by John Jakes
“We keep hearing we’re outnumbered. I add up numbers from the men I question, I make some educated guesses, and I just don’t believe it, Sledge. I reckon we have a hundred thousand effectives, but Johnston can only muster three fourths of that. Elvin Stein agrees, and he’s been in Richmond.”
“D’you say anything to the boss?”
“He’s sick again. Cross as hell.”
With another of his cynic’s shrugs, Sledge said, “If you don’t mind getting your ass scorched, talk to him. Maybe you’ll catch him in a listening mood.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Sledge grinned. “Sure. I’m not like you. I got no conscience over these things.”
In the heat and stench of the windowless room, Margaret woke. A streak of lantern light showed where the door stood ajar. She’d closed it before blowing out her lamp.
A floorboard creaked. Still sleepy, she put her hands underneath her to push and sit up. She smelled the liquor on the intruder’s rancid breath.
Although his face was in shadow, she recognized him by the shape of his head. He touched her leg through her sweaty cotton gown. “Come on, sweet, you must be aching for it by now.” Fingers moved spiderlike up her thigh.
She struck with her right hand. Her nails, ragged from lack of care, raked the man’s cheek, making him yell. He called her a name, pushed her down, jammed his hand beneath her gown, and rubbed her privates. She hit him with the butt of her palm. He sprawled. She screamed for help. He jumped up and ran out, slamming the door.
Gasping, she pushed hair out of her eyes. A guard with a lamp kicked the door open without knocking. Margaret jerked the hem of her gown over her knees.
“What’s going on, woman? Why’d you yell?”
“Hodges was here. He tried to hurt me.”
“Couldn’t be. Hodges ain’t got night duty.”
“I tell you it was Hodges. Call the warden.”
“Shut your clapper. The warden don’t come in till seven a.m.”
He left. Margaret wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked on the cot. She slept little the rest of the night, and when she did, she woke with a scream rising in her throat, feeling that rough hand between her legs.
Warden Wood came to see her at eight o’clock. He claimed to believe her story. His hand-wringing and eye-rolling would have done credit to an actor in melodrama.
“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Miss Miller. I’ll put Hodges on a detail outside the building, you won’t be bothered again. These things happen. Men have appetites. I don’t care for Hodges, but I take what I’m given, what else can I do? If you weren’t an enemy of the state, I could fix a lock on your door.” Wood scratched at a nostril. “This could have been avoided. You might consider being nicer to Colonel Baker if he calls again.”
As he surely would; she knew it with sudden certainty. Had Baker put Hodges up to it to break her spirit? If so, he was succeeding.
In the evening damp, after Lon had questioned his last prisoner, penned his last report, darned his socks, or trimmed his beard with scissors and a scrap of mirror borrowed from Sledge, he liked to walk along the winding river, smoking and reflecting.
The night resounded with challenges from sentries and passwords called in reply. Owls hooted; insects buzzed. Heat haze on the water diffused the lights of anchored gunboats. Somewhere a bugler practiced an evening call that was new to the army. George Bangs said a brigadier on the Peninsula had composed “Taps” during the campaign. The melancholy notes brought thoughts of Margaret. War or not, he couldn’t give her up. When he saw her again, he’d declare his feelings and gamble that they would matter to her.
On one of his nocturnal rambles, he decided he could no longer keep silent about the numbers. “May I speak to you, sir?” he said next morning in Pinkerton’s tent at White House plantation.
The boss’s sunken eyes held no friendliness. “I’m extremely busy.” It was evident. Pinkerton’s field desk was all but hidden by piles of documents. Papers were stacked on the ground near his stool. Dried ink splotched his hands and shirt cuffs.
“I’ll be brief, sir. It’s about our reports to General McClellan. I just wonder if the figures create a false picture. Lead to the wrong conclusions.”
Pinkerton’s blue-gray eyes were glacial. “Go on.”
“At Yorktown we thought we were outnumbered, but every assessment we’ve made since then says Joe Johnston had about fifty thousand effectives, and we had at least seventy-five. If that’s true, we could have overwhelmed their defenses. Instead the general ordered a siege.”
“You’re overstepping, Alonzo. You didn’t attend West Point. You’re not a strategist.”
“I can read reports and add, sir.” He’d wanted to speak reasonably, persuasively to the boss. He realized the atmosphere was too highly charged, given Pinkerton’s blind loyalty to his patron. Yet conscience made him press on.
“I’m only saying what’s common knowledge. The siege gave Johnston nearly a month to reinforce his army. Some men say Yorktown was really a defeat for us.”
“What men? Give me their names.”
“I don’t know their names. I wouldn’t implicate them if I did. They were only expressing opinions, which I happen to agree wi—”
“These men you refer to are insubordinate. You are tending that way.”
Lon exclaimed, “Sir, I protest. You said yourself that we inflate the figures at least ten percent, but the raw figures are flawed to begin with. We estimate the aggregate number of men present as best we can determine it, but that number includes sick and wounded. We may even be counting men who’ve deserted. We should estimate only the number fit for duty. Otherwise it’s a false picture.”
“Alonzo, you are here to follow orders, not interpret or criticize them. I will send you to Washington with some reports too lengthy for the telegraph. Perhaps a week or two at a desk in the capital will restore your perspective. We continue to bolster our forces by every available means because the general is constantly undermined by the secretary and the President. The Washington cabal—”
Lon’s temper let go. “Do we have any evidence that a cabal really exists? If so, I’d like to see it. Then I could say I’m sorry for doubting, but until then—”
“Enough! Requisition a horse and report to Mr. Bangs at six a.m. tomorrow. He will give you the material for Washington and the passes you’ll require. I am frankly disappointed in you. I thought you had the makings of an outstanding intelligence analyst. I was misled. Good morning.”
Toward the end of the third week of May, Donal McKee visited Old Capitol again. Donal had been in the city for a week, though for what purpose, he didn’t say. He and Margaret spoke privately in Margaret’s room.
“I have been cultivating the British ambassador, Lord Lyons.” Whiskey on Donal’s breath couldn’t mask a subtler, sweeter perfume. It wasn’t a scent a man would wear.
“You know I carry a British passport. His lordship therefore pays attention. Further, he knows I control one of the largest supplies of raw cotton on the continent, and that I can hire men and ships to get some or all of it through the blockade to English mills that will shut down if supply is cut off.”
Donal laid his stick and top hat on the table. He was more ebullient than Margaret had seen him for a long time. “His lordship and I met on three occasions, the last being a delicious champagne supper.”
With young ladies from a “boardinghouse” for dessert?
She was instantly ashamed of the thought. She knew Donal and his predilections. Not only was he a man of strong appetites, he was a man of wealth. Women were attracted.
He took her hand and spoke earnestly. “Lord Lyons and I reached a happy agreement. As a result, I can make a proposal that will unlock the gates of this unspeakable place.”
Margaret was almost dizzy with excitement. Donal was pleased; she read it in his confident smile. He held her hand more tightly.
“If you look favorably on the scheme, I can get you o
ut of here in a matter of days. And no one, not that villain Baker, nor Stanton, Lincoln, nor even God Himself can prevent it.”
33
May–June 1862
Zach had his arms deep in a wooden tub of suds. When he wasn’t fetching and carrying for Pinkerton, he washed dishes and cleaned up the mess, not without complaint. “You’re an errand boy, I’m washin’ tin cups,” he said to Lon. “Where’s this important secret service we’re ’sposed to do? I might as well wait on the white folks at Willard’s.”
“My fault.” Lon picked a biscuit crumb out of his beard. “I’m not the boss’s favorite right now.”
Zach draped his scrub rag over the edge of the tub. “You be careful up there in Washington city. You’re the only friend I got. There’s a whole lot of meanness swirling in the air round here.”
“Something more than usual?”
“I’d say so. Couldn’t sleep last night, so I went walkin’ where I’m not allowed but no one saw me. Boss’s tent was lit up like always. He had a visitor. The big general, carryin’ on like a crazy man. Something about soldiers pulled back to Washington.”
“McDowell’s reinforcements?”
“Must be. The big general called Mr. Stanton nasty names. Called him Judas Iscariot.”
“Good God.”
“You better come back, ’fore things get worse.”
Bad thoughts followed Lon on his ride to Fort Monroe and his steamer trip upriver. The trip took a day and a half. Pinkerton did it often, rushing to testify at some court-martial or contractor hearing, then rushing back without sleep, which helped account for his haggard looks and foul temper.
When Lon reached Washington, he learned that McDowell had indeed been ordered back from Fredericksburg, to protect the city against Stonewall Jackson. Was there something to McClellan’s claim of a cabal after all?
He found the city excited by the nearness of Jackson, and by action on the last day of May at Seven Pines station on the York River railroad. Bulletins at newspaper offices proclaimed a Union victory, with the Confederate commander, Johnston, twice wounded. At Pinkerton headquarters the perspective was different. Kate Warne, deskbound with paperwork, told Lon, “We had a telegraph about it. McClellan lost something like six thousand killed and wounded. He’s never taken that kind of licking before. Heaven knows what it will do to him. They say he’s losing his grip, and Lincoln’s out of patience.”
“If Johnston’s wounded, who replaces him?”
“Bobby Lee. Davis announced it.”
“How did we find out?”
“Our people in Richmond.”
With McClellan failing, how strong was Pinkerton’s position? Lon remembered Lafayette Baker’s warning at Old Capitol: Don’t back the wrong horse. It no longer seemed foolish or self-serving.
Uneasy, he delivered sealed dispatch pouches to the War Department in President’s Park. There, Secretary Stanton received petitioners every morning, standing behind a podium desk and bellowing questions and orders like the worst martinet. Dozens of petitioners jammed the hall benches, waiting to be abused in similar fashion.
The second-floor library held the telegraph office. Stanton had seized the instruments and removed them from Army of the Potomac headquarters. Lon heard the receivers clicking and clattering as he headed out of the building. At the entrance he bumped into the President. Lincoln tipped his old stovepipe hat and apologized; he didn’t recognize Lon. He squeezed past petitioners who scarcely noticed him and hurried upstairs.
Lon’s next delivery, to the quartermaster general’s office, consisted of several bundles of ledgers seized from a contractor caught selling weevily biscuits to the Peninsula Army. Sledge had impounded the books using brass knuckles. He boasted that the contractor was laid up with a severe case of broken bones and black eyes, giving him ample time to contemplate his malfeasance.
Nervously, Lon prepared for the personal part of his visit. A barber trimmed his hair and beard. At Shillington’s bookshop he conferred with a clerk over a gift. The prissy clerk recommended a relatively new translation of The Rubáiyát, poems of Omar Khayyám that Lon had never read. The clerk assured him they had much to do with romance, and fate, though with an elegiac tone appropriate to wartime.
“Wrap it in fancy paper,” Lon said. “It’s for a lady.”
“She will appreciate your tender spirit.”
Old Capitol was the same dismal place he remembered, though it looked even bleaker and sadder on a warm afternoon with thunderheads gathering in the western sky, like a warning of Stonewall’s presence below the horizon. He got no argument from the jailers when he showed his credentials, but he got a surprise. Margaret had a room of her own; the one formerly belonging to Rose Greenhow.
He took the stairs two at a time. He was determined to lay out his case, reveal his feelings, ask if she could feel the same about him once the war ended. He scanned Room 16’s dispirited population of readers, writers, sleepers, and card players. She wasn’t among them. He went quickly to Rose’s room, knocked. Margaret opened the door.
“Yes, what is it?” She wore a dress of dark tartan cloth, black and green, that hugged her hips and breasts. She peered at him, trying to see the face behind the long beard.
“Good Lord. It’s you.”
“Hello, Margaret.” Flushed and warm, he offered the wrapped book. “I know they only permit gifts of food, but no one stopped me.” Her face was thinner, colorless. The pallor made the black rings around her eyes all the more stark. She examined the package with a bemused smile.
“Thank you so much. Won’t you come in?”
The room depressed him. A dim lamp sent a thread of smoke toward the water-stained ceiling. Someone had put bullet holes in the floor and outer wall; guards, he presumed. Margaret insisted he take the only chair.
“This is a distinct surprise. I assume you’ve been in Virginia?”
“Yes, with General McClellan.”
“He’s doing poorly, and against inferior numbers.” She said it with a touch of defiance, a suggestion of pleasure. What was there about this woman that fascinated and excited him? He didn’t know. He just knew he loved her.
She sat on the bed, tucking her plaid skirt around her long legs. “Have you been safe?”
“Oh, yes. Most of the time we work behind the lines, well out of danger.” Never mind about the balloon expedition. The need to confess his feelings was building like steam pressure in a machine. She began to unwrap the book.
“I know why you didn’t have trouble with this. The guards are more lenient because I’m leaving.”
“Leaving? When?”
“Warden Wood’s to sign the papers next week, as soon as my fiancé returns from Bermuda. You remember Donal. We’ll be married the day I’m released.”
If she’d beaten his forehead with a hammer, he couldn’t have been more stunned or hurt. Every hope, every declaration he’d rehearsed, was blown out of his head. She rested her hands on the book in her lap as she explained.
“Baker’s dedicated to keeping me here forever, you see. Marriage is the only way around him. Donal has lived in America since he was a child, but he’s kept his British citizenship. Evidently it’s helpful with circumventing some export laws. He lodged an official protest about me with Lord Lyons, the ambassador. Relations with Britain are sensitive. The damned black Republicans are afraid Her Majesty’s government may recognize the Confederacy, so they’re cautious. They won’t detain the wife of a British subject.”
“That’s the only reason you’re marrying him? To get out?”
“We’ve been engaged for quite some time. I’m very fond of Donal, he’s a man of substance and—”
Lon pulled her to her feet. The book tumbled to the floor. “Do you know why I came here? To plead with you to wait, endure this war, so that when it’s over, I could ask for your hand.”
“I hope—dear God, I hope I haven’t led you on.”
He held her shoulders and gazed into her brown eyes
. “No. In spite of all the differences between us, I’ve seen the looks you gave me. I thought they said you could care for me. Or I could make you care, given time.”
She fell against his shoulder. Her long dark hair tangled with his beard. He felt the fullness of her body. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of it the day we met.” She drew back with a searching look. “But—yes. You could.”
He brought his mouth to hers, clasping her waist. The hell with decorum, all was lost anyway.
She was stiff in his arms for a moment. Then he felt a change, an urgency as she threw her arms around his neck and returned the kiss ardently. Her mouth was wet and sweet. She ground her hips against him. When she pulled away, she looked as young and wide-eyed as a doe surprised in the forest.
“I can’t do this, Lon. This damnable war doesn’t allow—”
“The war will be over in a year or two.”
“I can’t spend a year in this filthy place, let alone two. I won’t spend another month! You don’t know all that’s happened.” She spun away, hiding her face. He reached out to touch her, saw her shoulders trembling, withdrew his hand. When she turned back to him, tears gleamed on her cheeks.
“I told you before, Yankees killed my father. Men who work for the same man who employs you. I don’t know whether I could ever get over that. I promised to make someone pay for Father’s death. So far I’ve done a lamentable job, but when I’m free, I’ll have a second chance.” She hesitated. “There is one more obstacle.”
“You don’t care for me.”
“Heaven help me, I do. But I faced Donal in this room and promised to marry him. I don’t break promises.”
“Not even if it means throwing your life away?”
“I think you had better go.”
“Margaret—”
“No, please. Go!” The last word was strident. Again she turned away, leaving him to gaze at her tangled hair, and at the book of poems he’d dated on the flyleaf, with the inscription Affection always, L. Price.