The Crescent Spy Page 5

  Lincoln chuckled at this. “Go on.”

  “What their commanders possessed, and what was lacking in ours, was energy. The enemy took the initiative. During the fight, they saw how the battle was flowing, and they made adjustments, while ours proved incapable of changing course.”

  “We had more men and horses,” Lincoln said. “We shouldn’t have needed to change course. Sometimes the best way across the river is a straight line.”

  “Unless there’s an alligator in your path,” Josephine said, “in which case it’s wise to paddle downstream a stretch before you make the crossing.” She nodded. “Things went wrong, as they always do in battle. Our generals might have altered their plans in response, but they were ponderous, uncertain. They made the worst sort of mistakes, the kind that come from inaction.”

  “If you’re going to commit an error, best do so with alacrity,” Lincoln said.

  “And that’s why the rebels won the battle. They made adjustments, they kept their nerve, and they pressed the attack when we faltered.”

  “Tell me, is Washington in danger?” Lincoln asked.

  Pinkerton cleared his throat. “Mr. President, I don’t think this girl—”

  “I want her thoughts. The city is in an uproar, and people are expecting Beauregard to come marching up the road any moment now. Perhaps the young lady has some insight.”

  “There’s no danger,” Josephine said, more confidently than she felt. “Not in the short term. The enemy is nearly as stunned as we are.”

  “Hmm.” The president leaned back in his chair. “‘Clever as a congressman,’ you say. I must remember that.” He gave her a long look. “Where did you learn all of this?”

  “Sir?”

  “Military details, how to execute a campaign, and so on and so forth.”

  “I read, Mr. President.”

  “You read. Miss Breaux, excuse my skepticism, but you . . . read?”

  “I read, yes. And I observe. I ask intelligent questions. And I think, usually in writing—it is how I clarify my thoughts.”

  Pinkerton cleared his throat. “Mr. President, she’s only a girl—I hardly think she’s capable of understanding the very complex situation we are facing.”

  “Does it matter that she is a young lady, so long as she has a good mind for the subject? An ax and a saw can both fell the same tree.”

  “If you don’t need the lumber,” Josephine said, “a battery of twenty-four-pounder howitzers can clear an entire forest in short order.”

  “I should hire you to write my speeches,” Lincoln said, chuckling. “Do you have any further observations about the unfortunate events in Virginia?”

  “Only one,” she said. “You have men who will fight. Now you need generals who can do the same.”

  “She hasn’t told us anything we couldn’t have figured out ourselves,” Pinkerton said grudgingly. He nodded at his younger companion. “Mr. Gray filed a report that said much the same thing.”

  “Using twice as many words and with half as much clarity,” Lincoln said. “Reading it was like peering through a fog bank and trying to make a map of the far shore. Miss Breaux turned on a limelight and burned away the fog.”

  The president had been flattering her—she recognized this—but it was working. Josephine found herself wanting to please him. Her sense of adventure was roused, and she found herself chewing over the idea of returning to the Mississippi. The thought both thrilled and worried her.

  “You mentioned New Orleans,” she said. “Can you tell me more?”

  Lincoln looked her over. “It will be dangerous. You might find yourself swinging from the end of a rope.”

  “I’m not afraid of that.”

  “So you say now. Yet taking into account what you faced in Virginia these past few days, it’s clear you’ve got steady nerves. New Orleans will be a grand adventure, a chance for heroism of the highest sort. Are you the woman for the job?”

  “Mr. President,” she said with a smile that was half-coquettish, half-skeptical—a smile learned from her mother, who was rarely denied by men of any kind—“now you’re appealing to my vanity.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Quite frankly, yes, it is. I’m flattered and I’m intrigued, and there’s no denying it. But I need to know what I’m getting into.”

  “I’m sure you’ve guessed this much,” Lincoln said. “The key to this war is control of the Mississippi, from Illinois to the Gulf of Mexico, together with that river’s several tributaries. And the key to the Mississippi is New Orleans. It’s the biggest city and port in the South, site of manufacturers and possessing a population base from which the enemy can raise tens of thousands of troops. The very sinews of war pass through New Orleans.”

  He delivered all of this with the same broad frontier accent with which he had been speaking earlier, but something had changed in his tone. She could sense the keen mind that had led a country lawyer on a path to the presidency of the United States. He was holding the map of the South in his mind and probing at her weaknesses, looking for a way to strangle the rebellion.

  Pinkerton and Gray listened raptly to the president’s thoughts. The younger man rested his hand on Josephine’s banknotes and let his thumb run along the edge of the money like a riverboat gambler playing with a deck of cards.

  “New Orleans is a snapping turtle buried in the mud,” Lincoln continued, “protected by a shell of forts both upstream and down and all the gunboats the enemy can muster. Taking the city is key to shearing off the western states of the rebellion, but right now that is impossible. And that is why we need you in New Orleans.

  “Once there, you will be given specific tasks suitable to your impressive range of skills. Your duties will be among the most important of the war. When you have done your work, New Orleans will return to the Union, and enemy hopes will collapse. God willing, this terrible conflict will come to a swift end. You will play a key role in this heroic endeavor.”

  Throughout this little speech, Josephine felt her ego swelling, and though she recognized that this was the president’s intent, that didn’t make her immune to its effects. Lincoln had mixed flattery with an appeal to her sense of adventure and glory. Nothing he had given her was useful information—had she been a Confederate spy, Richmond would have reacted to it with a dismissive shrug. Of course New Orleans was critical. Everyone knew that, but she still felt like she was privy to secret war knowledge by hearing it from the mouth of Abraham Lincoln himself.

  “Now,” Lincoln said, rising to his feet, which spurred the other three to rise as well. “I have a long night of work ahead of me. I feel like a sailor with a leaky boat, running about, slapping pitch on the timbers to keep it from taking on more water. So I will leave the three of you to your planning.”

  “But I still don’t know what you want me to do,” Josephine protested.

  “I am sowing many seeds, and I hope that with time some of them will bear fruit. That is all I can say at the moment. For now, I leave this matter in the capable hands of Mr. Pinkerton and Mr. Gray. And you, too, exercising what energy and ingenuity you can bring to bear. Best wishes in New Orleans, Miss Breaux. Now you will excuse me, I am hard pressed.”

  Lincoln made for the door, but Josephine sputtered as he walked past her. “I haven’t even said I would go.”

  “That is true,” Lincoln said when he reached the door. “There’s nothing we can do to force you. But for the sake of your country, I hope you will.”

  Josephine looked from the president to the two agents. Pinkerton tucked his pipe into his breast pocket and raised his eyebrows in an implied question.

  “Well?” Gray said.

  Josephine hesitated. She could almost smell New Orleans, the thick, almost tropical scent, smell the river as it cut its wide, inexorable path through the heart of the continent. Already, she could feel the weight of so many memories, some beautiful, some ugly and terrifying. She might come to regret her naïveté, but at the moment she was less
worried about the risk of being caught by the Confederates and hung as a spy, and more frightened of being hoisted in the noose of her own past.

  Against those fears was personal glory, a chance to test herself, to prove her value. And yes, she possessed a gambling streak that may or may not run in her blood. She thought about the Colonel before shoving aside those memories.

  “You’ll have everything you need,” Lincoln prodded. “These two gentlemen will arrange transport to New Orleans, and will make sure you have the resources to support yourself in enemy territory.”

  She made her decision.

  “I’ll do it.” Josephine eyed Gray, who still had her banknotes, coins, photographs, and letters spread on the table in front of him. “But if your men will return what they’ve stolen, I won’t need your resources, because I’ll have everything I need.”

  Given that Josephine had abandoned her plan of searching for employment in New York in order to work for the government, it was ironic that the first thing she did after leaving the White House was take a night coach to Baltimore, followed by a train ride to the heart of Manhattan, where she disembarked at a depot on Twenty-Seventh Street. She hired a hansom cab to carry her downtown, where she checked into the dingy Luxor Hotel, only a few blocks from Newspaper Row.

  But instead of marching triumphantly into the Herald, the Times, or the Tribune flourishing clips from her most triumphant articles, she skulked about the hotel for several days, waiting for Pinkerton to send instructions. Pinkerton had seemed worried that she would be recognized in Washington, which was why he’d sent her north from Washington to await transport.

  Josephine took one of the horsecars that ran on rails up to Central Park, where she munched on a bratwurst bought from a German with a cart and watched a group of sweating Irish laborers dig a pond with pick and shovel. She bought all the newspapers and read them front to back. When an article seemed particularly well written, she tore it out and tucked it into her satchel to study later. Meanwhile, she caught up on events following the disaster at Bull Run.

  Lincoln had demoted McDowell and brought in General George McClellan to lead the Army of the Potomac. A dashing young West Pointer, McClellan was said to be quickly whipping the troops into shape, and had succeeded in stemming the panic that Washington would soon be overrun. It remained to be seen how he would fare against the Confederates.

  As for her humiliation, there were a few small articles, mostly in the Tribune, about the unmasking of “Joseph” Breaux, and speculation on whether or not she was a secessionist spy. The jaded New York press said no. The Tribune slyly suggested it might offer her a job if she were to resurface. Her heart ached at this, but now that she’d committed to President Lincoln and his spies, she wouldn’t renege.

  On the fourth morning, Josephine got a telegram from the cryptically named E. J. Allen, which instructed her to collect her bags and proceed to Brooklyn, where her passage was booked on a clipper named The Flying Siam, destination Havana. She hired a cab, which joined a press of horses, carts, and foot traffic to the East River, then took the ferry across. Once in Brooklyn, she boarded the clipper and took the small stateroom that had been designated for her use.

  Josephine had no sooner tossed her bags onto her bunk than the bell clanged, and the whistles blasted on the docks. She hurried out to join the other passengers and crew on the deck. The ship flew a Canadian flag, but she heard German, Irish brogues, Spanish, and broad Canadian French among the crew. The passengers were largely Americans and Europeans, with a handful of Cubans sprinkled into the mix.

  The Flying Siam hoisted her sails and came down the East River with the outgoing tide, where she joined the larger harbor. From there, they struggled to maneuver among the smoke-belching tugs, the clippers coming off the ocean, and the heavy traffic of light barges, fishing smacks, and the ferries heaving back and forth between New York and New Jersey. A mighty sloop of war wallowed offshore, its guns bristling. Gulls wheeled overhead, their calls mingling with the sounds of bells and whistles from the various ships, coastal forts, and lighthouses.

  This burst of clandestine activity was mysterious and exciting, and it wasn’t until they were well offshore that the first worry tickled at her belly. She’d expected to receive more instructions on the ship, but so far, nothing.

  The bells rang for supper, and after she’d eaten a dinner of quahogs and beans cooked in salt pork, she returned briefly to her stateroom, a small, dingy space that smelled of its previous occupant. There were tobacco stains on the wall, and the spittoon had been emptied but not cleaned. At least they’d changed the sheet on the cot.

  Instead of lingering in the room, Josephine made her way to the deck to watch the sun sinking in the west. A fresh, briny breeze snapped in off the sea and tugged at her black curls, trying to pull them free from her bonnet. All was quiet on deck except for the slap of waves against the hull, the creak of ropes and canvas, and the occasional calling of sailors. A lighthouse blinked several miles off the starboard bow. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, suddenly chilly.

  Was she really going to Havana? And what in heaven’s name would she do when she got there? Look for the American legation or settle into a hotel and wait for someone to find her?

  “Enjoying the night?” a man said behind her.

  She recognized the voice and was relieved when she turned to see Franklin Gray approaching. He wore a dark wool jacket with trousers and a felt bowler, pulled down so it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze.

  “You weren’t at supper,” she said.

  “I stayed in my room until dark. Seemed prudent. Did you spot any suspicious characters?”

  “Several. But nobody who seemed particularly interested in me. Are we being watched?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We carry illicit cargo. After Havana, we’ll carry still more. If there are Union agents aboard, they haven’t been warned of our presence. Mr. Pinkerton wanted as few people as possible to know of our departure.”

  “So we are going to Cuba. I’d wondered if we’d get around Key West and make straight for the delta with a load of contraband for the enemy.”

  Mr. Gray took out a silver case and offered her a cigarette before he lit his own. She declined.

  “The Flying Siam will never run the blockade. It’s too big, too easily recognized. We’ll transfer to something even less luxurious, I’m afraid. I apologize for the room. A lady should have something more accommodating.”

  “If you knew the kinds of things I saw growing up on the river . . .” She smiled. “I’m not bothered by the conditions.”

  The tip of his cigarette glowed. “Wait until you see the rats scurry up and down the ropes at Havana.”

  “If a man—or woman—gets hungry enough, he’ll eat a rat.”

  He laughed at this. “I was skeptical about Mr. Pinkerton’s plans for you. But now I see that you are the perfect woman for the business at hand.”

  “A woman is always underestimated. A clever woman doubly so.”

  “How did you gain General Beauregard’s confidence at the battle?” he asked. “It surely wasn’t only your huckleberry pie.”

  “Don’t discount my pie, Mr. Gray. It has weakened the knees of many a man.”

  Josephine may have fought and scrabbled in a world of men, but she was not above using those feminine charms she had learned from her mother, and if Gray wasn’t a fool, he would see that she was doing the same thing to him right now that she had done to the rebel general. She decided to test him.

  She took the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her lips. “Do you know what I asked General Beauregard when I gave him the pies?” She changed her voice to mimic the Chesapeake accent she had affected with Beauregard. “‘How do you intend to whip the Yanks, General? They seem powerful determined.’” She handed back the cigarette. “That’s all it took. He laid out his entire order of battle.”

  “I’m glad you’re on our side, and not the enemy’s, Miss Breaux.” />
  “There are women in Washington who are spying on you at this moment. If you think our generals and congressmen are more tight-lipped than theirs, you are deceiving yourself.” Josephine leaned in confidentially. “May I call you by your given name, Franklin? Or is it Frank?”

  “Please do. And Franklin is fine. There were a million and one Franks where I grew up.”

  “I am pleased to meet you properly, Franklin.” She held out a gloved hand, which he took. “I prefer Josephine to Miss Breaux . . . if you feel comfortable, of course. But not Jo or Josie, or anything like that. They make me sound like a child.”

  “We wouldn’t want to remind anyone that you are only twenty years old.”

  She forced a laugh and hoped it sounded bright and cheery and not defensive. “That is true.”

  “Where is your mother? And this man you call the Colonel—where is he?”

  The questions caught her off guard. She had been thinking how easily she had broken the stiff exterior Franklin had carried in Washington and wondering whether she could simply ask him how they meant to use her spying in the Confederacy. Only now he had turned the tables.

  “That is . . . indelicate.”

  “It’s not puerile curiosity. I have several possibilities of how to bring you into New Orleans, and I want to be sure we won’t stumble into any of your relations.”

  “Neither the Colonel nor my mother will be in New Orleans, I promise. If I do see relations, there will be no problem. I wouldn’t recognize them, and they wouldn’t recognize me.”

  A knot of pain formed in Josephine’s belly. She wouldn’t see her mother, because her mother was dead. The Colonel wasn’t, so far as she knew, but he may as well be.

  “I am glad to hear it,” Franklin said, “but I would still like to hear the details. Whenever you are comfortable, of course.”

  But Josephine had soured on the conversation, and she was now more keen to return to her quarters than to stay and gnaw at old wounds. She feigned a yawn.

  “Perhaps another time, Mr. Gray,” she said, dropping the informality so recently established. “I am tired, and I have a book I am reading that will occupy my mind until bedtime. Good evening to you.”