The Crescent Spy

by Michael Wallace

  A mulatto girl of eleven or twelve in a calico dress and with a bright-yellow tignon tied about her hair took the soldier’s place. To Josephine’s relief, the girl sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. Josephine read in peace for some time, but when she looked up, the girl was peering over her shoulder to steal a read. When Josephine met her gaze, the girl looked away with a guilty expression.

  Josephine smiled encouragement. “It’s a good book—I don’t blame you.”

  The girl wouldn’t meet Josephine’s gaze. She needed prodding.

  “Can you read?”

  “Yes, miss,” the girl said in a shy voice. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but closed her mouth and looked away again.

  “What is your name?”

  “Diana, but Ma and Pa call me Di.”

  “I like Diana better,” Josephine said. “It’s like the goddess of the hunt from the old Greek stories. Where did you learn to read, Diana?”

  “My mama taught me. Is that book . . . ?”

  “Is it what?”

  “What’s it about?”

  Josephine smiled and showed the title. “It’s a silly story of knights and fair ladies, but it’s good fun. Would you like it?”

  “Oh, no, miss! I couldn’t.”

  “I’ve read Ivanhoe at least ten times. I’ve been meaning to buy some new novels, and this will give me an excuse. Please, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

  Diana took the book and clutched it in her hands, eyes wide. That shining look in her eyes reminded Josephine so much of her own eagerness at getting a new book that she couldn’t help but smile. That smile was infectious, and soon the two were grinning at each other as if they were sharing some delicious secret.

  A black man came in from the square, carrying a wood crate over his shoulder. He spotted the girl and the woman smiling at each other and veered over.

  “Hey there, Di,” he said. “You ain’t botherin’ this fine lady none, you hear. Apologies miss, this child—”

  The man stopped, his eyes dropping to the pocket watch that Josephine had set on her lap upon spotting him. His gaze flickered to her eyes, and his tongue darted to his lips.

  “No trouble at all,” Josephine said coolly. “We were only talking about books. It so happens I have a spare copy of this one.” She put the watch in her satchel and stood up. “I hope you enjoy Ivanhoe, Diana.”

  The girl glanced back and forth between the man and Josephine, seeming to recognize that something had passed between them, but confused as to what.

  Josephine wanted to ask more, curious about the child, who was evidently of mixed parentage. Yet unlike most such situations, her father appeared to be the black one, which meant her mother must be white. Spanish or French, perhaps? They were less fussy about such things than Americans. Yet even in New Orleans it was an unusual situation.

  And one that would remain a mystery. She remembered Franklin’s warning and had no intention of putting either father or child at risk.

  Josephine went outside and took a pass through Jackson Square, looking for suspicious sorts who might be watching. A dozen old men near the cathedral played martial music with trumpets and drums. Children bought roasted nuts and lemon cakes from men with carts. Up near the levee, men unloaded barrels of molasses and crates of coffee from a flatboat.

  Josephine saw nothing amiss but no longer trusted her ability to see if she were being spied on. She and Franklin had taken reasonable precautions the other night when approaching the hospital, yet Francesca had spied on them anyway. And so Josephine lingered near the brass message box, trying to figure out how to wedge her envelope behind it without being spotted.

  Her chance came a few minutes later, when the small band started up again, this time with more vigor. Several dozen horses trotted into the square in formation, ridden by the Wilson Rangers, the dandied-up former riverboat gamblers. This brought half the square over to cheer them on.

  Josephine took advantage of the commotion and walked straight to the message box attached to the exterior of the Cabildo. She turned as if to lean against the wall and slid her envelope into the gap between the brick and the back of the box. After that, she returned to one of the benches and waited. Around about dark, she saw the broad-shouldered figure she’d met inside earlier come outside, lean against the building near the box to have a smoke, and then stroll off a few minutes later.

  On Josephine’s way out of the square, a boy handed her a printed bill.

  UNION SPY—REWARD!

  $100 GOLD FOR THE CAPTURE OF THE DIABOLICAL FIEND WHO ATTACKED THE MARINE HOSPITAL

  $50 GOLD FOR THE CAPTURE OF ANY ACCOMPLICE

  Below the announcement was a sketch of a man with dark hair and a mustache, his head wrapped in bandages.

  Josephine wrapped Franklin’s head in fresh bandages. The wound below was clean, thankfully, but it was still a nasty, easily visible gash and would leave a scar. His forehead felt cool. No fever, thank heavens.

  Franklin was sitting in bed, nibbling at the edge of the savory pastry she’d brought and drinking from a mug of beer that she’d poured. It was the first time he’d eaten more than a few bites since the accident, and this cheered her. Two days without food had only made him weaker and was keeping his body from mending properly.

  After disposing of the old bandages, Josephine sat on the edge of the bed and lifted up the blanket to look at his leg. It was swollen, a bruise the size of her palm turning green and black. He drew in his breath sharply at her touch, but the bone seemed whole.

  “How long does it take to get an answer from a telegram?” she asked, pulling the blanket down again.

  “You won’t get an answer. The system is for sending information out, not getting it in.”

  “Then how does the information come back through Mrs. Dubreuil? Like when they sent an answer to my plans for taking the city?”

  “Sometimes instructions come, and Mrs. Dubreuil summons me. There’s no way of knowing if or when—they don’t send those trivially. There’s too much risk.”

  “This is hardly trivial. I said you needed urgent help. I need to know when it will come.”

  “There’s no help to send.”

  “I don’t believe that. Where else do we have agents?”

  “St. Louis?” he said with a shrug. “South of that . . . ? Anyway, it’s not urgent. I’ll stay here until Friday. By then I should be well enough to hobble out of here. I walked here. I can walk far enough to hail a cab to carry me home.”

  Josephine showed him the wanted poster given her at Jackson Square earlier that evening. He studied it in silence for a few seconds. At last he gave a forced smile. “What a handsome man. Too bad he’s a diabolical fiend.”

  “This is no joke,” she protested. “Look at the bandage. You’ll be recognized.”

  “I’ll pull a hat low.”

  “That scar isn’t going away anytime soon. Every time someone looks at you, they’ll wonder what happened. Then their thoughts will turn to the bills they saw posted around town.”

  “It’s a risk I have to take. Let’s give it a few weeks. The uproar will blow over.”

  “We’ll let the government decide about that,” Josephine said. “They’ll get my telegram and send someone. I told them we had until Wednesday.”

  “You did? Why would you say that? You’ll put lives at risk.”

  “That’s how long we have. On Thursday, you’ll be found and arrested. The enemy will be told where you’re hiding.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Who would possibly tell them?”

  Josephine walked to the window, rubbing her hands together. Francesca’s threat ran through her head. She could hear the cunning tone.

  Six thousand dollars. I’ll give you three days.

  “Josephine?”

  “I’m being blackmailed.”

  “What? How? By whom?”

  “I either pay six thousand dollars by the day after tomorrow or the enemy will be told where you a
re hiding. I don’t even have six thousand. I have four.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Who is this?”

  “It doesn’t matter who. I made mistakes. They’ve come back to stare me in the face.”

  “Josephine . . .”

  “That’s all I’m going to say,” she said stubbornly.

  He was silent for a long moment. “I could get some money. Maybe. Could try at least.”

  “You know we can’t pay. This week it’s six thousand. Next week it’s ten. Sooner or later, we’d be arrested anyway.”

  “It might buy time.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Josephine, please. You have to trust me. Who is this? How does he know?”

  You have to tell him. It’s his life you put at risk.

  She took a deep breath and returned to sit on the edge of the bed. “Do you remember the money you found in the box?” she said. “Its origins are . . . not entirely honorable.”

  When Josephine finished sharing the ugly history of her childhood, Franklin looked toward the far wall, his gaze fixing on a piece of flaking plaster high up near the crown molding.

  She hadn’t told him everything, of course. Some memories were too painful, and she already did enough picking at them, as if they were partially healed scabs, without voicing them as well. But she told him how she’d grown up on the river, a child of an unknown father, her mother a dancer of an indecent sort who sometimes offered her company to men in return for profit. She told about the explosion, the rescued box, and the jewels. She explained about Francesca and the Colonel.

  “I know what you must think of me,” she said when the silence became too much to bear.

  He turned and held her gaze. “I don’t judge you, Josephine.”

  “You say that, but I don’t believe it. Everyone judges.”

  “You were a child. None of it was your fault.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. You must think I’ve done all sorts of things. That a woman of my bloodline and experience would no doubt continue to do such things, should circumstances warrant.”

  “I am not.” His tone was firm, and she almost believed him. “My father is a mill foreman in Massachusetts, and just now I was thinking about some of the girls who work for him, the circumstance that make them work such long, backbreaking hours.”

  It seemed like a forced comparison. As in, I know what it’s like to be a child in a difficult circumstance. I once met some girls who worked the looms.

  But then he continued. “A few weeks before I met you, I was cutting through Rum Row on my way to the Executive Mansion when one of the Cyprians hailed me from her stoop. I’m not in the habit of paying attention to lewd summons, but I chanced to glance over. It was a girl I’d seen before, one who had worked in my father’s mill. She had been thirteen, fourteen. Now she was perhaps seventeen. The work in the mill was grueling, the hours long. But honorable. Yet she had apparently abandoned the mill to prostitute herself in the lowest alley of the lowest cesspool of Washington.”

  “What does that say about the mill?” Josephine asked.

  “That was my very thought, yes. I knew the mill work was difficult, but how desperate must she have been to leave that work to sell her body? And who was I to judge her? Only God knows.” Then, to Josephine’s surprise, he took her hand. “And I would never judge you, either.”

  “Yes, well.” She swallowed, felt awkward, and slowly withdrew her hand. His touch was not unpleasant, and her heart had beat a little faster. But, no. Not now.

  “Let me assure you,” she said, “I would never betray you under any circumstances. And I meant the oath I took in Washington, too. I made my decision; I chose my side. I will stay true, should that oath lead to humiliation and even death.”

  “I know it,” Franklin said. “So how do we extract ourselves from this predicament? There will be no help from Washington, none that will arrive in time. You must believe me.”

  “I need to get you out of the city.”

  “You’re wrong. You need to get yourself out of the city. If you can find a place to hide me while I recover and escape yourself to Memphis where you won’t be recognized, then nothing this woman says will matter. There will be an uproar, you will be cursed as a traitor, but nobody will be able to touch you.”

  “I already told you, I’m not abandoning you, and I’m not abandoning my duties, either. That’s the part that you must believe.” Josephine paused to let this sink in. “And if it comes out that I’m a traitor to the Southern cause, other people will get the blame, starting with the New York Jew who published me. He’ll be wrecked, the Crescent destroyed. I can’t do that to him.”

  “So we’re back to needing six thousand dollars.”

  “Never.”

  “Then what?”

  “I covered a murder in Washington once,” she said, thinking. “Or a supposed murder. The police suffered a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the case, and soon let it drop. Part of their disinterest was that the victim was an immigrant, a drunk who started fights and welched on his bets. The landlord heard shouts one night, someone screaming in German, another voice in English. The next morning, there was blood in the room, but no body. They never found one.”

  “Maybe he fought an attacker and fled for his life.”

  “That was what the police said. But there was a lot of blood. No man could lose that much blood and survive. Maybe it was a pig, the police countered, slaughtered to make it look like murder. The German staged the whole business, ran off to avoid his debts. No body, no murder.”

  “I don’t follow,” Franklin said. “How does that apply here?”

  “In our case, no injured spy, no sabotage at the arsenal. At least not by me, the heroine of the Southern cause. I am skilled with words—I can frame this as a jealous accusation from a woman of a dubious background.”

  “This woman has other information about you. Information that could be verified. Your childhood, your mother’s life.”

  “That’s a scandal I can face. If I must.” Her words were bold, but her stomach flopped over at the thought.

  “It might work.”

  “It will work. But we have to get you out of the city, and quickly.” She pointed to the reward bill. “This seals the matter. Between that and Francesca’s accusation, you have to leave.”

  “But how do we manage? There’s a thousand miles of rebel-held river above us, and two forts downriver.”

  “Upriver is too far. I’ll have to get you to the Gulf, to the Union blockade.”

  “So, past the forts,” he said. “Past the barricade and chain.”

  “Yes, exactly that. The alternative is to hide you while the city searches for you. Sooner or later, you’ll be caught and hung.”

  “Too dangerous. I can’t let you do it.”

  Josephine bristled. “I’m not a child, so don’t treat me like one. You’re injured and bedridden, and that means that I’m the one to make the decisions.”

  “What I worry is that you’re behaving in an overly sentimental manner, and that will put you at unnecessary risk.”

  “Overly sentimental? Why, because I’m a woman? Because I’m young?”

  “Because of personal considerations. You know what I mean.”

  Now her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that we have formed some sort of understanding? That I have romantic designs upon you? We have not, and I most certainly do not have such designs. If you believe that, you’re deluding yourself.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. That’s not what I meant at all.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  “Because of your mother. What you told me about the Colonel. He left her behind and she drowned, and you would never do such a thing. You feel responsible for my safety. That’s all I mean. And I’m telling you I can swim on my own, I don’t need you protecting me at your own risk.”

  “I only told you that story so you’d understand why I was being blackmailed, not so you could explain w
hy a riverboat girl would show some basic human decency. Do you think I’m incapable of loyalty? Of doing my duty?”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “Don’t bring up my mother again, or anything that happened to me on the river. I don’t want to talk about it; I don’t even like to think about it. And I don’t want it thrown in my face. Are we clear?”

  He hesitated, looking for the briefest moment, as if he wanted to protest again. Then the look went away and he stared back. “Understood.”

  “Good. Now go to sleep. You need to mend, and I need to think.”

  She turned out the lamp and retreated to the darkest corner of the room to change into her nightgown. When she was done, she wrapped herself in a blanket and sat in the rocking chair for another long, restless night. Franklin said nothing. A few minutes later his breathing grew steady and slow. Josephine’s anger deflated.

  What’s wrong with you?

  She’d misunderstood him not once, but twice. Snapped angrily at him for the crime of phrasing his words in a vague enough way that she could leap to the worst possible conclusion. He wasn’t in the wrong; he was only trying to do his own duty. Embarrassed at having disclosed the tawdry details of her childhood, she’d lashed out.

  Josephine pulled the blanket up about her head as if to smother the thoughts and memories that kept churning through her mind. She forced herself to calm down and to bend her thoughts to getting Franklin out of New Orleans. She’d wasted Monday trying to send a telegram to summon help. Tomorrow was Tuesday, New Year’s Eve. On Wednesday, Francesca would arrive at the Paris Hotel, expecting $6,000 and prepared to betray Josephine if she didn’t get it.

  The next morning, Josephine handed Solomon Fein her story about the arsenal fire and waited nervously while he sat at his desk and read it. A frown creased his brow, and he ran his fingers through his curly black hair. The noise and turmoil of the newsroom swirled around them. When he’d finished, he took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt.