“As many as you like!” Tinney beamed. “That’s the great advantage of the wet-plate process, Miss Frankie. You can make an unlimited number of prints from a wet plate.”
“So the daguerreotype is doomed?”
“Oh, don’t let Mr. Brady hear you say that!” Tinney burst out quickly. Then he added in a low tone, “But you’re right. You see, Miss Frankie, photography a few years ago was just a fascinating new art. Now it’s big business.” A sly smile came to his red lips as he added, “Men like P. T. Barnum use huge pictures to catch attention, and if Brady makes a large print, why, Guerney makes them larger, and then Lawrence tops them both! But Mr. Brady topped them all,” he added. “He made hanging portraits of Morse, Field, and Franklin on a transparency measuring fifty by twenty-five feet, lighted by six hundred candles, just outside the gallery last summer!”
“He photographs lots of important people, doesn’t he?”
“Oh my word, you’ve no idea! But you’ll see some of them before you finish our training.”
Tinney’s words were prophetic, for three days later Brady’s gallery had a distinguished client—indeed, the most distinguished visitor it was possible to have!
“Look, Miss Frankie!” Tinney whispered excitedly. “It’s the president!”
They were on the second floor, where portraits were made, for Tinney had decided that his pupil needed some training in the taking of formal portraits. Frankie watched as Mr. Brady entered, accompanied by a major and President Abraham Lincoln. She had seen many pictures of Lincoln, but seeing him in person was quite a different matter! Expecting to be asked to leave, she saw Mr. Brady’s eyes fall on her, and at once he leaned forward and whispered something to the president. Lincoln nodded, then turned to look at Frankie. He said something to Brady, who at once called out, “Miss Aimes, come here, please.”
Frankie was so nervous as she approached the men that she was afraid she’d trip over her own feet. When she stood in front of the president, he smiled suddenly, saying, “I’m most grateful for your help in serving the Union, Miss Aimes. Mr. Pinkerton has told me all about it.” He put his hand out suddenly, and when Frankie took it, Lincoln said, “It’s a difficult and dangerous task, and I pray that you’ll be kept safe.”
“Th–thank you, Mr. President!” Frankie whispered. She looked up into Lincoln’s face and thought, How sad his eyes are—and how kind! His hand was so large that her own was lost in it, and she knew that she’d never forget the moment. Not ever.
Then Brady gently ended the scene by saying, “Now, Mr. President, I’d like to get a full-length portrait.”
Frankie moved away, but as she came to stand beside Tinney, she could still hear their conversation. “I’m six feet four,” the president said, and a smile touched his full lips as he added dryly, “I saw a picture not long ago of a landscape. It had been made in several segments and pasted together. Guess you can use that method on me.”
“Not necessary at all, Mr. President,” Brady assured him. He began adjusting the camera, and Lincoln, at his signal, asked, “Shall I hold my arms like this?”
“Just be natural, sir.”
Lincoln smiled again, humor in his deep-set eyes. “Just what I wanted to avoid,” he remarked. As Brady hovered around, he said, “Major Flowers, there was a fine custom-built sawmill in my home county in Illinois. The owner was very proud of it. One day a farmer brought in a big walnut log, and while the owner was cutting it, there was a tremendous crash. Somebody had driven an iron spike into that tree, and the wood had grown over it. Well, the owner began investigating the cause of the accident, and the farmer came over and demanded, ‘You ain’t spoiled my plank, have you?’ The owner yelled, ‘Blast your plank! Look what it’s done to my mill!’”
Lincoln winked at the officer, adding, “Mr. Brady’s worried about the picture, but he ought to be worried about what I might do to his camera!” Brady and the officer laughed, and Lincoln kept up a lively conversation until the sitting was over and Brady came back with the plates.
“Which one do you like the best, Mr. President?” Brady asked.
Lincoln stared at them, then shook his head. “They look as alike as three peas,” he remarked. “I will leave the choice to you, sir.” He picked up his coat and put it on, then placed his tall stovepipe hat atop his head. As he left the room, he had to pass close to Frankie, and seeing her, he halted abruptly. “My best wishes to you, Miss Aimes,” he said gently, and there was a kind look on his homely face.
After he left, Tinney stared at Frankie. “I didn’t know you were so important,” he said.
Tiny tips of gold came to the hard buds of the trees as spring broke the iron grip that winter had held on the land. Snow melted, creating rivers that ran across brown fields that had seemed dead but were beginning to put up tender shoots of emerald.
The Army of the Potomac—tired of drills and the long, monotonous months of winter—emerged as a first-rate fighting force, molded and inspired by “Little Mac,” as the soldiers affectionately called General McClellan. He had managed somehow to wipe away the shameful memories of their flight from Bull Run, and now they were poised, aimed at the South, and ready to march—a quarter of a million men organized into army corps, divisions, brigades, and regiments, with artillery, cavalry, engineers, a signal corps, and a transportation unit of wagon trains. All the while, Allan Pinkerton had driven the intelligence corps hard, gathering information about the enemy’s operations and intentions.
Frankie said good-bye to Mathew Brady late one afternoon, and the photographer seemed anxious. He took her hand in both of his, saying, “Now, my dear Miss Aimes, you must be very careful. Very careful indeed.” His kind brown eyes glowed, and he tried to make a joke out of the danger he was well aware that the young woman was about to plunge into. “Mr. Tinney and I have spent too much time teaching you my art to see it go to waste, so you come back to us safe and in good health.”
“I will, Mr. Brady,” Frankie replied. “I won’t ever forget these days.”
She left on that note and later in the day met with Allan Pinkerton and Tyler at the detective’s office. Pinkerton spoke rapidly, stressing the need for accurate information about troop movements. Once he pounded his fist into his palm, saying emphatically, “General McClellan depends utterly on my information. And I will depend on you two and others like you. Don’t fail me!”
Tyler spoke up, excitement in his voice and eyes. “Don’t worry, sir; we’ll get the best reports in the whole service for you!”
Pinkerton liked the young man, and the young woman, as well. He had regretted having to force the girl into service, but planned to make it up to her. “Fine! Fine!” he said, nodding. “Now I don’t think it wise to keep anything in writing. If nothing’s on paper, there’s no way you can be convicted if you’re captured. Miss Aimes, keep all the figures in your head. You have a fine memory, a fact that Mr. Brady has commented on often. Give the figures to Tyler verbally, and he’ll give them to his contact the same way.”
Tyler said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure that’s wise, Mr. Pinkerton. Every time something gets told, there’s a chance for error. I think it would be better if Frankie and I worked up some sort of a code—something that looks innocent but can be interpreted by you. That way the figures wouldn’t get changed by repetition.”
Pinkerton stared hard at the young man. “Well, that would be much better from my standpoint, but more dangerous for you.”
“Oh, Frankie and I can come up with something, can’t we, Frankie?”
Frankie had been thinking as the two men spoke. “I think we might do it by an order for photographic supplies,” she said slowly. “We could give each army unit a chemical name.”
“I don’t understand,” Pinkerton said.
“Well, let’s say we agree that potassium stands for a regiment. If I put down on an order blank ‘three pounds of potassium,’ that will mean three regiments.”
“Why, that would be absolutely safe!” P
inkerton exclaimed. “And how would you indicate where these regiments are?”
“How about if we give the latitude and longitude as an order number? Three pounds of potassium, number 2459, would mean three regiments at where the 24 and 59 lines cross on a map.”
Pinkerton clapped enthusiastically. “That will do it! And since Rocklin here will be posing as a traveling peddler, no one would ever suspect a simple order form of holding a message! Miss Aimes, I take my hat off to you!”
They spent an hour working out the code, and when it was time to part, Pinkerton detained Frankie as Tyler left to get the wagon. He seemed upset and embarrassed, and finally he said, “Well, Miss Aimes, I have been unfair to you.” He smiled briefly at the young woman’s look of surprise. “Everyone says I’m too busy with my job to understand the needs of people, but I’d like to think that there’s another side of me. I do care about people, and I care about you. I forced you into this job, and it’s too late to back out now. But I’ll make you a promise. You do this one job for me, and when it’s over, you’re free to go your way.”
“And my brother?”
Pinkerton shook his head. “He won’t ever be conscripted, Miss Aimes. I bluffed you on that one. So even if you walked away from this job right now, your brother is safe.” He watched the young woman’s face, knowing he had just left himself vulnerable—a thing he did not do often. For one moment he feared she was about to call his hand, but he was wrong.
“I’ll go with Tyler,” Frankie said at last. “I can’t let him down. But it makes a difference, what you just said, Mr. Pinkerton. I—I think better of you now.”
Pinkerton was a hard man, but he showed a rare flush of pleasure as he took the young woman’s hand. “I’m glad you do, Frankie. I…have worried about you, for this is a dangerous mission. God bless you and bring you back safely.”
Frankie left Pinkerton’s office and walked rapidly to where Tyler was seated on the wagon. He was to drive her to the railroad station, then drive the wagon south to Virginia. It was Sol Levy’s wagon, or had been, but he had left it to Frankie. Pinkerton had come up with the idea of sending Tyler into the South posing as a peddler, but thought it best for Frankie to take the train. “The two of you must not be seen together any more than necessary,” he had warned them.
Now it was time for the mission to begin, and as Frankie rode along, she felt that there was something unreal about it all. She said as much to Tyler, who agreed. “It’s like something out of a dime novel,” he said, nodding, his face serious. “But it’ll be real enough when we get to Virginia.”
They spoke of the arrangements for meeting until they got close to the station, and then Frankie said, “I’ll walk from here on, Tyler. There’ll be Southerners on the train, and we don’t need to be seen together.”
When he pulled the horses up, he suddenly reached out and put his arm around her waist. Frankie was so startled that she could not speak.
“I’m sorry I got you into this, Frankie,” Tyler said slowly. “Now that we’re almost into it, I see how unfair I was, dragging you into a dangerous thing like this. I should have done it alone.”
Frankie was very nervous, acutely aware of his arm around her. “It-it’s all right,” she said quickly. “I was against it at first, but it’s something we have to do.”
Tyler didn’t respond. He was too startled to do so, for he had been made aware of a strange fact. He was so accustomed to thinking of Frankie as a good companion, or a nurse, or a fellow conspirator, that the feel of her slim waist beneath his hand somehow shocked him. Looking into her face, he saw nothing masculine at all in the wide green eyes, the smooth skin, and the clean sweep of her jaw. He sat there, suddenly aware that this was not a fellow soldier, but a young and lovely woman. He stared at her, noticing for the first time how well shaped and somehow enticing her lips were…and, without thinking, he pulled her close and kissed her.
For one moment he was intoxicated by the feel of his lips against hers, the warmth of her breath on his face—and then he was shoved away almost frantically. Caught off guard, he scrambled to avoid falling from the wagon seat. He looked at Frankie, confused, and was startled by the desperate look in her eyes.
“Don’t you ever do that to me!” she whispered hotly, then jumped to the ground, snatched her suitcase from the seat, and whirled to leave. She paused long enough to say shortly, “I’ll get word to you when there’s a report,” and then she was gone, striding up the street toward the station. Indignation showed clearly in the set of her stiff back, and Tyler knew he had made a sad mistake.
“Well, old boy,” he said aloud, “you certainly know how to turn on the charm, don’t you?” He jiggled the reins, and the horses moved forward. As he headed for the outskirts of Washington, he thought about what had just happened. He was a little shocked at himself, wondering at first what could have possessed him to kiss Frankie, and then wondering why he’d never considered doing so before.
He realized that he’d always had a sense, despite the masculine clothing and manners, that Frankie Aimes was a tender and warm woman—and he was suddenly aware that this very fact somehow frightened her. She did all she could to give the image of being strong and capable, someone who didn’t need anyone else. And yet…Tyler knew better. He’d seen her with Sol Levy, and with his family, and with himself.
He addressed the horses, saying, “Well, boys, I guess I’ve discovered a secret already—only this is Frankie’s secret. Funny thing is, I’m not even sure she knows she has it. See, she doesn’t want a man—or, more to the point, she doesn’t want to want a man. She doesn’t want to open herself up to anyone, or seem like she needs anyone to take care of her—that’s for sure. Guess that’s why she dresses like a man and tries to act like one, so we’ll just leave her alone.” He mused on that, then finally shook his head.
“Too bad trappings don’t make a bit of difference. Like it or not, Frankie Aimes is very definitely a woman. But it doesn’t seem too likely she’ll ever let that part of herself out!”
PART THREE
The Impostor–March 1862
CHAPTER 13
A STRANGE PAIR
From his earliest days, Claude Bristol was better at gambling than he was at raising cotton. He had appeared in Richmond from nowhere, and with the help of an aristocratic charm—and a rather small mare that could travel a quarter of a mile faster than any other horse in the county—he had successfully established himself in the second level of Virginia aristocracy.
Not the first level. That, of course, belonged to the Lees, the Randolphs, the Hugers, and a dozen other families. Still, Bristol was a handsome man, and his French ancestry had provided him with enough wile and sense to obtain Hartsworth—a fine plantation—and with enough romance to sweep Marianne Rocklin off her feet for the first and the last time in her life.
Marianne had always had much good sense and, as a rule, fine judgment. It was quite unfortunate, then, that in this one instance she failed to see that the young Frenchman who had won her heart was much better as a suitor than he would ever be as a husband. Her parents, on the other hand, had not been so deceived and had taken every opportunity to warn their daughter against the man. But Marianne was possessed of the one trait that identified a Rocklin faster than lightning: mule-headed stubbornness. And so she stuck to her guns, went against the wishes of her parents, and married the young man. And she lived to regret it.
Even so, it was a silent regret. If there was one thing that Marianne was not, it was a whiner. Her father, the late Noah Rocklin, had brought her up with the firm rule that people had to live with their errors. More than once she had heard him remark, “Whining about matters that we ourselves have helped to create…well, that simply is not the act of a lady or a gentleman.”
Now, at the age of fifty-two, the mistress of Hartsworth had managed to overcome the disappointment of having chosen a weak man. She had Hartsworth, she had three children who had not yet disgraced the family—though Paul had bee
n a sore trial—and she had God. Most of all she had God. Long ago she had given her heart to serve Him, and she had found His love to be sufficient, even when her marriage had demonstrated a sad lack of either love or fidelity.
On a blustery Sunday in March of 1862, Marianne rose early, went about her work, then got into the carriage with her daughter, Marie, and drove to church. They went alone, for Claude never attended, and Austin, the youngest son, was sporadic in his churchgoing.
They arrived late but entered and took their places—the same pew that the child Marianne had sat on when she had attended with her parents. The church was cold despite the two woodstoves that burned, for most of the heat ascended to the top of the high-pitched ceiling. Looking upward, Marianne thought as she always did, I wish I could sit up there. At least my feet would stay warm!
She listened critically to the minister, Rev. Dan Parks, and as they left the church, she took his hand, saying, “Your theology was sound today, Brother Parks.”
Dan Parks was a sturdy young man who had made his share of mistakes since coming to pastor the church, but he had a quiet wit. And it gleamed in his eyes as he nodded, saying, “I’ve got just enough theology to be dangerous, Mrs. Bristol. But I always feel safe with you sitting out there in the congregation.”
“Safe?”
“Yes. I have the absolute certainty that if I fall into error in one of my sermons, you’ll leap to your feet and demand that the service be dismissed until the pastor has time to clear his doctrine up a little!”
Marianne liked Rev. Parks very much. She and her sister-in-law, Susanna, the wife of her brother Thomas, had been responsible for keeping Parks in the church when his impolitic pronouncements moved the leaders to decide to run him off. Now she said, “The Bible says, ‘Let your women keep silence in the churches,’ Brother Parks.” Her dark blue eyes gleamed with humor as she asked, “Do you think I would go against the scripture?”
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 15