On Secret Service

by John Jakes

  “Oughtn’t we kill him? He’s a witness,” the paunchy one said.

  Walleye pulled a pint of whiskey from his pants, uncorked it, and took a swallow. He passed the bottle. “Witness to what? Police won’t never come after us for killing niggers. Bunce, for Jesus’ sake hurry up, tie that rope.” Forked lightning split the sky. A heavy thunderclap followed.

  Someone sat on Lon’s back, yanked his ears to raise his head. Waves of sickness, weakness, surged through him. The white men lifted Zach, smacked the back of his head till he bent forward to receive the noose. They walked him to the lamppost, tossed the rope over, missed twice, and succeeded on the third try. The five gathered around the rope while the extra man kept Lon’s head up.

  “Is he lookin’, Felix?”

  “He’s lookin’,” said the man on Lon’s back.

  “Then here we go, boys, on my count of three. All together, one, two, three—heave. Heave.”

  They raised Zach six inches. He made choking sounds. His feet kicked the air as they hoisted him another three inches. The bearded man tied the rope around the post and they stepped away to dust off their hands and admire their work: one free Negro, dangling in the noose like a skinny doll.

  “He’s dead, boys, I heard his neck crack,” Walleye said with an air of good cheer. “One less dinge to befoul our fair city.” After the next burst of lightning, the wind picked up sharply. Fat raindrops pattered the street.

  The bearded man said, “Riley, you’ll have to go see the priest, you’ve a lot to confess now.”

  Walleye laughed. “Hell I do. ’Tain’t any sin to kill vermin. Come on, let’s look for more.”

  The man got off Lon’s back. Lon’s head fell nose-first into the dirt. Arm in arm, the six strolled away, harmonizing a song about the dear old sod of Ireland. Zach’s body turned in the hot wind.

  The sky opened, releasing a deluge. In a minute, rivers of rain washed mud against Lon’s face. A lightning flash whitened the world. The earth rocked. He hurt fiercely. I’m going to die here like Zach, he thought, sinking into darkness.

  The ferocious thunderstorm blew itself out in an hour and didn’t extinguish that many fires. The air turned hot and humid again. On Gramercy Park North, Margaret waited until half past two and then climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  She couldn’t fall asleep with all the fire bells ringing, and the sky red. Thoughts of Lon chased through her head. He’d come tomorrow night. Tomorrow night he’d be there. A single portmanteau held the things she wanted to take with her: a few favorite possessions and items of clothing from before her marriage. Donal could have the rest, everything he’d bought her. He could sell them, burn them, or consign them to hell for all she cared.

  Next morning, the two black sisters failed to appear, as did the cook. Phineas Farley arrived late, stricken and shaken. Although the thunderstorm had driven people inside and temporarily halted the rioting, scores were injured, an untold number were dead, and Negro men, women, and children feared for their lives. “Terrible, terrible,” Phineas kept saying.

  He had a copy of the Tribune. Margaret read Greeley’s editorial.

  Foul forces have been at work to foment an uprising that cannot be blamed on spontaneous public wrath. No thinking person can doubt that the rioters have acted under leaders who have carefully instructed them and elaborated their plans for civic disorder, pillage, and murder.

  Where was Cicero? What had happened to Lon? As the day passed, her fears and anxieties worsened. By evening, when Phineas bid her a reluctant good-bye to go home and protect his Eileen, she was pacing the downstairs, sweaty in her heavy traveling dress, unable to eat, unable to rest, unable to keep away from the parlor windows where she saw rooftops once again silhouetted against red skies.

  A neighbor, an elderly gentleman retired from a brokerage in Exchange Place downtown, looked in at half past seven to be certain she was all right. He knew she was alone; would she care to spend the night with him and his wife? They had extra room. No, she said, she’d be fine, here in respectable Gramercy Park she feared nothing. It was a pathetic lie.

  “I wish you would reconsider, Mrs. McKee. Mobs have been seen all over the precinct.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I’ll stay. It’s important that I do.”

  The old gentleman briefly described some of the day’s horrific events: a mob attack on the Union Steam Works where four thousand carbines were stored; soldiers of the Eleventh New York Volunteers confronting rioters on Thirty-fifth Street with two small fieldpieces that fired grapeshot and canister into the crowd; barricades of wrecked wagons, carts, fallen telegraph poles, tangled wire, in Ninth Avenue; Governor Seymour back in the city, speaking from the steps of the Army’s temporary headquarters, the St. Nicholas Hotel, declaring a state of insurrection, ordering rioters to cease and desist, but still promising that the draft would end.

  There was more. Soldiers fresh from the ordeal of Gettysburg were being rushed back to put down the rebellion. Hapless Negroes were being shot or hung from streetlamps without cause. Ladies of the evening who happened to be colored were dragged from their establishments and stabbed to death. The old gentleman didn’t say, “Terrible, terrible,” but his head shaking and hand wringing testified to a similar opinion. An hour after he left, a platoon of police marched in from Twentieth Street and stationed themselves around the park.

  On a green marble table in the foyer, a sealed vellum envelope drew Margaret’s eye more than once. Her farewell note to Donal; her statement that she was leaving him for another man.

  At dawn, sleepless and still dressed, she carried the envelope to her writing desk. A smell of dampness and smoke soured the house. She felt a perfect fool for the hope and joy she’d allowed herself to experience since Saturday.

  She opened the envelope, tore up the note. She wrote another while silent tears ran down her cheeks. She didn’t know whether Lon was dead or alive, but she knew he wouldn’t be coming for her. Not tonight. Nor ever.

  Part Five

  CONSPIRACY

  55

  November 1863–January 1864

  For some weeks after she fled New York, Margaret had feared that Donal would be enraged by the note saying she’d no longer live with him and would pursue her. She felt a pang of disappointment when he didn’t. Later she reflected that his disinterest confirmed the failure of the marriage.

  She went first to Baltimore. She found the Miller town house dusty and abandoned. White cloths shrouded the furniture. A neighbor said Simms had left to cook for Union troops garrisoned in the city. She put the place in the hands of a real estate agent, withdrew money from three bank accounts, and traveled on to Washington.

  The city’s pursuit of pleasure was even more frenetic than she remembered. The darkening days of late autumn were filled with levees, private theatricals, hops at the large hotels, all described in detail by the papers. Dedicated ladies and gentlemen staged elaborate fairs to raise money for the Sanitary Commission, the organization that had virtually taken over the care and feeding of the Army. The Commission opened hospitals, operated huge warehouses, and sent wagon trains streaming to the camps with everything from dressings and medicines to onions and potatoes for prevention of scurvy.

  The social season promised to have an exotic air. Hostesses were planning gala receptions for officers of the Russian fleet scheduled to anchor in the Potomac for the winter. Margaret had no personal knowledge of any of the events; she read about them. She left the town house on Franklin Square only when necessary.

  She received no more letters from Rose. In the wake of the South’s defeat at Gettysburg, Confederate envoys in England and France had failed to win recognition of their government. The Northern papers said they never would. New names appeared in battlefield dispatches—Thomas, Sherman, praised for their leadership at Chickamauga Creek and Lookout Mountain in faraway Tennessee. Lincoln declared a national day of Thanksgiving in November, proof of the Union’s resurgent confidence. Margaret ate alone,
a modest meal prepared in silent protest. That night, at her mirror, she found strands of gray in her hair.

  Stores overflowed with Christmas goods: wooden soldiers and popguns and clever mechanical dolls that sang; French perfumes and ladies’ cloaks and gentlemen’s cigar cases. She didn’t know how or where to ship a present to her brother, having heard nothing from him after the riots. She had no one else to buy for except Lon, who was gone. Their night together, a thrilling memory, could still bring on depression if she dwelt on it too long. She accused herself of speaking too persuasively, too often, about the impossibility of their love in wartime. Lon must have decided she was right.

  John T. Ford, the impresario from Baltimore, was enjoying success with his sparkling new “Temple of Thespis” on Tenth Street. For two weeks he engaged the popular John Wilkes Booth in his notable roles: Richard III, and Raphael, a sculptor, in an English version of a French drama, The Marble Heart.

  Margaret saw Hanna’s name in an advertisement for the latter play. She hired a carriage to take her to Ford’s, where she bought a seventy-five-cent seat, best in the house.

  Gaslight lent warmth to the handsome new playhouse. A bust of Shakespeare ornamented the proscenium arch. Every seat was filled. Hers was in the dress circle at stage right. She sensed an unusual excitement, prompted by patriotic bunting on a double box at the end of the dress circle stage left. From her seat she could look directly across to the box, but only those on her side of the dress circle had that advantage. The box couldn’t be seen at all by the often noisy rabble who sat downstairs. As the houselights went down, an usher in the box pushed lace curtains aside, revealing several chairs and a large upholstered rocker. Abraham Lincoln loved the theater and was known to pay surprise visits to Ford’s and Grover’s.

  An ovation greeted the first entrance of young Mr. Booth. Extraordinarily handsome, he rattled the rafters with his delivery. Unlike his brother, Edwin, whose acting was restrained and natural, he preferred the sweeping gesture, the bold stage move. Playing the poor sculptor in love with a woman who loved money more, he had competition for the attention of the audience. Those around Margaret watched the empty box.

  Ten minutes after the curtain rose, there were exclamations on the other side of the dress circle, then applause. In the dark, Lincoln had made his way through a passage to the double box and seated himself in the rocking chair. His wife wasn’t with him. A civilian guard stood behind him, in shadow.

  Applause grew and spread to the orchestra and upper gallery. Lincoln stood to acknowledge the welcome, then with a gesture to the stage bade the players continue. Mr. Booth saluted the haggard President with an exaggerated bow. Margaret thought Booth looked annoyed. Lincoln and his guard left a minute before the last curtain.

  She was unsure of the reception she’d get from Hanna, but nevertheless waited in the alley behind the theater. She was embarrassed to be in a crowd of giddy women eager to see the leading man. She was relieved when Hanna was among the first to come down the steps. “Hanna? Here I am!”

  Hanna started when she recognized Margaret. She recovered quickly and ran to her. Hanna still wore stage makeup; her eyes were lined, her cheeks and lips vividly rouged.

  “In heaven’s name, what are you doing in Washington?”

  “Donal and I separated. I saw your name and couldn’t stay away. You were fine, Hanna.”

  “Thank you. It’s a tiny part but I earn a salary, so finally I can call myself a professional. Isn’t Johnny Booth marvelous?”

  “He’s very forceful. Do you have time for supper?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Ford’s giving a party for the cast. I’m heartbroken to hear about the separation. We must meet again, to catch up. Are you at home in Franklin Square? I’ll send a note as soon as I’m free.” Margaret wondered if she would; Hanna seemed stiff, reserved.

  Her speculation was cut short by applause from the fifty or so gathered at the stage entrance. Booth came out wearing a fur-collared overcoat and silk hat. He was showered with floral bouquets and two folded notes thrown by young women. Hanna squeezed Margaret’s hand and whispered something that Margaret couldn’t hear with all the noise. Booth’s black eyes shone as he signed programs. Someone asked about performing for Lincoln.

  “Infernal nuisance having him in the house. Throws everyone’s timing off. Nor do I appreciate bowing before a damned tyrant.” The crowd murmur stopped. Two men feebly applauded. Margaret slipped away without speaking to Hanna again.

  In December, Margaret bought a set of tortoiseshell combs for Hanna. At New Year’s she still hadn’t heard from her friend. The gift in its floral paper remained in a drawer.

  The black brougham with black window curtains swung into the mews between H and I Streets. Lon counted nine saddle horses tied to iron posts in front of a two-story house with draped windows. The horses whinnied and stamped as the brougham rolled up. Lon jumped out, followed by Eugene Sandstrom and two other Baker detectives. Piano music and laughter beat through the solid oak door. The breath of the four detectives clouded in the January air. The stars were icy and distant.

  Lon unbuttoned his coat, loosened the six-shot Navy Colt .36 holstered under his arm. It was a simple, dependable weapon, turned out in vast numbers for the Union. He missed the old pocket piece, lost when Zach was hanged. This gun was larger. It had the virtue of being more intimidating.

  Sandstrom blew on his hands. “What’s the name of this crib?”

  “The Blue Goose.” To the driver Lon said, “Pull out and signal them to bring up the Black Maria.” Baker’s unit owned an old police wagon refitted with huge padlocks on the doors. The driver shook the reins. The brougham moved down the mews.

  “How many on the list?” another detective asked. Lon pulled out a paper, tilted it to catch the light of a gas lamp above the front entrance.

  “Six.”

  “The chief’s throwing a hell of a big party.”

  “He aims to ship seventy to eighty whores down the Potomac. Every one of them secesh.”

  “Or accused of it by someone else,” Sandstrom said.

  Lon shot him a look. “Same thing.” Eugene was exactly right, though. It was a rotten business, rounding up suspected traitors without real evidence. Lon especially hated harassing women. But he couldn’t ignore three McClellan saddles among the tethered horses. Baker insisted that whores could get officers drunk and pry information out of them.

  “Follow me.”

  He’d lain unconscious in the street after the white men killed Zach. A black barber discovered him, took him in, and sent his son for a policeman. Lon spent a week in a ward at Bellevue Hospital while units from Gettysburg arrived and quelled the rioting. Lon remembered only the last three days of that week.

  Recovery had been long, difficult, and frustrating. His healed wounds hurt in the cold. Going up to the oak door, he felt every step.

  He aimed the Navy Colt at the keyhole and blasted the mechanism apart with one shot. He kicked the door open and jumped into a melee of shouting and screaming, overturning furniture, shattering glass, obscene oaths. Hard to tell who had the foulest mouths, the male patrons or the ladies.

  A captain with his blue blouse unbuttoned darted away down the long hall next to the staircase. Lon put a bullet in the floor at the soldier’s heels. The man stopped instantly. Lon yelled, “The back door is blocked by my men. We’re arresting some of the inmates of this house. Customers can leave. Just don’t make trouble.”

  A motherly woman with high-piled gray hair stormed out of a side parlor. “You dirty fucking son of a bitch, who are you?”

  Lon showed his badge. “Some of your ladies are going on a boat ride. They can work in Richmond, entertaining their own kind.”

  “God damn you, you pissy little runt, you can’t tromp in here and act like you own—”

  He cocked the single-action piece with his thumb. “If you’re Madam Hanna, your name isn’t on my list. I’ll add it if you don’t keep quiet.”

 
Madam Hanna paled under her orange powder. She clutched her wattled neck and stepped back, making curious gobbling sounds. Lon consulted the list. “Here are the ones we want. Mary Ann Abelard. Dimity Baskin. Boots, also known as Helene Gunther. Eulalia Mimms. Says here she’s black. Josie Stein and Annie Wheaton. Root ’em out, boys.”

  The detectives ran upstairs while the patrons gathered overcoats and hats and gloves and stole out. Lon heard the Black Maria clattering into the mews.

  Soon the first girl came down, dragged by Eugene Sandstrom. She carried her cloak over her arm; her bosoms were practically falling out of her chemise. She called Sandstrom vile names until he shoved his pistol in her side. “Shut up and cover your tits.” Lon smiled; Sandstrom was learning.

  By midnight they had the six soiled doves cuffed and locked inside the black-painted wagon. Lon accompanied them to Old Capitol but rode outside, with the driver. Inside, they’d probably claw him to pieces.

  The whole business was distasteful, but it was the game he’d chosen by coming back to work for Lafayette Baker after his recovery. The tactics of Baker and Stanton appalled him. Dozens were arrested every month—journalists, elected officials, government clerks, anyone caught opposing the war or suspected of it. Some were jailed for a day or two. Some were detained indefinitely in the overcrowded prisons. Lon knew he shouldn’t work for a man he loathed. Nevertheless he stayed. Where else could he fight the war as Pinkerton had trained him to do?

  He sopped his conscience by telling himself that every arrest was a payment for Zachariah Chisolm. He grieved for his friend. Zach died unhappy, believing himself cursed by his blackness, and by white hypocrisy. He saw no possibility of acceptance in the promised land of the North. It was a bitter fate, adding an extra measure of pain to a cruel death. Zach Chisolm had died thinking himself less than a man.