That led Lewis to his second point: who was he to be? He couldn’t simply gallivant across Virginia claiming to be the Duke of Westminster, or some other celebrated aristocrat; he would surely be unmasked. That was a problem, agreed Pinkerton. They had to come up with a very minor aristocrat, someone whose blood was of the thinnest blue. Then a name sprang to Lewis’s mind: Lord Tracy.
Four miles north of Newtown lay Gregynog Hall, a centuries-old home that came with a history. As a boy Lewis had heard stories from his father of Arthur Blayney, master of Gregynog, and his peculiar habits. The bachelor preferred the company of farmers and weavers to people of his own rank. He had a particular hatred of lawyers and studied law only so he would never fall victim to what he saw as the innate duplicity of the profession. He threw lavish parties, overflowing with good wine and rich food, and he fed the leftovers to his pack of hounds. So fat did the animals become that when Blayney hunted, his huntsmen had to carry the enormous hounds across streams and ditches. He died childless in 1795, stating in his will that he was to buried in a plain and perishable coffin and bequeathing Gregynog Hall to a relative, the eighth Lord Tracy of Toddington, in the English county of Gloucestershire. Tracy had possession of the twenty-thousand-acre estate for a mere two years before he too died, so Gregynog passed to Tracy’s daughter, Henrietta, who in 1798 married her cousin, Charles Hanbury. He became the proud owner of both the Toddington and the Gregynog estates, and celebrated by assuming the name Charles Hanbury-Tracy. In 1838, to mark the coronation of Queen Victoria, he was raised to the peerage with the title Baron Sudeley of Toddington.
Rather convoluted, don’t you think? asked Lewis. Pinkerton agreed. It had been something of a struggle to keep up. Exactly, so perfect for what they had in mind. He would call himself the ninth Lord Tracy. It would require an exceedingly well-informed Virginian who knew that the Tracy bloodline was extinct, and even if he was challenged Lewis would say he was a scion of the Hanbury-Tracys.
Over the coming days they worked feverishly to transform Pryce Lewis from a Chicago detective into an English aristocrat. Pinkerton assigned another operative to the mission, Virginia-born Sam Bridgeman, the forty-year-old former soldier, to act as Lewis’s coachman, and then he procured a carriage “and a pair of strong gray horses, which were both substantial-looking and good roadsters [and] … stocked the vehicle with such articles of necessity and luxury as would enable them to subsist themselves if necessary, and at the same time give the appearance of truth to such professions as the sight-seeing Englishman might feel authorized to make.”
Lewis approved of what he was given. There was a silk top hat, a frock coat, a collection of white dress shirts, all tailored in London, and a dandy pair of red leather shoes. Into his coat pockets he slipped a small fortune in gold sovereigns, some forged documents all bearing the name Lord Tracy, and “a handsome segar [sic] case with the British lion in ivory conspicuously embossed on it.” Someone, somehow, had managed to get his hands on “a genuine English army chest made in the reign of George III,” and this was ostentatiously strapped to the back of the carriage. Inside the chest were “several boxes of segars [sic], a case of champagne and one of port.” To finish the disguise, Pinkerton removed his own gold watch and diamond ring and handed them to Lewis. “Lord Tracy” was ready to depart.
In the early evening of Thursday, June 27, the carriage with the British army chest prominent at the rear arrived at the Cincinnati wharf. Several Union army officers milling about on the covered deck of the Cricket watched as the driver of the carriage jumped down and opened the door. Out stepped an immaculately attired young man with a marvelous set of whiskers. As he began to walk imperiously toward the steamer the gentleman suddenly turned and remonstrated with his coachman. Out of earshot of the steamer’s passengers, “Lord Tracy” quietly but forcefully reminded his coachman that, no, he couldn’t help unload a bale of hay from the trunk of the carriage; English aristocrats weren’t in the habit of dirtying their hands.
The two-decked Cricket was soon heading east along the Ohio River. The vessel was a combined passenger and cargo steamer, its funnels in the stern and the paddle in the bow, in front of a small covered deck that led to the restaurant and cabins. Underneath was the cargo hold, where wagons, carriages and valises were stored. Most on board were either Union soldiers or Virginians loyal to the Lincoln government. The soldiers talked among themselves, but one or two civilians sidled up to his lordship as he stood on deck in the warm night air, one hand perched elegantly on the handrail, the other holding an expensive cigar. Why was he going to Virginia, they wanted to know, didn’t he know there was a war on? Lord Tracy snorted and told them that this was no real war. He had served in the Crimea; now that was a war. Anyway, he continued, he was on vacation and intended to visit the White Sulphur Springs come what may. After Lord Tracy had discussed the restorative qualities of the fabled springs with his fellow passengers, he asked their advice on other attractions that might interest an intrepid Englishman such as himself. Before he had retired for the night, Tracy had promised his new friends that he would indeed take their advice and visit the Natural Bridge and the Hawk’s Nest.
The next day, as the Cricket passed through Ironton and Huntingdon, Lord Tracy jocularly broached the subject of Virginia, teasing from his passengers tidbits of information about the rupture of the state. They all professed to be Union men, and expressed their regrets about the war, but regarded their separation from Eastern Virginia with fierce pride.
Such sentiments ceased to be voiced the farther they traveled down the Ohio River, and by the time the Cricket reached the village of Guyandotte late on the evening of Friday, June 28, people kept their opinions to themselves. Although there was a small Union army outpost at Guyandotte—at the confluence of the Guyandotte and Ohio rivers—it was an open secret that some of the villagers were secessionists who noted unusual activity, be it on the river or along the James River and Kanawha Turnpike, and passed it on to rebel authorities.
Lord Tracy and his coachman disembarked and drove to Guyandotte’s solitary hotel. While Sam Bridgeman unloaded his master’s chest, his lordship wafted into the reception area. The manager asked him to register, and the Englishman obliged, hesitating for a moment before writing “Pryce Lewis, Esq., London.” Before they went to their separate rooms, Lewis told Bridgeman of his decision, explaining that from his experience on the Cricket, it was easier and safer to simply play the part of a well-heeled English gentleman; pretending to be an aristocrat only complicated matters. Bridgeman had no objection, so once in his room Lewis dispensed with all outward signs of Lord Tracy and “carefully destroyed the papers bearing out that character.”
If Bridgeman woke the next morning in the expectation that he was now less Lewis’s servant and more his companion, he was rapidly disabused of the notion. The moment he appeared for breakfast, Bridgeman was told to fetch the horses—and be quick about it. It was more of an act than usual, put on for the “number of country-looking fellows sitting about,” whom Lewis sensed were rebels. The Englishman clicked his fingers and asked the landlord what he owed him. Two dollars. Lewis muttered about the bothersome foreign currency, then “threw down a couple of sovereigns and would not take any change.” Bridgeman brought the carriage to the front of the hotel and, doffing his hat, held the door open as Lewis climbed inside onto the leather seat. As Bridgeman cracked the whip, Lewis stroked his whiskers, hiding the smirk that spread across his face as he observed “the looks of wonder and admiration in the faces of the bystanders.”
Charleston was nearly fifty miles to the east, across the ageless green beauty of Kanawha County, and they made good progress throughout the morning. As they traveled deeper, the hills became steeper and more densely forested.
Verbal communication between the pair was impossible unless Lewis leaned out of the window, and through the dust spun up by the wheels of the carriage, shouted to Bridgeman in the driver’s seat. Instead each man was left alone with his tho
ughts, rehearsing his role and keeping an eye open for rebel troops. The carriage reminded Lewis of a “Clarence,” the four-wheeled vehicle named in honor of the Duke of Clarence, and the preferred mode of transport for the more successful of Newtown’s woolen manufacturers.
Toward midday they saw a house up ahead and an old man sitting in a garden enjoying the sunshine. Lewis banged on the roof of the carriage with his cane—the signal for Bridgeman to stop—and the carriage halted outside the farmhouse. The old man came to his gate, and Bridgeman requested dinner, and provisions for the horses. Of course, he replied, and invited them inside, whereupon he fed both humans and animals royally. Lewis explained his story, that he was a vacationing Englishman who’d heard a stay in the White Sulphur Springs resort was just the ticket for a chap who felt run-down. That it was, replied the Virginian, who told his visitor that people came from all around to take the sulphuric waters and cure themselves of ulcers, sores, swelling stiffness and ailments of a more delicate nature, if the gentleman knew what he meant, which Lewis did.
Lewis gave the old man a sovereign for his trouble, then asked him the quickest way to the White Sulphur Springs. He had a long way to go, the man said, well over one hundred miles, on through Charleston, Gauley Bridge, and then keep following the road to Lewisburg. The springs were east of Lewisburg, in a beautiful valley at the base of the Allegheny Mountains.
Once they were on their way east again along the James River and Kanawha Turnpike, Lewis put up his feet and slept off his lunch. Not long after he had woken from his nap he saw a group of horsemen emerge from a copse to his left and ride hard toward the carriage. Ahead, in the curve of the road, more uniformed men appeared with their weapons raised. The carriage slowed, and the sergeant of the troop approached Bridgeman and demanded to see a permit to travel.
Bridgeman indicated with his head that the soldier should speak to the occupant of the carriage. The man rapped on the side, and Lewis’s aggrieved face appeared at the window. The sergeant, “a gentlemanly fellow,” asked to see Lewis’s pass. A pass, snapped Lewis, whatever did he mean? The soldier explained that anyone traveling this way needed authorization. Lewis looked disdainfully at his inquisitor and said he was unaware that in this day and age one needed a pass to travel on a public domain. The soldier apologized but insisted that that was the case. So what am I to do? asked Lewis. The sergeant offered to accompany the Englishman to his regimental headquarters from where he could obtain a pass from Colonel George Patton. It wouldn’t take long, and his carriage and driver would still be here when he returned.
Lewis smoothed down his whiskers and with a heavy sigh stepped from the carriage. Wait here, he instructed Bridgeman, and set off across the field with the sergeant. As he stepped delicately across the field, taking care not to dirty his shoes of red leather, Lewis considered his predicament. His orders were to report on the readiness of Confederate forces in Charleston, while keeping a discreet distance, yet here he was walking toward a rebel encampment. Lewis was “considerably taken aback” by the turn of events, but he steeled himself “to make the best of the situation and adopt a new programme if necessary.”
He was escorted through the trees, and past a mountain range of white canvas tents, to the broad veranda of a stately farmhouse. As the sergeant disappeared inside, Lewis lounged nonchalantly against the white railings, conscious that many of the rebel soldiers had stopped what they were doing and were now sitting in the late afternoon sun, discussing the arrival of the strange-looking man.
At length the sergeant reappeared and informed Lewis the colonel was ready to receive him. Lewis entered the farmhouse and came face-to-face with Colonel George Patton (the grandfather of General George Smith Patton III of World War II fame). The spy’s first impression, as Patton rose from his seat and extended his arm, was that he was “a pleasant-featured, rather young officer in neat uniform.”
Patton was twenty-eight years old, a Virginian, who had graduated from the state’s military institute in 1852 before studying law. In 1856 he moved his young family to Charleston and established a legal firm with Thomas Buroun. As the firm had grown, so had Patton’s standing in Kanawha County. He served as commissioner in chancery to the county court and, even before war erupted, had raised a local militia unit called the Kanawha Riflemen. On the outbreak of hostilities with the North, the Kanawha Riflemen had become Company I of the Twenty-second Virginia Regiment, better known locally as the First Kanawha Infantry Regiment.
As he emerged from behind his desk to welcome his visitor, Patton’s sophistication was immediately evident to Lewis. Here was a Southern gentleman, he thought, in all probability an Anglophile, so instead of acting outraged Lewis addressed Patton as his equal, two men of cultivation thrown together by extraordinary events. He explained who he was, where he was from, and that having traveled extensively through the delightful Southern states he was rather hoping to see some of the natural curiosities of Virginia such as the White Sulphur Springs, Gauley Bridge and Hawk’s Nest before his return. In his memoirs Lewis recalled Patton’s gracious response: “My good sir!” he exclaimed, “we have no intention to stop Englishmen travelling in our country.” Turning to his adjutant, Patton ordered a pass to be made out to Mr. Pryce Lewis, then he put a gentle hand on Lewis’s back and guided him out onto the veranda. “Once in Charleston,” added Patton, “go and see General Wise and he will give you a pass to go further on.” The name sent a chill through Lewis’s body, and he “felt the hair on his head standing straight.” He knew all about Henry Wise’s reputation, not just for his role in Virginia’s secession but more particularly for the relish with which he’d hanged John Brown. Wise was not a merciful man.
While they waited for the pass, the pair sat on the veranda and engaged in some lively conversation. Patton asked innocent questions about his tour, and Lewis replied with a mix of truths, half truths and lies. He talked of Tennessee and fabricated stories of other places he knew from his days as a traveling book salesman. Then Patton turned toward the camp and pointed out his soldiers’ uniform: aren’t they smart? he commented with a proud smile and explained that he himself had designed the uniforms, the dark green trousers with a black stripe down the leg—a gold stripe for officers—the frock coat of a similar color, the cuffs and collar trimmed with black lace, and the slouch hat adorned with ostrich feathers and on the front the letters KR. Lewis agreed that the uniforms were splendid, a match for any regiment in the British army. The more Patton talked, the more Lewis found him “bright and affable.” As the adjutant appeared with the pass, Lewis took his cigar case from his pocket and offered the colonel a little something in return. Then he “proposed that we should take a glass of wine.”
Patton threw back his head and laughed, informing Lewis that wine was a scarce commodity thanks to the war. Lewis flashed a conspiratorial smile at Patton and said, “If you will allow your orderly to go to the road and order my carriage up, we will have some that is good.”
Patton dispatched one of his men to fetch the carriage, and a few minutes later it rumbled along the track that led to the farmhouse. The setting sun reflecting off the silver-mounted harness added to the luster of the moment. Lewis “saw the colonel was surprised for he first looked at the carriage and then at me.” Lewis ordered Bridgeman to fetch a bottle of champagne from the chest.
“A what, sir?” said Bridgeman, who thought at first that they were under arrest.
“Damn it, man!” cried Lewis, “bring me a bottle of champagne.” He turned to the colonel and apologized for his servant’s “stupidity.” Good servants were hard to find in these troubled times. Patton raised an understanding hand, and soon the pair were enjoying the “good fellowship developed by sips of champagne.”
As they sat on the veranda watching the sun dip to the west, it was hard to believe there was a war on. Warmed by a second glass of champagne, Patton explained that the camp was called Tompkins, after Colonel Christopher Tompkins, commanding officer of the Twenty-second Vir
ginia Regiment. As to its exact location, it was ten miles outside Charleston, just east of the Kanawha River, which lay on the other side of the James River and Kanawha Turnpike. The Coal River, one of the Kanawha River’s tributaries, was close by, and Patton’s principal responsibility was to defend the forty miles of turnpike that ran between Guyandotte and Charleston.
Lewis listened, taking his eyes off Patton only when he signaled Bridgeman to refill their glasses. The garrulous colonel drained the last drops from the bottle as Lewis looked on, encouraging his companion to slake his thirst. After all, he had plenty more where that one came from. Patton thanked him and Lewis smiled, satisfied that he “had evidently won his entire confidence.”
Next the colonel asked if he had encountered any Federal soldiers on his travels. Lewis said he had, unfortunately, and they had left nothing but a “rather unfavorable impression.” Patton wasn’t surprised. “I have fortifications here,” he said, with a sweep of his arm, “that with 900 Confederate soldiers I can defend against 10,000 Yankees for ten years.” Lewis said he didn’t doubt it, that he hadn’t seen such impressive fortifications since he’d served on Lord Raglan’s [the British commander] staff in the Crimean War.
What! cried Patton. Not only was Lewis a gentleman, he was also a fellow soldier. Patton demanded that Lewis stay the night as a guest of the Kanawha Riflemen. The Englishman was humbled at such an invitation, but really he must be on his way. They faced each other on veranda, dueling with their wills, Sam Bridgeman and the adjutant hovering in the background like dutiful seconds. Finally, Patton suggested a compromise: if Lewis would not stay the night, he must at least have supper. Lewis agreed, but when supper arrived it was a disappointment, just “pork and crackers served on tin plates.” Patton sensed his guest had expected more and apologized for the paucity of food but imagined he had eaten worse in the Crimea.
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