.”

  “But what about your landlady? Doesn’t she clean?”

  Josephine thought about Nellie’s habits. She entered once a week to scour the bedpans, sweep, beat the rug over the balcony railing, and wipe the windows with water and a rag. And Josephine didn’t think she could be easily put off from it, either.

  “She comes every Friday. That gives us almost a week.” Josephine bit her lip, worried that she wouldn’t be able to move him that soon.

  Franklin needed help. She needed help. Josephine glanced to the Oriental box on the dresser. Inside was the pocket watch with the curious gilt cover. Surely if anything counted as an emergency, this was it.

  At dawn, someone came banging impatiently on Nellie Gill’s front door. Josephine had been dozing fitfully in the rocking chair by the window, and sprang to her feet, alarmed. Her pulse slowed when she looked out and saw one of Solomon Fein’s delivery boys below her on the porch, panting and out of breath, an envelope in hand. Nellie poked her head out and took the message. The boy waited while Nellie came back inside.

  Josephine had washed up last night and put on her nightgown, and now she threw her shawl over her shoulders and made for the bedroom door so she could get in the hallway before Nellie came up with the note.

  Franklin lay on his belly, with his bare back uncovered. The bruising looked even worse by the light of day, now a deep purple, one injury spreading into the next. He was snoring softly, and she shook his shoulder to wake him from his well-needed rest. He turned his head, blinking, a groan emerging. She slapped a hand over his mouth and put her finger on her own lips. Then she hurried to the bedroom door as Nellie came creaking up the stairs.

  She came into the hall with the shawl around her shoulder as Nellie reached the top. The woman handed over the note. “From the newspaper. Is it about the fire at the hospital?”

  Josephine unfolded the papers. Solomon Fein’s spiderlike script crawled across the page.

  Dear Miss Breaux,

  You’ve no doubt heard about the fiendish attack on the hospital arsenal. If you have written anything, send it post haste. No need to go to the hospital. Keller will be covering the story. He is General Lovell’s cousin.

  Josephine scowled. Cousin? And because of that, Keller had an inside track to a good story? Was that what Fein was claiming? What did that matter when Keller couldn’t write? In past articles that she’d reworked on his behalf, a German had been confused with an Englishman, a murderer swapped for his judge, and Florida had migrated north until it was somehow located between Georgia and South Carolina. If Keller wrote about a mule, you could be sure he meant a horse.

  Nellie studied her face. “What does it say?”

  “They’ve given the story to some dolt.”

  “Oh, I thought maybe people had been killed. You looked so upset.”

  Nellie’s naïve comment reminded Josephine how foolish her professional jealousy was, given the situation. She looked back at Fein’s letter to read on.

  But don’t fret, I’ve got a better story for you. A chance to play the heroine again. A woman came in this morning looking for you. She lives on Duggan Street, near the Marine Hospital. Saw two figures flee the hospital not five minutes after the blast: an injured man and a woman supporting him. Overheard them talking about sabotage. Said she has a good description of them both.

  She’s a German, name of Otz. Wants to give the story to you, because she thinks there’s spies in the army and the government. I figure she wants to see her name in the paper under your byline. This is a chance to get the story first. Maybe we can find these fiends and get them talking before Lovell and Hollins string them up.

  She looked up to see that Nellie was still studying her. Josephine kept the alarm from her face. Who was this Otz woman? Had Josephine been so careless as to mention sabotage during their flight from the hospital? She couldn’t remember doing so, only remembered urging Franklin on, but her head had been ringing, her ears stuffy from the blast. Events were hazy. It might be true.

  What was clear enough was that Otz had accurate information. How close was her description? It had been dark, but she must have noticed the bandages around Franklin’s head. That wound on his forehead was too low to conceal with a hat; if the woman gave an accurate description, he’d have to flee the city. How could he do that with several broken ribs and a fractured leg bone?

  She turned to the second page.

  Mrs. Otz will be at the Paris Hotel for lunch. We will pay, so collect a receipt for the cost of the meal. Look for a handsome woman, about thirty-five or so. She’ll be alone, watching for you through a lorgnette. 12:30.

  Yours,

  S. Fein

  P.S. Suggest something cheap off the menu. Don’t let her order the lobster and filet. The haddock is good.

  “Go downstairs and hold the messenger boy,” she told Nellie. “I have a return note.”

  Back in her room, she grabbed her notebook, her fountain pen, ink, and blotter, and sat at the desk, where she scribbled a quick reply.

  Mr. Fein,

  Couldn’t get to the hospital, so have no story. Was stopped at the gates by soldiers. Meant to return this A.M. but will meet Mrs. Otz at P.H. instead. If she has good inf. I’ll find these villains and get a story before they hang.

  Yours,

  J. Breaux

  P.S. The haddock at the P.H. isn’t fit for a starving cat.

  By the time the cab carried Josephine toward the French Quarter a few hours later, she was bathed, her hair brushed and pinned, wearing crinoline and petticoats over a velvet bodice, with mother-of-pearl combs holding her dark curls under her hat. If she’d carried a small French handbag instead of the leather satchel with her writing implements, she could have passed for a fine lady on her way to a benefit luncheon to raise funds for the Confederacy.

  When the cab rounded the corner at Royal and Hospital Streets, she looked sout
h and saw a cloud of smoke still hanging gray and sluggish in the air toward the hospital. If she hadn’t been so worried about what this Otz woman did or didn’t know, she’d have leaned forward and ordered the driver to carry her there. She had a good idea of the devastation they’d wrought to General Lovell’s efforts, but wanted to make a visual confirmation. And, she admitted to herself, she couldn’t bear the thought of that idiot Keller botching the story.

  The cab clattered down the uneven cobbles into the Quarter and shortly pulled up in front of the Paris Hotel. She paid the driver and went inside, studying every single person coming and going, from hotel guests to bellhops. A sharp-eyed young officer in a gray coat was smoking near the restaurant entrance and studied her as she approached. Her heart rate kicked into a brisk trot.

  Miss Breaux, is it? We have some questions for you. Yes, some very hard questions.

  But when she stepped past him, he only nodded. “Afternoon, miss.”

  “Good afternoon to you, sir.”

  Once inside, she looked across the restaurant. It wasn’t busy on a Sunday afternoon, and there were only seven or eight tables with patrons. Of these, only one person was alone, a woman in a green silk dress with a lorgnette held up to her eyes, who was looking toward the entrance. She spotted Josephine and waved her over.

  Josephine sidestepped a waiter as she crossed the restaurant. She kept her face relaxed, and had mostly tamed her emotions by the time she reached the table. Then the woman dropped the lorgnette.

  It was Francesca Díaz.

  Josephine froze. “What are you doing here?”

  “We have an appointment, do we not?” Francesca said with a smile.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “Is there, now? Miss Breaux, the so-called heroine of the Confederacy, and Mrs. Otz, a German lady who witnessed something most peculiar near the Marine Hospital last night.” She said this last part with a German accent. “You see, dear, you are not the only one who can play a part. Are you going to stand there drawing attention to yourself? Or will you join me for lunch?”