On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  The lap of the river, the tang of the salt breeze blowing across the Low Country marshes, the sight of sweating blacks loading cotton while white men sang carols, made it the strangest Christmas Eve she could remember.

  “Does the ship have a name?” None was painted on the transom.

  “I wondered if you’d ask. She’s the Lady Margaret. Your Christmas gift.”

  “A ship for a present? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Now you have. She was financed with money from McKee, Withers. I am principal shareholder in the syndicate. On this run she’s bound for the Bahamas. You and I will spend New Year’s in the sun while I visit the Nassau office. Then we’ll sail to New York. The business climate up there is splendid. The mayor, Fernando Wood, still wants to secede from the Union and establish the city as a separate state trading with both governments. I shall support him wholeheartedly.”

  Not a little upset, she said, “Donal, I really prefer the South, even Richmond, over New York. It’s Yankee country, and I’m not a Yankee. Must we live there?” She could imagine the isolation, the discomfort, even the ostracism, she’d experience.

  He took her hand. “Yes. It’s a matter of business.”

  “And a spouse has nothing to say about it?”

  His smile faded. “If you insist I answer that, no. Please don’t spoil the evening, darling. Wouldn’t you like to step aboard and meet our captain?”

  She followed him up the gangway. Stars twinkled in the royal blue sky above the river. The Bible said this was a night when a star of hope shone for the world. If it was there, she couldn’t find it.

  44

  December 1862

  When Margaret was growing up in Virginia, she played with a favorite doll, made of cloth filled with straw. The smiling mammy doll had a crazy-quilt apron whose array of colors and patterns she found fascinating. For days after Donal punished her, the mirror reflected the same kind of patchwork coloration on Margaret’s battered and swollen face.

  Sometime during that dreadful night, Eudora had slipped out of the house with her belongings, evidently preferring the wrath of soldiers enforcing the curfew to a confrontation with Margaret. Eudora’s brother, Morris, denied knowing anything but the obvious. “She run off, nothin’ more to say.” Regardless of how many questions Margaret asked, the answers were essentially the same. “She run off. I don’ know where. We never was close.” During these exchanges Morris didn’t raise his eyes to look at Margaret. She soon gave up.

  Donal again treated her courteously. He said nothing about her bruised face or the reason for it. He absented himself frequently from Church Hill, often staying away all night. He no longer came to her room, for which she was thankful.

  Margaret didn’t dwell on the state of her marriage. To do so was to insure another long bout of weeping, a pointless indulgence since it always led to the same truth: She had accepted Donal’s proposal willingly. Only she was to blame for what had resulted.

  She tried to suppress thoughts of Lon Price but found it impossible. She bought some books, wrapped them, and drove the buggy to Libby Prison one stormy afternoon, presuming Lon was still locked up inside. She handed the books to the ill-mannered guard at the entrance with small hope that Lon would receive them. With sleet flying in her face and stinging her eyes, she drove away up Canal Street, turning uphill at Eighteenth past Castle Thunder, another prison with an even worse reputation. She hardly glanced at the grimy brick buildings, old tobacco factories, now enclosed by a high board fence.

  It snowed heavily and often in early December. The fluffy whiteness, so pretty as it drifted down, quickly turned to ugly brown slush. People were depressed, sullen. Enthusiasm for Christmas was dampened by shortages, and by the prospect of Lincoln’s emancipation edict taking effect on January 1. Nat Turner’s slave uprising was very much on the public mind. Editorialists whipped up the fear with denunciations of “this hateful call for the insurrection of four millions of slaves, and inauguration of a reign of hell on earth.”

  With Eudora gone, and no other help readily available, shopping fell to Margaret. She bought little; she cooked for one and ate by herself. Her forays into the stores showed her the terrible pressure the war was exerting on the civilian population. Prices were outrageous. A bar of yellow soap had gone from a dime to more than a dollar. Newspapers complained that family grocery bills had gone up ten times too.

  Donal didn’t gloss over the difficulties of the Confederacy. “The newspapers won’t print the truth, but you hear it nonetheless. There’s a shortage of firewood for the Army, so wherever they happen to be, they tear down the homes of loyal citizens. Soldiers are trapping barn rats and roasting them because there aren’t enough rations. I’m happy to make money from these people, but I find them a pack of bunglers. The South can’t win. I’d bank everything I own on that.” Bitterly, Margaret wondered if her name was on the list of things he owned.

  As if to contradict Donal’s negative opinion of the Confederacy, in mid-December Richmond thrilled to news of a huge battle up at Fredericksburg. On December 13, the Army of the Potomac under its new general, Burnside, hurled itself at the rebels and was in turn hurled back, at huge cost. An assault on Longstreet’s troops defending a place called Marye’s Heights brought the day’s bloodiest action. Burnside turned tail.

  The victory should have set church bells ringing in celebration. Instead, the papers denounced “Granny” Lee for failing to press his advantage with a counterattack, thereby destroying Burnside’s wounded Army. It was two days after the equivocal victory that Donal said he’d finished his business in Richmond. They would be leaving to spend Christmas visiting the company office in Savannah.

  “It’s warmer down there. At least it should be this time of year. Leaving Richmond strikes me as a wise idea. Your friend is still locked up here. ‘Lead us not into temptation,’” he murmured with a taunting smile. Margaret knew the marriage was finished every way except legally.

  She paid a farewell visit to Rose Greenhow. Rose wanted to go to England. If Her Majesty’s government recognized the Confederacy, as the Davis government desperately hoped, London would welcome Southerners. Margaret wished Rose success with completing her memoir and kissed her good-bye. She refused to kiss little Rose, now growing into young womanhood and more impudent than ever.

  Two days before they were to leave for Georgia, Margaret dined with Cicero at Madam Zetelle’s popular restaurant on Main Street. Cicero was talkative, cheerful, peppering his conversation with references to “making the Yankees squeal.” When she asked how he did that, his answer was a coy smile.

  “Do you have anything to do with prisoners of war?” she asked.

  “Occasionally.”

  “Are you acquainted with a prisoner named Alonzo Price? I believe he’s in Libby.”

  “Price.” A pause. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “He was a friend of someone I knew in Washington.”

  “If he deserves some special attention, I’ll be delighted to arrange it.”

  “You don’t mean special attention to make him comfortable.”

  “No, quite the opposite.”

  Margaret shivered. Her brother’s good humor had a cruel underpinning. Cicero liked hurting people, and now, evidently, he could do it without being held to account. Sometimes he no longer seemed like her flesh and blood. She promised to write and wondered if she would.

  On a dark and blustery morning, Morris drove them to the depot. She and Donal boarded the southbound cars of the Petersburg Railroad. The train bore them through snowy fields, a desolate landscape devoid of color and, for Margaret, any sign of happiness or a normal life.

  Gradually they left the snow behind. Watery December sun shone on cotton fields beside the railroad tracks. Leaving North Carolina, the sense of an enemy presence virtually disappeared, even though Yankees occupied one of the South Carolina sea islands, an insignificant place called Hilton Head, not far from Savannah. It was principally a coaling s
tation for the Federal blockade squadron, Donal said; no threat to the mainland thus far.

  The graceful old city of Savannah basked in mild winter sunshine. Breezes from the nearby ocean stirred the palms and rattled the palmettos planted around its handsome squares. Ships filled the river and crowded the wharves. An air of prosperity prevailed. The war seemed far away.

  They boarded in separate rooms rented from a Mrs. Wilkes and took their meals downstairs at her boardinghouse table. Margaret’s face had healed. The last bruise was barely noticeable. While Donal occupied himself at the company office, Margaret unenthusiastically shopped for Christmas gifts. The stores overflowed with luxury goods—fine cigars from Havana, French champagne and cognac and perfume, and most anything else you could think of, from corset stays and bolts of satin to liver pills and hideous caricatures of Abe Lincoln hand-tinted to make him even more repulsive. Margaret bought Donal a fine pair of leather gaiters and a case of Spanish port.

  On Christmas Eve he insisted that they stroll down to the riverfront. A concertina in a crowded tavern carried the tune of “Good King Wenceslas” while rough-voiced sailors bellowed the words. Donal led her along the cobblestone quay to a long, narrow cargo vessel painted a misty gray. Her two funnels were shorter than any Margaret had ever seen. Even at this hour, black stevedores were carrying bales of cotton aboard, lashing them on the open deck and covering them with tarpaulins.

  “What do you think of her, my dear?”

  “I don’t know much about ships, but she’s unusual, I’ll say that.”

  “In many ways,” he agreed. “Very shallow draft. She can do at least eighteen knots. Her bunkers are full of the most expensive coal, anthracite. It produces no smoke. The cotton that you see is worth about nine cents a pound here, but across the pond, ten times that. It’s a McKee cargo.”

  “The ship’s a blockade runner?”

  “Aye, built in Glasgow and owned by a syndicate recently formed on the Isle of Wight. She steamed up the river last night, after a three-day run from St. George’s, Bermuda. An uneventful run, I might add.” A boyish enthusiasm bubbled in his voice. “The profit potential of this ship is enormous. More than two-thirds of the runners incoming and outgoing make it through the Yankee squadron. The master, Captain Ayers, formerly sailed with the Royal Navy. On each trip he can clear five or six thousand pounds from private cargoes he’s permitted to carry. Compared to that, however, the profit of the owners can be astronomical.”

  The lap of the river, the tang of the salt breeze blowing across the Low Country marshes, the sight of sweating blacks loading cotton while white men sang carols, made it the strangest Christmas Eve she could remember.

  “Does the ship have a name?” None was painted on the transom.

  “I wondered if you’d ask. She’s the Lady Margaret. Your Christmas gift.”

  “A ship for a present? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Now you have. She was financed with money from McKee, Withers. I am principal shareholder in the syndicate. On this run she’s bound for the Bahamas. You and I will spend New Year’s in the sun while I visit the Nassau office. Then we’ll sail to New York. The business climate up there is splendid. The mayor, Fernando Wood, still wants to secede from the Union and establish the city as a separate state trading with both governments. I shall support him wholeheartedly.”

  Not a little upset, she said, “Donal, I really prefer the South, even Richmond, over New York. It’s Yankee country, and I’m not a Yankee. Must we live there?” She could imagine the isolation, the discomfort, even the ostracism, she’d experience.

  He took her hand. “Yes. It’s a matter of business.”

  “And a spouse has nothing to say about it?”

  His smile faded. “If you insist I answer that, no. Please don’t spoil the evening, darling. Wouldn’t you like to step aboard and meet our captain?”

  She followed him up the gangway. Stars twinkled in the royal blue sky above the river. The Bible said this was a night when a star of hope shone for the world. If it was there, she couldn’t find it.

  45

  January 1863

  In her bedroom in the little house near the Navy Yard, Hanna dipped a cloth in her china washbowl and pressed it to her face. Warm water soothed her cheeks and eyelids. When she took the cloth away, she fancied she saw a face on the surface of the water. The face of the gallant Confederate officer, Frederick. She saw him often in dreams, and every day, more than once, she relived the unexpectedly sweet and moving moment of their kiss. She prayed his compassion went undiscovered and unpunished.

  Cold sunshine streamed through the windows of the cramped parlor where she found her father at his writing desk with a stack of documents. It was New Year’s, the day the Emancipation Proclamation became law. The District had already freed its slaves last April, much to Major Siegel’s displeasure. He boasted of supporting the Unconditional Union Party, the wing of the Democrats endorsing the war and loyal to the administration, but his professed allegiance was a sham, intended to curry favor with Stanton. Of course he endorsed the war, because of the opportunities it afforded. On issues such as punishing the South and freeing the Negroes, he more properly belonged with the Union Democrats, the wing of the party pledged to bringing a prompt peace without social upheaval. After today, Hanna felt sure, there would be upheaval in plenty.

  She leaned over the major’s shoulder to see his work. He appeared to be copying a list of prices charged the War Department for items of military equipment. In a flowing hand, at the top, someone had written Confidential—Do Not Circulate.

  “Is this extra work from the department, Papa?”

  “It’s extra work for me. Certain gentlemen will pay a nice sum to know what contractors are charging. That’s how they slip in a lower bid.”

  Hanna wasn’t greatly surprised by his scheming. Washington had become a town of speculators and trimmers feeding or hoping to feed at the government trough.

  “Should papers like that be coming home?”

  Annoyed, he said, “I return them and no one’s the wiser. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the rewards.”

  She could remind him that the rewards he referred to weren’t cascading down on her. Her portion was a mere trickle—an extra dollar or so every month for groceries. The major had recently bought a new saddle horse, a gray gelding appropriately named Foxy.

  He squared the papers into a neat stack. “Will you go with me to the mansion later?” The President and the First Lady traditionally received mobs of well-wishers at the residence on New Year’s afternoon.

  “No, I have duty at the hospital. Then I’m going to the National Hotel to catch a glimpse of Mr. Booth.”

  “Who?”

  “The Shakespearean actor. Edwin Booth’s younger brother, John. He’s in town negotiating with Leonard Grover for an engagement. He’s never played Washington, though he’s a sensation everywhere else. In the evening he greets admirers in the lobby of the National. I read it in the Star.”

  Siegel polished his monocle. “That sort of thing don’t interest me.”

  That too was no surprise. Though Hanna and her father shared the same house, increasingly they lived and moved in separate worlds. She didn’t care to know too much about his, for fear her disappointment would turn to disgust.

  Protected by a fur hat and mittens, she set out before noon for the Armory Square Hospital near the Smithsonian. She worked there several days a week, helping in the wards from a sense of patriotic duty. She no longer had a regular job. The hospital represented a change in her life, and despite the pain and suffering she saw, it was a good one.

  Much had changed in Washington for everyone. At Fredericksburg, General Burnside had destroyed his reputation. “Didn’t want to be called scared, like McClellan,” the major said, “so he sent ten thousand men up that hill, one damn assault after another. Reb artillery and six ranks of infantry cut them down. Not one man reached the stone wall on the heights. Charge of the
Light Brigade all over again. Officers on Burnside’s staff say he went insane for a while.” Burnside had been replaced by General Joseph Hooker. “Fighting Joe” had the task of reshaping the Army for the spring campaign.

  Hanna hadn’t stepped on a stage since her last appearance with Derek Fowley’s little company. Derek had quit his job selling shoes and had volunteered as an ambulance driver, probably to avoid more dangerous duty at the front. The Quartermaster Corps, not the Medical Corps, supervised the ambulance teamsters, but not very effectively. Hanna cringed at the rough handling of the wounded brought from the Potomac piers. She heard stories of casualties having their valuables stolen while they lay awake and helpless.

  She’d run into Derek at the hospital once when he was off duty. A new prosperity was evident in his fine wardrobe. He told her Zephira Comfort had fallen in love with a married officer from Michigan and run off to follow him as an Army laundress. “No loss,” he said with airy condescension. “There are charming ladies available on every street corner. All of them weigh less than that cow.”

  Hanna made her way to the hospital on foot, crossing streets no better than lakes of mud. A few dirty snowbanks were melting in the pale sunshine. Rounding a corner, she saw a colored man being stoned by a trio of soldiers. They chased the black man into an alley. A moment later Hanna heard screams.

  She ran to the alley but it was empty. A gate in a board fence banged shut. The soldiers had taken their victim somewhere to continue their sport. Emancipation might be the law of the land, but enforcement in human hearts would be a long time coming.