The Women Spies Series 1-3

Kit Sergeant

Thompson Belle Press

Other books by

Kit Sergeant

The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII

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Contemporary Women’s Fiction:

THROWN FOR A CURVE

WHAT IT IS

355

The Women of Washington’s Spy Ring

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

Although this book features historical figures and is based on real events, it is a work of fiction. Most of the dialogue in the story is a product of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as historical fact.

Copyright © 2017 Kit Sergeant

Published by Thompson Belle Press

All rights reserved.

This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the Revolutionary War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women upon whom these characters are based.

Glossary of Terms

Claret: a type of red wine

Dragoon: a member of the British calvary

Hessians: German mercenaries who served with the British Army

Laudanum: a form of opium used for medicinal purposes, especially pain relief

Lobsterback: derogatory term for a British soldier; similar to Redcoat

Loyalist: an American colonist who remained loyal to the British Crown; aka “Tory”

Madeira: a type of dry wine

Men-of-war: British naval ships

Mob cap: a type of head covering with a ruffled brim worn in the 18th century

Oberstleutnant: a commissioned officer in the German Army

Queen’s Rangers: Loyalist military unit fighting for the side of the British

Rebel: a term for Colonists who rejected British rule; aka “Whigs” and “Patriots”

Stomacher: a panel that fits in the bodice of 18th century dresses

Tory: an American colonist who remained loyal to the British Crown; another name for Loyalist

Waistcoat: a men’s vest worn under a coat for formal attire

Whig: a term for Colonists who rejected British rule; opposite of “Tory” and “Loyalist”

Prologue

June 1939

Morton Pennypacker’s hands shook as he opened the package and retrieved the envelope sitting on top. Decades of research might be vindicated by the contents of the letter inside. Or those decades might have been all for naught, resulting in yet another dead end.

The letter, written by one of the world’s preeminent handwriting experts, was predictably neat, the writer careful not to give away any hint of emotion in the curves of his lines. As Pennypacker scanned it, a hint of a smile appeared on his wrinkled face. Phrases such as “the same weight and style of paper,” and “the same flourishes on the cursive d’s,” jumped out at him before he read the words, “These are definitely written by the same man.”

Pennypacker carefully set the letter on his desk and picked up his red pencil with one hand as he flipped to a dog-eared page in his ledger with the other. In the blank space beside the words Samuel Culper Junior, he wrote the name Robert Townsend. He sat back in his chair, allowing himself a long-awaited moment of triumph before retrieving the other items from the box.

For years Pennypacker had been collecting information on the members of the Culper Spy Ring, General Washington’s main source of intelligence on British troop numbers and movements during the Revolutionary War. He told others that his interest was mainly academic, but he had to admit to himself that he was out to beat the rest of the amateur enthusiasts in naming every Culper constituent. Some of the ring’s members had been much more forthcoming after the war: Benjamin Tallmadge had written about his leading role in his memoirs, and Caleb Brewster, purveyor of the secret intelligence, bragged about his adventures to anyone who would listen. It was not until Pennypacker was able to get his hands on a trunk from a widowed relative of Townsend that he was vindicated in his long-held suspicion as to the identity of the elusive Culper Junior. The trunk proved to be the mother lode: it contained ledgers, drawings, and old documents that had once belonged to the Townsend family.

Pennypacker gingerly examined the century and a half old cipher he had sent off to be compared with Townsend’s account book. The printed numbers and the names they stood for were as familiar to him as Culper Junior/Townsend’s cursive loops. Although the Culpers also used code names and, occasionally, invisible ink, they would substitute numbers for common words, names, or places in case their missives were ever intercepted. Each member—as well as General Washington himself—had a copy of the cipher written in Tallmadge’s handwriting, but at some point Townsend had made his own copy. The number 721 coded for John Bolton (Benjamin Tallmadge) while 726 was for James Rivington, the Tory printer and business acquaintance of Townsend. Samuel Culper Senior, the founder of the ring, was referred to as 722 but was known in life as Abraham Woodhull.

With the revelation that Townsend was Culper Junior, there was only one ring member whose identity remained a mystery. Pennypacker picked up the copy of a letter Woodhull had written to General Washington in August 1779 and read it aloud, enjoying the way the words echoed off the walls of his office. “I intend to visit 727 before long and think by the assistance of a 355 of my acquaintance, shall be able to outwit them all.”

727 was code for New York City. Woodhull was from Setauket, but he often traveled to Manhattan under the guise that he was garnering supplies for his farm, picking up intelligence and passing it on to Tallmadge by way of Brewster and his whaleboat. Pennypacker exchanged Woodhull’s letter for the Culper cipher, and, for perhaps the hundredth time, ran his fingers down the sheet until he reached 355 and the word adjacent: lady. Who was this lady of Woodhull’s acquaintance that he was so confident could outwit his enemies? The reticent and paranoid Woodhull did not have many contacts outside of the ring, and Pennypacker concluded that it was more than likely she had been recruited and cultivated by one of the other members. Now that he had confirmed Robert Townsend’s participation, perhaps he could coax 355’s identity into light. Maybe Townsend had even made the copy of the cipher for 355 in order to decode his messages. Based on his research thus far, Pennypacker had narrowed the enigmatic 355 to three possible women—Margaret Moncrieffe, Elizabeth Burgin, and Sally Townsend—but from there, he’d reached another impasse. With a sigh, Pennypacker turned back to Townsend’s trunk and the documents it contained.

Chapter 1

Meg

June 1776

Meg stared at the bayonet blade, now only inches from her breast, and felt beads of sweat form under her bonnet. She met the eyes of the bayonet wielder, the shorter of the two men—one could hardly call them “gentlemen,” though they were wearing the red regimentals of the King’s army—before taking a step backward. She forced her voice to take on a demanding tone. “Sir?”

The short man narrowed his eyes. “Stealing apples, eh?”

Meg hid the hand holding the offending fruit behind her voluminous skirts. “I was going to give them to my horse.”

“Those apples belong to the British army.” The short man stepped forward, narrowing the gap Meg tried to put between them.

“Sir, my father serves the King as well. Captain Moncrieffe.” She glanced across the channel to Staten Island. Her father was on that island now, too far away and too occupied with fighting the Patriots to come to her rescue.

“Haven’t heard of him.” The short man straightened his arm, aligning the bayonet with Meg’s eyes.

Her heartbeat, already at a canter, quickened even more. The other soldier stepped closer to peer into her face. He flicked his hand out, forcing her bonnet back before he pushed his partner’s musket away. “Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s a child?”

Her hand tightened on the apple as she refrained from stating her customary reply: that she was no longer a child.

The bayonet wielder seemed inclined to agree with her. “She’s old enough to provide me some relief.”

Panic rose again in her chest. She had heard of women being raped during this infernal war, but usually by the rebel army, not her own countrymen. Thankfully the other man replied, “Save yourself for the whores in New York. If her father is indeed a captain and gets word that one of his own spilled his seed in his daughter, you’d hang from that same apple tree.”

Meg took the deepest breath her stomacher would allow as the men left the orchard. Mrs. De Hart was right: this was no place for a woman, especially not one without a chaperone. She went into the house to fetch a sheet of paper and quill.

No man in the world had more of an attachment to King George than her father, but that created a difficult living situation for her in the midst of the revolution. Since Meg had returned from Europe, it seemed she found herself thrust upon Whig host after Whig host, all extolling the evilness of His Royal Highness.

She’d been with the Bankers in Elizabethtown and accompanied them when they departed for the countryside after the British Navy arrived in the Lower Bay. But Meg had soon grown tired of hearing Mrs. Banker’s list of complaints against the Crown and the army that served it, including Meg’s father himself. She’d fled the company of the Bankers while they were at church and rode out to the De Hart’s farm on the coast. The De Harts, like the Bankers, were patriot sympathizers, or Whigs, while Meg and her father were opposed to independence and known as Loyalists or Tories. Nonetheless, the De Harts had been friends with her late stepmother.

Mr. De Hart was reluctant to take her in at first, stating that, since her husband had been called away to help draft the state constitution and her youngest son had joined the Continental army, she could offer Meg little protection. Mrs. De Hart eventually relented, herself frightened by the presence of the warships stationed across the bay, and the two of them had fallen into a peaceful routine, at least until the scene earlier that morning.

Meg composed a hasty message to her father, imploring him to find a safer place for her to reside, preferably with a family affiliated with their own cause.

A few days later, Mrs. De Hart and Meg were sewing in the living room when they heard a horse approaching. They exchanged looks of alarm as someone’s fist rapped on the front door.

Mrs. De Hart rose to open the door. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for a Miss Moncrieffe,” a gruff voice stated.

“For what purpose?”

“I am Major Aaron Burr, aide-de-camp for General Putnam. He has sent for Miss Moncrieffe on orders of Captain Moncrieffe.”

“Father got my letter!” Meg exclaimed as she walked to the door. Major Burr looked to be around 20 years old. His facial features were even and lean but for his cheeks, which still held a boyish roundness to them. He wore the navy blue uniform of the Patriots, his dark hair tucked under a tri-corner hat. His eyes, black as pitch, fixed on her as he bowed. “Miss Moncrieffe?”

She curtsied toward him in the manner she’d been taught at her Dublin boarding school and offered her hand. “Indeed.” His skin was softer than his appearance, bronzed by many months spent outdoors, would have avowed.

His hand freed of Meg’s, Major Burr put both arms behind his back and drew his legs together. “I am to convey you to General Putnam’s residence on Manhattan Island.”

“Manhattan!” Mrs. De Hart repeated. “With all of the British warships in the harbor?”

“I will make sure Miss Moncrieffe is safe at all times,” Major Burr replied.

Putnam was a rebel, but at least she would be under the protection of a general, Meg surmised. Her relief at being sent for was being quickly eclipsed by exhilaration at the possibility of riding alone with the handsome Major Burr. “Is it far to the city?”

“About ten miles. We must leave soon, my orders are to have you at the Putnam residence tonight.”

Mrs. De Hart beckoned him inside. “Let’s get you some food and drink while Meg packs her things.”

“I shan’t be long,” Meg promised as she hurried to the guest room. She had not brought much to the De Hart’s as she had not had much time to pack when they originally fled Elizabethtown. Most of her fine gowns were still at the Bankers’ house. Meg threw the only riding dress currently in her possession on the bed. It hadn’t been cleaned since she had last worn it and dust still covered the burnt orange fabric. She shook it out and sneezed. Despite its state of unwash, the close-fitting dress would both make riding easier and show off her womanly curves. She added an ostrich feather onto the matching bonnet and tucked her blond hair underneath it.

When Meg returned to the kitchen, she noticed Major Burr had removed both his sword and hat. He had fine hair, Meg noticed. Dark and thick, it curled underneath the blue ribbon that held it back in a queue. “Ready, Miss Moncrieffe?”

“Please, Major Burr, call me Meg.” The white edge of his forehead, previously hidden under his hat, spoke even more of long days in the sun.

His smile lit up his face, including those dark eyes. “If you would call me Aaron.”

“Aaron it is.” Meg turned her shoulders as she moved past him, offering him a glance at her décolletage. When she turned to get his reaction, she noticed the smile had left his face.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Why, Aaron, I am a woman of seventeen.”

“Not much of a woman,” he grunted, rising from the table.

“How old are you?”

“Just shy of 20.” He gave her a meaningful look before putting his hat on and tucking his sword back under his belt.

“That is not so much older than me.”

“Older in years, and in experience.” He picked up her valise from the doorstep and walked out the back door.

“Have you seen many battles?” Meg fell into step with him as they headed to the stables.

“I was with Benedict Arnold in Quebec.”

“I see.” She assumed he knew where her loyalties lay, her father being a British captain and all.

“Do you have a horse of your own?” Aaron asked.

“Yes. Father brought him over from England.”

“Is he as majestic as his master?”

“Of course.” She turned toward Aaron and batted her eyelashes. “And yours?”

“My horse was dispatched to me by General Washington himself.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You are an important man.”

They reached the stables. Normally Salem wouldn’t let anyone else handle him, but Aaron gave off a calming air that seemed to charm her horse. He expertly saddled Salem and then led him to the side of the house where a brown steed was tied to the fencepost. Aaron handed Meg Salem’s lead as he mounted his own horse.

Mrs. De Hart came to give her a hug and Meg thanked her profusely for her kindness in taking her in. The elder lady waved from the front porch as they departed. Despite their differing viewpoints on the outcome of the war, Meg hoped that she would remain unharmed and that Mr. De Hart would soon return from Trenton.

“I actually came from Washington’s staff,” Aaron said casually after a few minutes of silence.

“You were under the direction of the leader of the Continental army?” Despite herself, Meg was impressed.

“Indeed. But I resigned and began working for General Putnam a few weeks ago.”

“You didn’t like working for your Commander-in-Chief?”

Aaron shrugged. “Our Commander-in-Chief has little military training. He fought in the Indian wars, but has yet to win a great battle. And he’s a slave owner.”

“I suppose you have extensive military expertise.”

He shot her a sly smile. “I did go to Princeton.” His gaze traveled from her boots up to the fichu that barely covered the bodice of her dress. “I suppose you are one of those English-educated girls, er, women.”

“I went to boarding school in Ireland,” she told him proudly. “And I was raised by General Gage until I was three.”

Aaron leaned over to spit onto the ground.

“One of my stepmothers was the sister of William Livingston, the governor of New Jersey, the other stepmother was the sister of John Jay,” Meg continued.

“All Whigs. Why did your father marry so many women whose families spoke out against the Crown?”

It was her turn to shrug.

“And yet your father espouses a futile cause in the King’s name,” he continued.

“The King is the anointed ruler.”

“He is not my anointed ruler.”

“Clearly not.”

Aaron rounded his steed as they approached the checkpoint into the city. One of the men in charge stuck his fingers into his mouth and gave a loud whistle. Other men in blue uniforms quickly mounted their horses and fell into line behind them. “A cavalry charge?” Meg asked Aaron with a slight hint of mock to her tone.

“An escort,” he replied. This time Meg was the first to break eye contact as she felt her face heat up under Aaron’s searching gaze.  

Another rider came beside Salem and Meg. “That is a fine horse you have, miss.”

“Thank you.” She glanced over at him. His face bore smallpox scars, but it was still well-shaped. The epaulettes at his shoulders revealed that he was an officer. He nodded back at her staring. “Captain Webb at your service, miss.”

“Watch it, Webb.” Aaron called from the other side of Meg. “She’s only seventeen.”

She squeezed her legs, causing Salem’s pace to quicken, and glanced back at the rebel soldiers. Aaron held a tight smile, but Captain Webb made no secret of the fact his eyes were fixed on her backside.

The City of New York at present had changed much from her youth. Meg was fourteen when she had returned from overseas. At that time, Father had been married to Catherine Livingston, daughter of the Whig judge. Meg hated her—she wore a permanent frown and, worse yet, was staunchly in favor of breaking from the King. Luckily Meg spent most of her time under the care of a governess, but she cannot say she was sorry when Catherine died a year after her arrival, leaving part of her immense family fortune with Meg’s father.

Back then Meg had been shocked at how many slaves wandered the broad streets, performing various tasks for their masters and dampening a vision that had otherwise been unmarred by the handsome residents and grand brick houses. New York had been bustling with trade and shipbuilding.

Now the harbor was occupied with war ships instead of whaling vessels. The wide expanse of Broadway, still bordered by mansions interspersed among the oak and hickory trees, seemed deserted. Aaron halted his horse at the corner of Reade Street in front of Number One Broadway, a grand two-story brick house with carved Palladian windows. 

“We’ve arrived.” Aaron dismounted, handing the reins to Captain Webb as he came to stand by Salem. He pulled off his riding gloves and offered Meg his hand. She took it, trying to not reveal the swelling of emotion the simple contact had stirred in her. Despite her supposed youth, Meg was well acquainted with male attention and welcomed it for the most part, the British brutes in the garden notwithstanding. But Major Burr, with his distinguished record and handsome countenance, was at a level she was unaccustomed to. Not to mention he fought for the other side.

Aaron, for his part, also seemed to be affected. His already weathered face grew even darker as he put his arm around Meg’s waist and helped her down.

They were greeted at the door by Mrs. Putnam, who exclaimed that they had arrived just in time for the evening meal. She had a wide, honest face and stocky figure. She introduced Meg to her daughters, Belle and Molly, both who appeared to be in their early 20s. They paused in their fussing over Meg as a large, rotund man with long gray hair entered the room. His face was as well-worn as the battle maps that hung from the walls. His uniform was ill-fitting, the buttons that attempted to hold their own over his protruding belly on their last threads. Like his wife, there was a kindly air about him.

“General Putnam,” Meg approached him and reached for his hand, which he promptly grasped. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Nonsense,” he said, his voice lisping slightly over the s’s. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for your father. We fought on the same side during the French and Indian War. He is only my enemy on the battlefield. Privately, he can always command my services. And that of my family,” he said, dropping her hand as his wife stepped forward.

“Come, Miss Moncrieffe, let’s get you settled in your room before supper,” Mrs. Putnam said.

“Please call me Meg,” she told her.

“And I’m Dolly, not Mrs. Putnam.” She gestured toward her husband. “You can call him Old Put. Everyone else does.”

Old Put placed an arm around his handsome aide-de-camp’s shoulders. “Fancy a drink after your journey, old boy?”

“Yes sir,” Aaron replied, his gaze following Meg as Dolly led her up the stairs.

Chapter 2

Elizabeth

June 1776

“The commander of the British army, General Howe, has left Virginia,” Elizabeth’s husband Jonathan told her as they sat down to dine.

Elizabeth motioned for their maid, Abigail, to serve her more stew. “What does that mean?”

Jonathan sighed and rubbed the graying whiskers on his chin before he answered. “It means he probably has his spyglass set on Manhattan, if he has any thought to him.”

“Why is that?”

He waved toward the window that looked onto the East River. “The ports. The fact that New York is in the middle of the country. If he closes down the harbor, the Continent will suffer greatly.”

“Thus the reason for the Yankees’ arrival.” Since the spring, the city had been filled with soldiers in a rainbow of neutral colors: brown, light gray, buff, and even green. “Food’s been hard enough to lay hold of without these New Englanders coming for it.” Elizabeth took another swallow of stew. She hadn’t had much of an appetite at this time during her other pregnancies, but for some reason she was perpetually hungry with this one.

“Hush, woman. Them New Englanders are the only chance we’ve got in this Loyalist city. New York City didn’t come to the aid of Boston, yet here Boston comes to aid us. Makes a man think real hard about where his priorities lie.”

“Jonathan,” Elizabeth’s spoon clattered in the silver bowl. “You can’t possibly mean…”

“That’s right.” He plunked his wineglass down resolutely. “I’m thinking about joining the army.”

Fear began to rise in her chest as she contemplated the next few months without Jonathan. She was nearly seven months pregnant. And then there were the other children to think of: Jonathan James, who was almost six, and Catherine, now four. Elizabeth turned her back to her husband while she fed the remaining scraps of bread to her hound dog and thought of a suitable reply. Her brother James had been killed last year during the Siege of Boston. Jonathan was an intensely religious man, and if Elizabeth brought up James’s death as an argument, Jonathan would simply tell her that if he were to die in battle, it would be due to God’s will. She swallowed back her next rebuttal—that Jonathan was too old. He was nearing fifty, which was how she convinced him not to join the Continental army when the first shots had been fired at Lexington and Concord over a year ago. She decided to reason with him, a policy that she learned, after eight years of marriage, worked the most often. “Who will take care of the shop?”

“You must.” He gestured toward Abigail. “Abby will help with the children, right?”

As Abigail nodded, Elizabeth couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping open. Jonathan was of the mindset that women were not to be involved in financial affairs. It did not seem prudent for Elizabeth to remind him of the fact she had no idea of how the shop was run. “And you?”

“If I die, I will have died for a great cause rather than as a coward in my bed.”

She wanted to say, “A coward that still could have provided for his family,” but she realized the futility of it. It had not been a marriage of love—Elizabeth’s father had arranged for his daughter to wed the wealthy merchant, Jonathan Burgin, on his deathbed. He wanted to assure that someone would look out for his oldest daughter—a girl of only just sixteen—after he had passed. But, despite her initial reluctance to marry him, admiration had grown out of trust and reliance.

She wondered how she would survive without Jonathan. Ever since the war began, Jonathan had complained of a lack of customers at his store and that money grew tighter. She felt a swell of indignation: she had already lost her only brother due to this conflict and now she was being asked to sacrifice her husband as well?

Elizabeth marveled at the changes that overcame her native city as more Yankee troops arrived from Boston. Because the family quarters were located on the second floor above the Queen Street shop, they had a good view of the city below from both the east and west. The harbor, which had been practically deserted in the spring with the arrival of General Lee from England, now teemed with American soldiers. It seemed a company was always conducting drills outside their building, their fifes and drums audible long into the night.

After the British settled on nearby Staten Island, Jonathan had officially enlisted under General Woodhull and was ordered by the Committee of Safety to help garrison the East River beach. Jonathan would often come home exhausted and sunburned. Gone was his previous reticence to talk politics with his wife. He filled her in on what was happening outside, including a supposed plot by the Loyalists to kidnap General Washington which resulted in the hanging of a man in the gallows near Bowery Lane. Every day after that he had stories of Tory turncoats being tarred and feathered or dragged through the city while straddling a fence rail.

Confined to her apartments and the store below it, Elizabeth could still feel the tensions rise in the streets of New York City. She was not opposed to war. She had read snippets of Jonathan’s copy of Common Sense, and agreed with most of what Thomas Paine had written, specifically that England, so far removed, had no right to govern America. But with the conflict building right outside her window, Elizabeth began to question whether it was worth her and her family’s lives.

The military occupation, thankfully, brought business to the shop. Jonathan owned a dry goods store that sold such necessities as stationery, tobacco, and tea (the local herbal kind as Jonathan had refused to sell Bohea after the Boston Tea Party), along with a few other various items like walking sticks, ribbon, and scraps of cloth. The first morning Elizabeth opened the shop, she was relieved to see Jonathan’s longtime friend Hercules Mulligan enter, ducking underneath the doorframe as he did so.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said warmly, taking both of her hands in his. Hercules’s palms, like the rest of his body, were massive. In addition to his height, he had a girth that could have been imposing; his manner, however, had always been most affable to Elizabeth. “How long until the baby comes?”

“About two months,” she said, retreating back behind the counter. With her previous pregnancies, Elizabeth went into a self-imposed confinement at this stage, but the necessity of making money meant appearing in public with her swollen belly.

“I have to pick up some things.” The stocky Irish immigrant would have made a hardy soldier, but instead he owned the finest clothier shop in Manhattan. “Do you have any sugar?”

She glanced down at the ledger in front of her. “Sugar?”

Hercules set a few items down on the counter. “If you do, it would be in the back room.”

She nodded and ducked underneath the curtain that led to the stockroom. There she was confronted with an endless sea of objects wrapped in brown packaging. The bell on the front door of the shop rang as she fumbled with a packet similar in size and shape to what she imagined a bag of sugar would be.

“Never mind, Elizabeth,” Hercules called out.

As she reappeared in the front of the store, she noticed Hercules eyeing the new customer with disdain. The unfamiliar man wore a powdered wig and a well-cut suit. He had a long, crooked nose and shrewd blue eyes. “I’m looking for ink.”

“To print more of your treasonous lies, Rivington?” Hercules asked, a growl in his voice.

“Actually,” the man called Rivington turned to his accuser, “it’s for personal correspondence.” He faced Elizabeth. “I would like to purchase some ink.”

She looked helplessly at Hercules. He inclined his head toward a shelf on her left side. She grabbed a pair of inkwells and placed them on the counter.

“Three,” Rivington stated.

She retrieved another before opening the ledger to a fresh page.

“I’m on credit here,” Rivington said.

“I hardly believe Jonathan would let you purchase on credit.” Hercules walked to stand at Rivington’s side. “Not with your Loyalist tendencies well-known.”

“They are so well-known because I have a readership that numbers in the thousands, which leads me to conclude that there are plenty of people still loyal to the King in this town, despite what you may see outside.” Rivington lifted his chin as a regiment of soldiers in green coats marched past the door. “Credit, then?” he asked Elizabeth.

She nodded in acquiescence, mainly because she had no idea what to charge him. “For now. I will speak with my husband later about settling your debts.” She was aware that Rivington ran the Royal Gazette, the city’s most popular Tory rag. Once she’d seen one lying in the street, a headline about Washington’s supposed illegitimate children marching across its front page. Elizabeth noted, Rivington, 3 inkwells, in the ledger as the printer left the shop.

“How are your wife and daughters?” she asked Hercules when she’d finished writing.

“Safe, thank you. They have gone to live with my mother in New Jersey.”

She took stock of the goods he had helped himself to as Hercules continued, “You ought to think of leaving the city, too. It’s getting very dangerous for women and children.”

Elizabeth closed the ledger. “I must look after the shop. If we leave, chances are it will be looted and everything we have will be lost.”

Hercules grabbed his purchases. “Challenging times we live in nowadays.”

“Indeed,” she agreed as he walked out, the bell ringing behind him.

July 9th was yet another sweltering day in summer full of hot days. Elizabeth threw open the second-floor window, but no breeze rustled the trees. The west windows of the apartment showed ominous storm clouds approaching.

Jonathan appeared from the bedroom clad in his blue uniform. Since housing for the troops was scarce, his superior had allowed him to remain living in his own home, but every morning he rose to continue building the fortifications on Broad Street. Tonight he had been called to the Commons for the reading of a declaration from Congress.

Despite his age, Jonathan had taken on the manner of a giddy schoolboy. He twirled Johnny around the room, shouting, “Free men, my boy, we’re free men!” Johnny joined in his father’s giggling.

A blessed wind finally stirred the room, but with it came a clap of thunder. “Must you go out in this weather?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’ve been ordered by General Washington himself,” Jonathan said, setting Johnny on the couch and picking up his hat. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll probably be home quite late.” A bolt of lightning flashed as he left the apartment.

The storm finished as evening fell. The sudden silence previously occupied by thunder was soon permeated with shouting and drumming that continued all night. True to his word, Jonathan stumbled into the apartment, still slightly drunk, near dawn. He filled Elizabeth in on the words of what was being called The Declaration of Independence, an assertion that the American colonies were free from British rule.

“When the whole of the army in New York cheered, we were louder than the storm overhead.” After it was read, Jonathan told her how he’d followed a group of men, led by Hercules Mulligan, down Broadway to the statue of King George that stood in a nearby park.

“I know it,” Elizabeth stated. “The one near all the mansions.”

“Aye,” Jonathan agreed. “We then knocked down the statue and drew arms upon it, cutting off the metal head. It was almost as if we had pulled the King himself from his pedestal.”

“An act of treason,” she murmured.

“It’s not treason in America,” Jonathan corrected her. “The metal will be melted down into bullets for our army. A fitting end, I should think.” He grabbed his wife’s hands in his. “Just imagine, Elizabeth, the glory that shall be our new nation once this war is over and we are forever freed from England’s grasp.”

Elizabeth nodded wearily before getting up to return to her bed.

Chapter 3

Sally

July 1776

“Robert!” Sarah Townsend exclaimed on catching sight of her youngest son striding up the path.

His father, Samuel Townsend, clasped Robert on the shoulder as he ascended the steps. Robert’s clothes, tattered in spots and clearly in need of a wash, were in stark contrast to Papa’s smart wardrobe, complete with his ever-present gold-tipped cane. Papa’s blue eyes held an uncustomary look of worry as he asked Robert, “What has become of Staten Island?”

Robert shook his head. “Howe’s now got Hessians fighting for their cause. The Island is lost, the Bay nothing but a sea of British naval brigades. Manhattan Island is still ours, but likely not for long.”

Papa’s frown deepened as Robert peered at his mother and middle sister, Sally. Sally was aware that most other Quakers would have shooed the women away, claiming that this was “men’s business,” but Robert believed that war affected all of his family. Papa claimed to be one of the few townspeople of Oyster Bay who hadn’t taken a side, but Sally knew others whispered of Samuel Townsend’s rebel leanings.

“The Loyalists are informing on their Whig cousins.” Robert leaned back on the portico column and folded his long arms. “Men and their families are fleeing Long Island in droves, leaving behind their houses and farms.”

“Worldly goods,” Papa said. “Still, our Friends might do with a word of warning.”

Robert straightened. “Your cousin, George?”

Papa nodded. “Especially after that stunt he pulled in the spring.”

Sally glanced back and forth between her father and brother, trying to follow. She knew enough that Oyster Bay’s Committee of Safety, of which their relative George Townsend was a member, had arrested several of their neighbors a fortnight ago and accused them of being loyal to the King, and therefore anti-American.

Feeling suddenly smaller than her eighteen years, Sally slipped her hand into her father’s. “Papa, are you in any danger?” Everyone in town knew of Papa’s arrest during the French and Indian War years earlier when he had protested against the way the prisoners of war were treated. For his crimes, Papa was jailed for a few days and forced to pay a hefty fine.

He squeezed her hand before letting go to ruffle her copper curls. “Of course not, little Sally.” He turned back to Robert. “Probably John Kirk as well.”

As if to match the solemn mood that had descended upon them, the sky opened and a torrential rain began to fall. The four of them huddled closer underneath the portico that offered little protection as the rain blew sideways. Mother and Sally ran inside, leaving Papa and Robert to endure the soaking downpour.

Like many of their Oyster Bay neighbors, the Townsends owned slaves, but they were usually kept for outdoor work, such as caring for the livestock and helping with the harvest. The regular household duties fell to Mother and the Townsend girls, although Sally would much rather have been outside with the horses and chickens.

The night Robert returned, Audrey, the eldest Townsend sister, and Phoebe, the youngest, helped their mother prepare dinner while Sally set the table with earthenware plates. There was a time when the Townsend meals had been clamorous and full of entertainment—three of Sally’s brothers, with the exclusion of the reticent Robert, were boisterous and quick-witted, and spent their mealtimes exchanging jokes and laughing loudly. Visitors, either out-of-town patrons from Papa’s store or friends and family, often joined them as well. But now, with the war dividing the neighborhood into Tories and Whigs, guests were a rarity. The oldest Townsend son, Solomon, was currently away at sea and Samuel Junior, Sally’s second oldest brother, had passed away a few years ago. There was plenty of room around the pinewood table in the kitchen, where Papa nowadays preferred his family to dine. The crackling of the fire didn’t much compensate for the solitude of these new family dinners.

Whenever any of Sally’s brothers were present, the dinner conversation characteristically turned to war. Tonight was no different. William, older than Robert by three years, asked his father what he thought of Congress’s Declaration of Independence.  

Papa chewed and then swallowed before replying. “I think this has turned what some thought was a rebel skirmish into a real war for the new America, where one side struggles for the right to be free and the other for the right to oppress.”

Robert nodded. “I fully agree. And with that, I am ready to take up arms for our new country.”

“No, Robert.” Papa reached for his son’s hand. “You cannot. You know as well as I do of the strict pacifism we adhere to as Quakers.”

Robert pulled his hand back. “But Papa, as Paine wrote, we must follow our own Inner Light.”

Sally glanced at William, whose face looked blank. Papa had given both William and Robert a copy of Common Sense, the pamphlet advocating independence written by fellow Quaker Thomas Paine. Sally had been curious as to what part had gotten the residents in Oyster Bay so divided. She had snuck into William’s room one night and grabbed it, intending on returning it as soon as he noticed it was missing. It had been several months and she had read the now dog-eared copy front to back at least six times. Each time she read it, she became more in favor of America eschewing the monarchy and becoming its own republic. Sally knew—and William clearly didn’t—that Robert was referring to the part where Paine urged his readers to follow their own conscience.

Papa took a sip of ale and then set down his mug. “I can get you a position in the Queen’s County militia that does not require you to fight.”

Throughout the meal, Phoebe and Audrey had been quietly focused on the food in front of them. Sally guessed that her sisters were too preoccupied with the thought of their childhood friends marching off to war to worry much about Thomas Paine. But their mother’s head, like Sally’s, had been volleying between the men as they spoke. “Samuel,” Mother put her spoon down and wiped her mouth. “I’m not sure I want Robert involved in the war at all.”

“But Mother,” Sally replied, “Robert has to do something. I would too, if I could.”

“What would you do?” William guffawed. “Ride off into the night like Paul Revere? Take up arms against the Redcoats?”

Sally flipped her hair and glared at her brother. “Just because I’m a female doesn’t mean I can’t serve my country.”

“Actually,” William said, picking up a forkful of food, “that’s exactly what it means.”

Samuel Townsend had been elected to the fourth Provincial Congress and was summoned to White Plains, New York in mid-July. A few days into his journey, Papa, sensing the frustration from his middle daughter on not being able to contribute much to the rebel effort besides sewing uniforms, sent word for Sally to come to White Plains to hear the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Robert volunteered to be her chaperone.

Sally had always sensed that she was Papa’s favorite daughter. The Townsends believed an education was necessary for all of their children, and, consequently, the three girls had attended school and learned to read and write. Sally was particularly good at math, and Papa often asked her to assist with his ledgers if she was not preoccupied with climbing trees or catching frogs with her brothers. Audrey, however, was more adept at womanly duties like sewing and baking. She planned on marrying James Farley, a captain who sailed with their brother Solomon, as soon as she turned twenty-one and Sally had no doubt she would excel at her household obligations as a matron. Phoebe was only sixteen months younger than Sally but she took after Audrey and was already a much better cook and spinner than her middle sister.

Sally was thrilled at Papa’s invitation and had her portmanteau packed days before she and Robert left. Although they would only be spending one night away, she stuffed her bag with combs, petticoats, and jewelry. Sally normally could not be bothered to worry about such accoutrements, but this was a very special occasion: the Provincial Congress was tasked with adopting the Declaration of Independence for the state of New York. Only days ago, General Washington had read it aloud in Manhattan, and she was eager to hear what Thomas Jefferson had written for herself. She chose her best day dress, a hand-me-down from Audrey. Ever since the boycott of British goods, Sally had refused to buy new clothes and settled for either homespun, or—more likely since her sewing skills were somewhat lacking—castoffs from her older sister.

The Dosoris ferry took them across Long Island Sound, which Robert told her his friend Caleb Brewster called the Devil’s Belt. After they disembarked on the mainland, the final leg was to be accomplished on horseback. Confident in his sister’s ability to properly ride a horse, especially since he himself had taught her, Robert rented Sally her own bay instead of having her ride with him on a pillion. They finally dismounted at the farmhouse of her uncle, James Townsend, in mid-evening. Exhausted from the long trip, Sally fell asleep right away.

A crowd had already established itself in front of the White Plains Courthouse when Robert and Sally arrived the next morning. A fife and drum corp played “Yankee Doodle,” while a boy waved the flag of the local minute men to the beat. Unlike the divided neighbors of her hometown, the hordes of people gathered around her all seemed to be Whigs and buzzed with support to sever ties with the King.

Suddenly the courthouse doors opened and the delegates emerged. Everyone around them gaped at the men blinking in the sudden sunlight. Even the band members stopped to stare, holding drumsticks paused in mid-air and fifes to frozen mouths. After a moment, the rumble of the crowd quickly filled the silence that ensued when the music ceased. Robert, standing behind his sister, whispered some of the delegates’ names in her ear. “That’s John Jay and Lewis Morris.”

Sally stamped her foot and glared at her brother. “I know.”

Robert, too caught up in the excitement, ignored her. “Look, there’s General Woodhull—the elected president of the Congress. And there’s Papa.” The drummer resumed his beat and Sally’s heart thumped in time with it. A man dressed in a dark blue coat and tan breeches climbed to the top of the steps of the courthouse.

“That’s John Thomas,” Robert murmured before the entire congregation hushed.

Mr. Thomas’s voice rang clear and loud against the still summer air. “When in the course of human events…”

Sally hung on every word of the document, trying to process what it all meant. Her chest swelled with outrage as Mr. Thomas read a list of complaints against George III. When he spoke about the inalienable rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” that Parliament and the King had previously deprived the colonists from seeking, some of the crowd members shouted their agreement. Mr. Thomas concluded the reading by proclaiming that the Convention had unanimously resolved to ratify the Declaration of Independence. At this, the throng of people broke into two factions: those who cheered enthusiastic “huzzahs!” on their way to the pub to continue the celebration and those so overcome with emotion they were sobbing openly outside the courthouse. Sally was among the latter; as she wiped her eyes, she noticed her normally stoic older brother doing the same thing. He too, had been moved to tears by the powerful words that finally set them free from the King’s tyranny.

Chapter 4

Elizabeth

July 1776

On the evening of July 12, Elizabeth was at supper with Abigail and the children when Johnny spotted a fleet of ships passing by.

“Look, Mama!” The excited little boy got up to point out at the harbor. “Are they American ships?”

“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth replied, knowing there was no American navy to speak of.

“Are they British, then?” Catherine, astute for a four-year-old, even more for a girl, asked.

In lieu of replying, Elizabeth scooped more soup into both of their bowls. “Eat up, now.”

A loud booming noise shook the panes of the window. “They are firing at us!” Johnny shouted.

Elizabeth felt the now familiar terror rising as she lifted her heavy belly out of the chair and went to the window. Below them, neighbors were fleeing from their houses. As if pulled by the shrieking below, Abby and the children joined her at the window. Catherine pushed in front of Elizabeth and she put her arms upon her daughter’s tiny shoulders. In a matter of minutes, the crowds below were packing up wagons with household goods and heading toward King’s Bridge, the only land bridge leading to the mainland. Troops moving in the opposite direction rushed into the throng of people. The soldiers, finally arriving at their destination on the shore, seemed dumbfounded. A few of them peeled their guns off their shoulders and fired at the ships, to no avail. Another boom caused Elizabeth to abandon the window and take the children to the interior of the house.

“Missus, we need to go now!” Abigail shouted.

“How?” Elizabeth frantically gestured to her belly. She knew it was probably wisest to leave the city, but at the same time, she didn’t know how two women would manage to convey Catherine and Johnny to safety, especially given her condition.

“Maybe the Fraunces can help? Or the Underhills?”

Elizabethgestured toward the kitchen window. “They are probably fleeing the city with the rest of them.” She met the eyes of her maid square on.

Abby’s normally stoic brow was furrowed with worry as she hugged Johnny to her. “Missus, the baby. Your midwife?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Gone too, I’m sure. But I’ve still got time to figure that part out.”

Abigail took a deep breath. “I can do it. I helped Madame Nance a few times when she delivered babies in the log huts behind the Commons.”

Catherine flew into Elizabeth’s arms as another cannon sounded, this one even closer than the ones before it. Again, the two women met each other’s eyes over the heads of the little ones in their arms. Abby had grown up in the unpaved back streets of the Holy Ground, the slums near Trinity Church, the daughter of a prostitute who had wished for a better life for her progeny. Elizabeth’s friend Mary Underhill had once cared for Abigail’s mother and suggested to Elizabeth and Jonathan that they hire her daughter. Thus, Abigail had come to serve their family at the age of thirteen. Even when times were tough, like the past couple of months, Jonathan made sure he could at least provide Abby with food and a roof over her head, less she suffer the fate of her mother and countless scores of other destitute women in the city.

Chapter 5

Meg

July 1776

In the same fashion that her husband commanded the troops, Mrs. Putnam ordered her female servants and daughters to spin fiber to make shirt cloth for the infantry.

“Do you not spin, Meg?” Belle asked one morning in the parlor-turned-sewing room.  

“No, I’ve never learned.” Meg couldn’t ignore the look Belle gave her sister.

“Such as happens when one loses a mother at an early age,” Molly whispered back, loud enough for Meg to hear.

“I was taught to embroider, however,” Meg told them. “And I can sew buttons.” She wasn’t exactly eager to repair uniforms for the enemy, but desired to make herself useful to the general, or at least his family, for hosting her.

The living room was comfortable, warmed as much by Mrs. Putnam’s genial personality as it was by the warm summer air. The pleasant smell of the servants cooking dinner wafted in.

When they returned to their tasks after a satisfying lunch, sans the general and Major Burr, Meg didn’t feel the need to put on her usual airs. She filled Molly and Belle in on some of the pranks she had pulled on the head mistress in Dublin, such as the time Meg put ink in her powder so that her hair turned the color of pitch for weeks.

“What did you learn there if not how to spin?” Molly asked.

“Needlework,” Meg said, holding up the frame on which she was embroidering a handkerchief for Old Put. “My headmistress was French. She thought that English gals were boring, and was determined to teach us how to make good conversation, so we were exposed to some reading and poetry. Mostly though, we learned traits that would make us a good wife: dancing and singing.”

“How does singing make you a good wife?” Belle asked.

“Apparently French gentlemen like to be sung to sleep after dinner,” Meg replied.

“Do you suppose Major Burr likes to be sung to?” Belle inquired. Molly seemed to find that extraordinarily funny.

Upon hearing his name, Meg could feel her face grow hot under her mob cap. “Ouch!” she shouted, looking down at the dot of blood that now graced her finger.

Molly giggled again. “Try to keep your mind on the task at hand, Meg. That way you won’t prick your finger while thinking of a handsome soldier.”

Thankful for the distraction, however painful, Meg rose from the chair. “I’ll just go upstairs and fetch a washcloth.” She hastened from the room and climbed up the grand staircase. While she was looking for a clean rag, she noticed a door off the hallway. She headed to it, bloody finger forgotten, finding that it was unlocked. It led outside to the gallery on the flat roof of the house. She fiddled with the knob on the door, and once she was sure it wouldn’t lock behind her, ventured outside.

With no trees to provide shade from the mid-afternoon sun, it was quite warm. She walked to the balustrade that bordered the edge of the rooftop, kicking something in the process. Awkwardly she bent down, casting her hands underneath her skirts to find the object, which turned out to be a small spyglass. She lifted it to her eye and peered across Manhattan. The Gothic Trinity Church, on the corner of Broadway and Wall Street, dominated the skyline with its steeple, the highest on the island. At Bowling Green, she could see the empty space where a statue of King George had once stood. The statue had been abased by ruffians upon the announcement of the Declaration of Independence just a week before. On the other side of the Mall, near Broad Street, she could see soldiers in green jackets cutting down the beautiful trees that shaded the avenue. Across the way, other men were busy digging trenches next to the cobblestone street. She moved the spyglass to the wide beach that led to the East River. Beyond that she could see the British men-of-war, the Asia and the Phoenix, docked at the harbor. She wondered if her father were among the men on either one of those ships.

A voice from behind Meg knocked her out of her revelry. “They say an invasion is imminent.”

She took a step back from the edge of the roof, wishing her wide skirt would have allowed her to sit. Her knees had weakened, either from the heat of the day or from the fact the voice belonged to Major Burr.

“So that is the cause for all the raucous.” Meg gestured toward his fellow countrymen below in the act of destroying the charming avenues of his adopted neighborhood. “Will they evacuate the city, then?” She felt sad that she’d finally found a decent home—even if it was occupied by the enemy—only to be forced to leave it again.

Aaron shrugged, taking the spyglass from her to train it on the British ships. “Your father and his friends have their guns pointed at us again.”

“If the rebels would halt their crazy dreams of independence, maybe they would point them elsewhere.”

“Not a chance.” Aaron tossed the spyglass a couple of feet away. He glanced at her. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m stationed at the old Webb mansion.” He leaned over the balustrade to point at a narrow bridge that connected the Putnam house to its equally stately next-door neighbor. “The Kennedys—the ones who owned this house before Putnam confiscated it—and the Webbs used to host opulent balls, and wanted an easy way to get to and fro.”

“That doesn’t necessarily answer my question.”

“I saw you up here, and didn’t think it was a ladylike thing to do, spying on warships.”

“I wasn’t spying. I was trying to escape the sewing circle downstairs.”

Aaron let out a laugh before catching himself. He straightened his facial features as he looked at Meg, his eyes scanning her face. “You know General Washington is coming for dinner tonight?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, he is, along with some colonels and other higher-ups. I’d curb your Tory talk if I were you.”

“I don’t talk like a Tory.”

He started toward the entrance to the roof. “You do, but I suppose one can’t be blamed if they are the daughter of a traitor.”

Meg turned in his direction. “My father is loyal to his King. It is your Commander-in-Chief that is a traitor.”

He opened the door. “Even if you think that, I wouldn’t mention it to the Commander-in-Chief himself.”

“We’ll see about that,” she told him as she stalked past him.

“Indeed we will.” Meg couldn’t be sure, but she detected from the sound of his voice that his grin had returned.

George Washington was as tall as the rumors had said he was. He wore no wig, choosing to powder his graying brown hair and style it with curls above each ear. His uniform was the same dark blue as Major Burr’s, but with gold epaulets at the shoulders. His long face held no hint of a smile. It was well-known that he spoke rarely so Meg was shocked when, as the meal began, General Washington asked her why she didn’t drink her wine.

The truth was that the toast had been to Congress, and Meg didn’t feel the need to drink to the health of the redundant governing body. Aaron’s earlier warning froze her reply in her throat and she cast her eyes around the table helplessly. Everyone seated gazed back at Meg, waiting for her response. She picked up her glass and took a cautious sip. “To Parliament and Admiral Howe,” she said quietly.

There was an audible gasp from the direction of Lady Washington, a stocky, regal woman in a simple dress and cap. Meg looked over at Aaron, who stared back at her with his black eyes narrowed, his chiseled jaw set.

Old Put, seated beside General Washington, let out a hearty guffaw, the kind that came straight from the gut. “Forgive the child, she does not mean to offend.” He patted the general on his shoulder. “Anything from the mouth of such a young innocent should be an amusement, not an insult.”

General Washington set down his wine glass and turned his steely blue eyes to Meg. “Miss Moncrieffe, I will overlook your… indiscretion, provided the next time you are at Admiral Howe’s table, you drink to my health.” The rest of their company let out uneasy giggles.

Despite her heated face, the general’s words produced hope that Meg would soon be reunited with her father. “Sir,” she said, interrupting the cautious conversation around her. General Washington once again glanced in her direction. “I will do anything you ask provided you permit me to see my father again.”

He exchanged a look with Old Put, who furrowed his brow. “I will do what I can,” the general consented, picking up his fork. “But as of right now he’s on the other side of the water from us.”

“Have you ever been to an American ball?” Molly asked Meg the next day.

Meg set down her embroidery frame. “No. I suppose the brink of war is not exactly the time to have balls.”

“It is not, but there is one anyway next Friday night.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a ball, more like a social gathering,” Belle added. “And the price of the ticket goes toward raising money for the troops.”

“You have to come, Meg,” Molly insisted. “I’m sure Father will pay for us all to go.”

Mrs. Putnam didn’t pause in her spinning, but Meg noticed her eyebrows raise slightly. Meg swallowed the lump of nerves that had appeared in her throat. “Do you suppose that the local officers will be there as well?”

“If you mean a certain Major Burr, I believe so,” Belle replied.

While the city readied itself for the suspected arrival of Admiral Howe and his troops, the Putnam sisters and Meg occupied themselves by preparing for the ball. It was to be held at Fraunces Tavern, on the corner of Queen and Dock streets.

Most of the merchants in that area had vacated the city, including, unfortunately for Meg, those that ran the best dress shops. The next few days were blissfully free of spinning as the Putnam girls and their maids set about turning last season’s dresses into a more current style.

Belle lent Meg a dress of rose silk. Meg tried to hide her dismay: the color was pretty, but the dress had the wide skirt of two years ago instead of the form-fitting gown with a higher waistline she had come to prefer.

Belle pulled up the mountain of fabric in the back. “Don’t worry, Meg, you can alter the farthingale into a bustle.”

Meg sat on her bed. “I can’t alter anything.” She had never wanted for many material things in her short years. Her father, far away though he was, always provided her with whatever toiletry and clothing materials she might have needed. But she was forced to leave all her beautiful dresses when she evacuated and the blockade meant that new and alluring things were not easy to come by.

Belle sat beside her. “Molly and I can help, as can my maid, Eunice. And wait until you see how good Eunice is with hair. We’ll literally be the ‘belles’ of the ball.”

Meg looked at her gratefully. Her mother had died in a drowning accident when she was two and her father had sent her brother and her away to school shortly after that. He had remarried twice, but both of her stepmothers had also died. Most of her life she had been passed from one caretaker to another. Belle and Molly were the closest Meg had to any female relatives for a long time. “Thank you,” Meg told Belle as she pulled her up from the bed.

The day of the ball was a flurry of activity. At Belle’s insistence, the girls indulged in a large breakfast but skipped lunch. They hid away from the heat of the day by taking a nap indoors, cooled by the pleasant breeze that entered through the open windows.

Near evening, Eunice was employed to coax and tease the Putnam sisters’ hair high on top of their heads, in the style of the new French queen. Eunice braided Molly’s hair with pearls while Belle’s coif was adorned with fresh flowers. Meg preferred to keep hers simple, asking Eunice to just use the curling tongs on the wisps of hair that hung down from her unadorned chignon.

The heat had lessened considerably when the Putnams and Meg left One Broadway. Old Put wore his uniform while Mrs. Putnam was in green brocade, of a darker shade than Molly’s dress. Belle was a vision in blue.

As the ball was only a few blocks away, they decided to forgo a carriage. Meg peered at the house next door as they set off, wondering if Major Burr was still getting ready. She couldn’t discern any activity inside and set her eyes to focus on the sidewalk in front of her.

The tavern was a red-bricked building in the Dutch style with a flat roof and a portico held up by white pillars. The liveried butler greeted the party by offering his arm to Mrs. Putnam as she made her way up the cobblestones, the general on her other side. As they entered the building, he announced, “General Putnam, his wife, his daughters, and…”

“Miss Moncrieffe.” Aaron appeared by her side. He wore his blue and buff uniform, but had added lace cuffs underneath his coat and a cravat at his neck.

“Miss Moncrieffe,” the servant echoed.

“How do you do this evening?” Aaron turned to look Meg up and down and she thought she saw a look of appreciation appear on his face. She noted that he looked even more handsome and dashing than the first time they met.

Meg flipped out her fan and held it in front of her mouth. “Fine,” she replied from behind it. She glanced around the tavern, taking in the small tables covered in white tablecloths and the well-dressed Americans filling them. Candles blazed from every available space, renewing the July heat that the evening had cooled off. The smell of cooking meat and stale beer filled Meg's nose with every movement of her fan. 

“General Putnam, sir, do you have a minute?” Aaron asked, turning to Old Put.

“Oh, Burr,” he sighed. “Always working. Yes, I suppose.” He put his arm around Aaron as an older man in a powdered wig approached. “Ah, Black Sam,” the general extended his hand to the man. “Let us get a libation.”

“Why do they call him ‘Black Sam?’” Meg asked Belle as the trio walked away. The man named Sam was of a similar ruddy color as Major Burr.

She shrugged. “His real name is Samuel Fraunces. He is the proprietor of this tavern.”

Meg folded her fan and turned toward the main reception room, darting her eyes across the patrons. “Look at all the macaronis,” she said disdainfully.

“The what?” Belle whispered as Molly walked off to greet a dark-haired girl in a yellow gown.

“The macaronis. You know, like Yankee Doodle?”

Belle shook her head.

Meg stepped closer to her. “Take that man over your left shoulder, no, don’t look yet. Okay, look now.” Belle cast her eyes to a middle-aged man wearing a miniscule tricorn hat that topped a powdered wig a full foot above his head. He wore striped silk knee breeches below his unbuttoned coat, a red carnation tucked in the pocket. “That’s a macaroni.”

Belle giggled. “I prefer a man in uniform.”

Meg unfolded her fan once more and covered her face, trying not to be obvious about her search for Aaron. She located him at one of the tables in the corner, conferring with Putnam. Two other soldiers had joined them, one of whom she recognized as Captain Webb from her journey a few days ago.

Belle grabbed Meg’s arm and pulled her to where her sister was engaged in a whispered conversation with the dark-haired girl. “I see Alexander Hamilton is here tonight,” Belle stated, gesturing to her father and the group of young men. She turned to the other girl. “Meg, I’d like to introduce you to Angelica Schuyler, daughter of General Schuyler.”

“How do you do?” Meg curtsied prettily.

“Meg is a Loyalist, but we don’t mind,” Molly added.

“Indeed?” Angelica asked.

“My father is Captain Moncrieffe of the British army,” Meg replied.

Angelica nodded before catching sight of someone over her shoulder. “Captain Webb!”

“Ladies.” He extended his hand toward Meg. “Would you care to dance, Miss Moncrieffe?” As he led her to the dance floor, she snuck a glance at Aaron, who was still huddled with Old Put and the other man.

“I trust you are getting along well in New York?” Captain Webb asked as they touched hands and got into the rhythm of the gavotte.

Meg circled around him before their hands met again. “I am. Old Put and the missus have been quite gracious.”

“They always are,” Webb said as he shifted down the line. A fop in a bright blue coat met Meg’s hand and introduced himself briefly as a Mr. De Lancy before the line moved again.

Half an hour later, Meg was finally able to sit down. It seemed she had met all of New York society’s leading men in the short time she’d been at the ball. Captain Webb appeared with a mug of cider. “Here, you look like you could use this.”

“Thanks,” Meg told him gratefully before taking a ladylike sip, when what she really wanted to do was devour the drink, slam the silver cup on the table, and demand more. Aaron was still in the corner, only now he was surrounded by women. He moved slightly to the side of one woman and her towering hairpiece, meeting Meg’s eyes before narrowing them at Captain Webb. Meg took another drink and then stuck her hand out to the captain so he could help her to her feet. “If you will excuse me for one moment,” she called over her shoulder. As she was suitably emboldened by her ale, she decided it was time to approach Aaron.

Upon closer scrutiny, the women surrounding him seemed ages older than herself. “Major Burr, would you accompany me outside?” Meg flicked her fan out. “I could use some air and would like a military escort.”

He excused himself from his hangers-on to take her arm and lead her out the back door. His hand rested on her elbow as they walked on the herringbone patterned pathway, but he dropped it when they paused beside a fence surrounding the grassy knoll that sloped toward the East River. “Captain Webb could have escorted you out here,” Aaron said finally.

“I am aware. But I wanted you.”

Aaron blew out his breath and rested his hands on the fence. Meg noticed how strong they appeared underneath the frill of his sleeves. “It seemed to me you could have had any available man in that room.” He turned to face her. “Or any man in any room. Why don’t you find a kingsman to align yourself with?”

Meg reached for his hand. “Why should I when I can have a perfectly good rebel?”

He stepped closer. “Meg, this isn’t going to work. You are so young, and I might be called off to war at any moment.”

“I’m not so young. Many people my age are already married. And who knows what tomorrow brings? Maybe General Howe will not attack Manhattan and all of those soldiers making preparations can go home.”

“Would that make you happy?”

She shifted her hand so that their fingers were entwined. “Being with you would make me happy.”

“Would you change your alliance for me? Would you betray your father for my hand?”

“Do I have to?”

He dropped her hand and turned toward the river. “Yes. I’m Putnam’s aide-de-camp, and he assures me that a promotion is forthcoming. Being tied to the daughter of a captain on the other side would not do me any favors.”

“I would never forsake my father. Or my King.” Meg’s voice wobbled as her eyes flooded.

Aaron pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and shook it out. He wiped her eyes tenderly before he said, “And I won’t abandon my career.”

“So that’s it then.” Meg moved his hand away from her face, the tears suitably dried.

He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “I guess so.”

“Can I just ask for one thing? Can I have a kiss from a handsome officer in the garden on a summer’s evening?”

Aaron looked around. The doors that led to the tavern stood open, the laughter and gossip of the room floating out toward the few couples strolling along the promenade near the river. He opened a small gate and led her under the shade of an oak tree. Meg leaned up against it as he looked at her to ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

In lieu of a reply, she pulled him toward her. When their lips met, it felt as though her whole life paraded before her in mere seconds: the death of her mother and her father’s next wives after her, the lonely times in Dublin, the fearful scene with the soldiers in Elizabethtown. She was tired of being abandoned, tired of being alone. She may have been a child by some people’s standards, but the want coursing through her veins was a woman’s need. She wanted to be with Major Burr more than she had ever wanted anything. But was she willing to give up her King and family in order to do so?

Chapter 6

Meg

July 1776

The morning after the ball, Meg arose late. She hadn’t gotten much sleep: when she laid on her back in her bed, it brought to mind Aaron’s soft lips when he kissed her last night. Turning onto her side only served to remind her of the chasm between them. Her last thought before she finally fell asleep was that the chasm could miraculously disappear once this silly war ended.

After breakfast, she was commanded into yet another seemingly endless sewing session. In mid-afternoon, Eunice entered the room to announce a visitor for Miss Moncrieffe.

“Who is it?” Meg was thankful at any rate for the interruption.

Eunice frowned. “A Redcoat captain.”

Belle put down the wool she was carding. “A Redcoat? Here?”

Meg rushed to the door. She was pleased to see her old acquaintance, Thomas Walcott, standing in the front hallway.

“Thomas!” she cried, extending her hand. Thomas kissed it obligingly and then gazed over her shoulder. Meg followed his eyes to see Aaron, dressed in riding breeches, leaning against the doorframe outside Putnam’s office.

“How goes your family?” Meg asked, taking a step closer to Thomas.

“My sister and mother are well. Father is with His Majesty’s navy. As was I.” He took another glance at Aaron, who now had his arms crossed in front of him.

“The navy? Do you have news of my father?” The Walcott’s had been family friends in England and Meg had attended boarding school with Sarah, Thomas’s younger sister.

Thomas shook his head.

“What brings you to New York?”

“Well,” Thomas shoved his hands into his pockets. “Actually, I’m what you might call a prisoner.” From the end of the hallway, Aaron coughed. Both Meg and Thomas ignored him as Thomas continued, “I was captured in the Battle of Bunker Hill.”

Conscious of Aaron’s eyes on them, Meg put her arm on Thomas’s sleeve. “Are you well then?”

“They are treating me quite fine. I have been staying at the home of Hercules Mulligan, the tailor. I believe Major Burr is acquainted with him and his old tenant, Alexander Hamilton.” Another cough sounded from Aaron’s direction as Thomas stated, “Hercules mentioned that your father requested your residence here with General Putnam.”

At this Meg peered back at Aaron, her hand still placed on Thomas’s forearm. Aaron pretended to study the wall in front of him.

“I’m afraid I must return to Mr. Mulligan’s at this time,” Thomas said, returning Meg’s arm to her. “They allow me to come and go as I please. Of that I am grateful, but I wouldn’t want to stir their suspicion.” Thomas paused as Aaron cleared his throat loudly. “Mayhap I can call on you tomorrow, Meg? We can catch up with old news.”

“Of course, Thomas,” Meg said. She turned so that Aaron could see her profile before giving Thomas her sweetest smile. “I’d like that very much.”

“Then I shall take my leave of you for today. G’day, Miss Moncrieffe,” Thomas said, tipping his hat toward her. “Major Burr.” He turned to give Aaron the same gesture, though this time with slightly less enthusiasm.

After he left, Meg put her hands on her hips and glared toward the end of the hallway. “What was that all about, Aaron? Are you coming down with a cold?”

He sauntered forward. “I heard Eunice announce the Redcoat and I wanted to make sure you were not cavorting with the enemy.”

“He’s no enemy of mine,” Meg replied pointedly.

“Yes, I noticed. How do you know him?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but our fathers are old friends.”

“I see.” Aaron grabbed his knapsack from the hook next to the door. “This conversation has been titillating, but I’m afraid I will have to take my leave of you as well, Miss Moncrieffe.”

She pursed her lips before asking, “Are we back to Miss Moncrieffe now?”

Aaron’s face seemed to redden slightly and Meg wondered if he was recalling, as she was, their kiss under the stars last night. When he didn’t reply, she inquired where he was off to.

“The general has asked me to survey the works around the island.”

Meg knew he was referring to the construction of the barricades Old Put had ordered in case there was a British invasion. “I’ll come with you,” she offered. “The general has given me permission to exercise Salem on occasion in exchange for letting him use him if the need arises. That is,” she continued coyly, “after he promised Salem wouldn’t be shot down by his enemies.”

“Your fellow countrymen,” Aaron added. “And it would not be appropriate for you to accompany me.”

She tossed her hair back. “Since when have I given heed to what is appropriate?”

At that moment, Old Put exited his office. “Burr, are you still here?” he called.

Meg curtsied as he came toward them. “General Putnam, I’m sorry to say it is me who has detained Aaron in his errand. I noticed that Salem is in dire need of exercise, and I’ve asked Aaron if I could join him on his ride.”

Old Put cocked an eyebrow. “And what did Major Burr say?”

Aaron stood straighter. “I tried to convince her it was a poor idea.”

Old Put threw back his head and laughed. “Something tells me there is no convincing this one once she has made up her mind.”

“Indeed, sir,” Aaron agreed quietly.

Taking the general’s comment as permission, Meg ran up the stairs to change into her riding habit.

They rode down Broadway and turned east, crossing New Street. As they approached Smith Street, Meg saw a white figure running toward them, screaming in pain. When they drew closer, Meg could discern that it was a man covered in feathers. The men chasing him were shouting and throwing small pebbles at him. The man tripped over a loose cobblestone and fell, a plume of down scattering in the dust as he hit the ground. Two of his pursuers caught up to him and then bound his arms in rope as the other two men looked on.

“What goes?” Aaron asked one of the accomplices as he and Meg halted their horses.

“Another Tory spy, sir,” the man replied, doffing his tri-cornered hat.

Meg watched as they led the man away. He was still screaming in agony and Meg could see that the skin that wasn’t strewn with feathers was either blackened with pine tar or blanketed in blisters.

Aaron gave her a worried glance, but once he realized she was more curious than horrified, he motioned for his horse to move onward.

“What was that all about?” Meg inquired.

“Punishment for spying,” Aaron spoke, his eyes on the path in front of him.

“Spying? How do you know there are spies?”

“We’ve intercepted a few communications that prove the British have pretty accurate knowledge of the activities of the Continental Army. There are Loyalist spies as well as Patriot. The Sons of Liberty are rooting out what they call the ‘Tory Nest’ on Manhattan.”

“But how do these spies deliver their information?”

Aaron shrugged. “They know someone who knows someone who is able to get the message into the right hands.” He turned to look at her. “I can’t think of a more repugnant occupation than pretending to be on one side while working for the other, all the while living under the threat of a barrel of hot tar, or, worse yet, the hangman’s noose.”

As they traveled toward the East River, Meg marveled at the breastworks at the end of Queen Street: large wooden trunks stacked ten feet across, the crevices between each trunk filled in with earth and mud. Aaron pulled his horse to a halt at Whitehall dock. Despite the presence of the British warships in the middle of the river, the wharf was bustling with merchants unloading their trade, the smell of spice and rum filling the air. Aaron focused his eyes on the heavy cannons that faced the river. “Intimidating, isn’t it?”

Meg reached over to nuzzle Salem’s nose. “I’m not sure it’s enough to stop the British navy if they decide to invade.”

Aaron sighed as he looked downriver. “Here we go again.”

“Aaron.” Meg adjusted her seat on the saddle to face him. “What if this war ended as quickly as it had begun? We could marry in peace.”

“Quickly in whose favor? Your father’s? The King’s?”

“In anyone’s favor,” she replied. “Just so long as we could be together. But, you have to admit, the British have the might: the navy, the cavalry, the money. What do a rag-tag bunch of colonists have against the most powerful empire in the world?”

Aaron glanced over at her, a scowl darkening his handsome face. “I wouldn’t be so quick to preclude the result of this war. We might not have the naval strength that the King does, but we have the will and the desire to be free.”

“Freedom does not put a penny in your pocket.” Meg maneuvered Salem so that she and Aaron were nearly touching. “Aaron, I could get my father to give you a commission in the British army.” She reached out and took his hand. “You could be a colonel instead of a major. And then, when this ridiculous skirmish is over, we could go back to England and raise babies on a fine piece of property.”

He yanked his hand back. “Meg, that’s treason talk. And besides, I would never give up my taste of freedom, not for land, not for a commission—”

“Not for me,” Meg filled in.

He glanced at her before moving his gaze once again to the river. “I don’t know what more you need from me. We want two different things.”

“But we both want to be with each other.”

Aaron clicked his tongue, causing his horse to move forward. “That’s not enough.”

Meg led Salem into a gallop, her tears blurring the barricades before her. She’d never met more of a stubborn man than Aaron Burr. He was never going to waver from his precious rebellion. If only there was a way to end this war quickly, Meg thought as she headed back to One Broadway.

Meg was still thinking the same thoughts that night as she sat down to write a letter to Mrs. DeHart in Elizabethtown. Instead of filling the page with descriptions of last night’s ball, she began to sketch the fortifications she had seen earlier. Gun batteries covered the Hudson side of the island and there were more cannons down by the Battery and at Coenties Slip, a block north of Broad Street.

When she was done, she was looking at a map of Manhattan, diagramming most of the defenses she had scouted with Aaron. She crumpled up the paper in her hand, hearing Aaron’s voice speak once again of treason. She nearly lit it on fire with the candle beside her before she heard Aaron’s other words from earlier: “They give it to someone who knows someone who can get it into the right hands.” If the British were somehow informed of the American defenses, maybe they could find a vulnerable place to invade and end this conflict once and for all. Defeated, Aaron would have no choice but to follow her and her father back to England, where the captain would give them some of his extensive land as a wedding present.

“Indeed,” she said to herself as she ran her fingers along the paper, smoothing the creases, thinking that she would do anything to be with Aaron. And she knew just the person who could get this report into her father’s hands.

Aaron was mercifully absent the next morning when Thomas Walcott came again to call on Meg. It was a warm, sunny day and she invited him for a stroll in the gardens.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, Meg asked Thomas about being a prisoner. “I thought that meant you’d be held in a jail.”

“Yes, thankfully not. Because I am of nobility, and not much of a threat, according to the rebels, anyway, they let me walk free. But I’m not allowed to leave the city.”

“Are you a threat?” she asked, a note of sincerity underneath her teasing tone.

Thomas glanced quickly at her and then focused back on the path in front of them. “That depends.”

“On what such matter?”

He shot her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It depends on who is asking.”

“Suppose,” Meg bent down to sniff a hydrangea bloom. “Suppose I had some information to get to my father.” She straightened back up.

“What sort of information?”

“Some might call it ‘intelligence.’” She looked Thomas in the eyes as she reached into her bodice and pulled out the folded slip of paper.

Thomas grabbed it from her before peering around the garden. “Miss Moncrieffe, you need to learn a bit more discretion. What if someone saw you hand this to me?”

She clasped her hands in front of her. “You could just say it was a love poem.”

He colored slightly. “And if I was searched, what would they find?”

She leaned in to whisper, “Information about the rebel’s defenses. Can you get it to my father?”

Thomas nodded discreetly. “I know a few Loyalists who are in contact with Governor Tryon. I think I can pass this on. Will there be more of the same sort in the future?”

She stepped back. “Mayhap.”

“And how will I get this information?”

“You could call on me again,” she replied.

“Don’t you think that would arouse suspicion?” He ducked as they passed underneath an arbor. “What would your friend Major Burr say?”

“He might just have to turn the other cheek. This is for his own good, though he doesn’t know it yet.” She bent down to pluck a rose from the vine trailing up the arbor.

“You do know you are playing a dangerous game.”

“Why, Thomas, I am just a lowly woman. They would hang you over me any day. I could just claim I had no idea that information was treason.”

He narrowed his eyes. “For a woman, you seem to know an awful lot about treason.”

Carefully, so as to avoid any thorns, Meg tucked the rose behind her ear. “I’m not sure what you could possibly be referring to.”

Sunday morning, Aaron and Meg accompanied the family to Trinity Church off Broadway. As the Putnam contingent filed into the seats, Meg glanced around the regal edifice to take in the décor. The scattering of light filtering through the gridded windows would have resulted in a dim room had it not been for the massive chandelier hanging from the nave. She mused that there must have been more than a hundred candles in it. The pews were constructed of dark hardwood; a grand organ ornamented with angels and cherubs was placed near the pulpit. A fine bouquet was perched atop the stately altar, the vines trailing across it and downward. More flowers and shrubbery sat on either end of the Lord’s Table and the scent of lavender and lilies filled the air.

Meg’s assessment of the interior was interrupted when Old Put leaned over his pew to grasp the shoulder of the man in front of him. She caught his profile when he turned to pat Putnam’s hand. It was the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental army himself.

After the army’s arrival in the city, most of the clergy had removed their Royal coats of arms and ended their tradition of praying for the health of King George at the conclusion of their sermon. Charles Inglis, the rector of Trinity Church, however, had refused to, even under the threat of lynching. Aaron raised his eyebrows at Meg as he sat next to her in the pew. He seemed to be wondering what she was: would Inglis dare to speak of the King with General Washington in attendance?

Tensions rose as the time for the litany grew closer. Meg detected the faint sound of fifes and drums outside. The sounds became increasingly louder until the church doors were thrown open and the band of men entered. She peered behind her. The green uniformed soldiers stood in between the pews, brandishing muskets, their bayonets gleaming in the candlelight. Meg started to rise to get a better view, but Aaron pulled her back down. On the other side of her, Belle murmured, “If he prays for the King, it won’t be long until he finds his own eternity box.”

Meg reached for Aaron’s hand. He squeezed it reassuringly but his eyes were on Reverend Inglis. A few men in front of them stood up and both Meg and Aaron leaned to opposite sides to see what would happen next. She winced upon hearing the reverend’s voice—in a booming, clear tone—declare, “Heartily we beseech thee with thy favor to behold our most gracious sovereign lord, King George.”

Aaron’s grip on Meg’s hand tightened as she heard Belle gasp. On the opposite end of the aisle, Putnam rose to bark commands: Molly had fainted. Mrs. Putnam pulled smelling salts out of her bag and shoved them underneath her daughter’s nose, all the while her eyes never left the podium. The rest of the congregation was in a similar uproar, but Inglis, unharmed and still at his position at the pulpit, droned on. Meg breathed an inward sigh of relief and couldn’t help thinking, God protect the King and his faithful servants.

The service continued without further incident, save for the men with pointed bayonets standing in the aisle and the loud whispering from the congregation.

Afterward, Meg lingered behind to make sure that Molly, who had come back around, was able to walk on her own. Aaron and most of the other men had rushed out as soon as Inglis had stepped down. When Meg finally joined them in the sunshine, she found the scene outside to be much calmer than the one during the service. Many of the patrons had headed home already to their Sunday suppers; only a scattering of families remained, lingering to gossip in the church gardens. Meg caught sight of Reverend Inglis being escorted into a carriage by a handful of Whigs. When she finally located Aaron, she found him deep in conversation with Old Put under the shade of a group of locust trees. She was too far away to hear what they were saying but she felt the heat rise to her face nonetheless. Was it her imagination or did both of them keep glancing at her throughout their exchange?

She was about to interrupt their hushed conversation when a loud hammering deterred her. A man dressed in a clergy uniform was standing next to the church doors. After he finished his task, he hurried away, leaving Meg to approach his vacated spot. A large chain was strung through the handle of the door and a proclamation declared that, by order of the vestry, the church had been closed until further notice.

Chapter 7

Elizabeth

August 1776

The movement of the British men-of-war proved that the Redcoats could strike at any point in the city. Jonathan’s commander decided to have his troops sleep out in the open at King’s Bridge, in case the enemy resolved to cut Manhattan Island off from the mainland. Throughout August, the British ships kept arriving. The few customers at the shop—the numbers had dwindled yet again with this latest evacuation—filled Elizabeth in with news of the Redcoats’ position. Most citizens were convinced that the British would attack the city, but the questions remaining were when and where.

The family dog, Jonathan’s since before they were married, stared out the window that overlooked Queen Street, searching for his missing master. Johnny and Catherine frequently joined the hound at his post, their sweet little voices continuously asking of the whereabouts of their father.

As Elizabeth swelled into the final stages of her pregnancy, the summer heat grew even more oppressive. Terse notes from Jonathan stated that he was exhausted from being outdoors all day and night, and felt inferior to the more able-bodied young men in his troop. He wrote in mid-August that dysentery and smallpox were running rampant in the camps. Unsure of where the enemy would attack, Washington had decided to divide his reduced army between the two shores of the East River. Jonathan’s was among those troops transferred to guard Long Island.

And still the city waited.

Chapter 8

Meg

August 1776

Like wax from a slow burning candle, worry dripped into Meg’s heart. Every day her spyglass, hoisted atop the roof of the mansion, revealed that more British warships had arrived in the already packed harbor. Meg was not alone in her gazing—onlookers equipped with their own spyglasses also dotted other housetops at all hours and the wharves were crowded with bystanders. No one—American, British or any other nationality—had ever seen so many ships in one place.

The men refrained from speaking much about the threat of war in the presence of women, but Meg could tell by Aaron and General Putnam’s increasingly prolonged meetings that something was happening. Not to mention that General Washington himself was a frequent visitor to One Broadway Street.

She had no way of knowing whether Thomas was able to get the information she gave him to British commanders. He had not come to call after that fateful meeting in the garden.

“Meg?” Old Put poked his head out of his office to find her creeping near the staircase, trying to avoid the sewing circle in the living room.

“Sir?”

“Can you come in here for a minute?”

“Of course, General.” She strode in, skirts swishing. The effect was somewhat wasted since Aaron was not in the room. However, the insides of Putnam’s office could not exactly be termed, “empty.” Heaps of paper covered the mahogany desk as well as the hardwood floor.

Old Put gestured at the mess. “Since Major Burr is currently occupied, I was hoping you’d be able to help me organize some of this paperwork.”

Meg curtsied. “I would be delighted, sir.” She glanced at a nearby paper. It was signed by the Commander-in-Chief and her hands itched to see what more information she could glean from her errand. “But first things first,” she told him as she walked toward the window. She pulled back the heavy velvet drapes and secured them with cords.

Both Meg and the general blinked in the sudden light that bathed the dark room and softened the olive walls. The gilt-frames of the portraits—presumably long dead ancestors of Captain Kennedy, the previous occupant—lining one wall now looked grimy. Meg sneezed at the dust particles dancing in the sunlight while Old Put grabbed a caned wooden chair and set it in front of one of the piles.

“No need for this anymore, then.” He extinguished the candle on his desk. “It’s all kindling at this point, anyway.”

“What is all of this?” Meg asked as she picked up a single sheet off the top of the pile.

“Old orders, commands of troops, requisitions of supplies. Just boring war stuff.”

Her heart sunk at the word, “old.” She peered at the date on the paper in her hand. April, 1776. “How would you like me to sort it?”

“Keep any bills or lists of payments for Congress’s records. Everything else can be burned. We must prepare for the off-chance that the British invade New York City.”

Meg feigned surprise. “Do you think they are coming?”

Putnam set down his bifocals and rubbed at his eyes. “Those ships in the harbor are probably not just for show. Whether they attack here or Long Island remains to be seen. General Washington must prepare for both possibilities.”

Meg looked up as she heard a door rattle. Aaron, clad in his full blue and buff uniform, entered the room. “Sir, I don’t think we need to ponder Howe’s course of action anymore.”

“Oh?” Old Put dropped the paper in his hand. “What news of Howe?”

Aaron glanced at Meg before replying, “He removed his troops from Staten Island and placed them at Gravesend, on Long Island.” He moved forward and handed the general a sealed letter. “Orders from General Washington. General Greene has fallen ill and you are to be in command of the army on Long Island.”

Putnam sat back. “I will go willingly, but I do not have much idea of the terrain.”

Aaron moved a stack of papers before he unrolled a map on the table in front of Putnam. Meg retreated into a corner, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Both men were too preoccupied to notice her.

Aaron pointed to the map. “The British are entrenched at Flatbush.”

“And if we are to keep them there?” Old Put replaced his bifocals to peer at where Aaron was pointing.

“We will need men here, at the Narrows to the right, and here at these passes.”

Putnam ran his finger in a semi-circle on the far left-hand side of the map. “What of this one?”

“That’s Jamaica Road, sir. It is a narrow road on rough terrain, set by heavy pines on either side.”

Old Put shook his head. “We need more men on the easier routes. Spare a few for that road, but put Lord Stirling’s men on Gowanus Road at the Narrows and Sullivan’s troops at Flatbush and Bedford Roads.”

Aaron nodded and rolled up the map. He started in surprise upon spying Meg in the corner. “Sir?” He turned back to the general.

Old Put had pushed his bifocals to the top of his head and his forefinger now occupied their place at the bridge of his nose. “Hmm?” he replied, obviously lost in thought.

“What of Miss Moncrieffe?”

Old Put sat up in his chair and cast a glance at his charge. “I suppose it is now time to return her to her father.”

Meg’s heart leapt at the comment, then immediately fell as she realized the full consequence of his words. She gazed helplessly at Aaron. His face had hardened. “Indeed, sir.” He directed his reply to the general, but his eyes were focused on Meg. “It is much too dangerous for her to linger here. I will make arrangements and then see to making sure Mrs. Putnam and the girls have a place to stay outside of the city.”

The general nodded and Aaron left. Meg’s eyes remained on the door, hoping he’d come back and declare that, in fact, he was taking her with him.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Old Put stated wearily.

She sunk her weakened body back into a chair. “For what, sir?”

“I know that you love him.”

Meg turned to him, her mouth dropping open in a most unladylike manner. “General?”

The old man’s lips turned upward into a hint of a smile. “You young people think everything is so new, that no one before you has been in the throes of love. I’ve seen it all, been through it all, watched my men become arsy-varsey with the opposite sex. Even been head over heels myself.” He reached out his hand and she came forward to grasp it. “But you are indeed young, Meg, and do not fully realize the consequences of your intended affair.”

“But I do sir, and am prepared to follow Aaron wherever he is stationed.”

He dropped her hand. “Are you aware that your father and Aaron fight for different causes? If given the chance, Major Burr would not hesitate to run a sword through your relations in honor of this new nation. And so it would go with your father in regard to his misguided loyalty to the King. I know—I fought by his side during the French and Indian War.”

Meg dropped her gaze. The thought that Aaron and her father might meet in battle had never occurred to her. “Still, I would choose Aaron over my father’s allegiances.”

“Nonsense,” he barked, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I will not allow you to make that decision.” His eyes softened. “Hence my sorrow. Major Burr would have been the ideal choice for you in every other respect but for this one unavoidable fact. As a friend of your father’s outside of this war, I must order you to return to him and forget about Aaron. I’m sure that once Captain Moncrieffe’s attentions are not otherwise distracted, he will find a fine fellow countryman for you to marry.”

Meg burst into tears as she rushed out of the room. She ran up the grand staircase and threw herself on the bed to cry for everything that she had lost.

Eunice was ordered to Meg’s room to commence packing. Meg stared despondently out the window, willing her love to come rescue her. It was pouring rain and, as she was unable to escape to her rooftop post, she felt even more trapped than she had that afternoon when General Putnam declared his orders to send her back to her father. After Eunice left, Meg cried herself to an uneasy, restless sleep.

When morning dawned, Meg dressed in a spring green traveling dress tied in the back with a flourish. The slighter skirt would allow her to be more comfortable on the rig that carried her away from her love.

He was standing in the hall when she went downstairs. “Aaron! Have you come to spirit me away?”

He frowned, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Meg, don’t joke.”

“I wasn’t,” she said sadly as she passed by him. She went into the kitchen to say farewell to the family. General Putnam had already left for his post on Long Island and Mrs. Putnam and her daughters were going to stay with friends in Connecticut. After tearful goodbyes with both Belle and Molly promising to write, Meg once again ventured to the hall. Her bags had been loaded into the carriage waiting outside.

Aaron had not moved from his spot.

“Are you at least going to convey me to my father’s ship?” Meg asked.

He nodded. “I’ve been ordered to join General Putnam, but he gave me leave to see you off. I can only go as far as the docks. Colonel Webb will take you from there. The general also asks that you pass this note to Admiral Howe.” Aaron bent down to tuck it into Meg’s traveling purse before he hoisted the bag onto his shoulders. He held the door open as Meg left One Broadway for the last time.

The coach began its journey in silence. Meg stared out the window, tears running down her face.

“Meg.”

She looked up at Aaron. He looked as sad as she felt as he stated, “I’m sorry.”

“Will you come for me after the war?”

He sighed. “I don’t know how long that will be. You will probably be married with nine babies by then.”

“I will wait for you. All you have to do is ask.”

“I cannot ask that of you.”

“Will you not wait for me?” She paused as a thought occurred to her. “Let’s just tell the coachman to turn back. We can find a clergyman and demand that he marry us straightaway.”

He shook his head. “I am a soldier, and ready to die for my cause. But I don’t think I can give myself fully if I fear making a widow of you.” Every word he spoke emphasized how willing he was to sacrifice himself for his country, at the same time, widening the gap between them and cutting loose the thread that bound their love. “Every time I see your beautiful face, I also see the tyranny of England. I see lordships and titles and privilege. The Continental army does not pay well. If we were to marry, you would be forced to live in poverty and I would have to turn my back on all that I have come to believe in. General Putnam was right: our love can never be.”

The carriage came to a halt and Meg rose from her seat. “You might one day know the blessed feeling of independence, Aaron. But I, as a woman, will never be free to make my own decisions.”

Colonel Webb helped her out of the carriage and down to the dock while Aaron loaded her bags onto the boat. The wharf was mercifully empty of the onlookers that had graced it for the past few days. Most of the American soldiers had been commanded to Long Island and the rebel sympathizers had evacuated to other parts of the country. Meg looked at the vast ships that stood at the entrance to the harbor. Her father was aboard one of them, titled the Eagle, but she had no idea which one that was.

A seagull landed nearby and pecked at the wood of the wharf before cawing mournfully. In due time her bags were tied onto the skiff. Colonel Webb stepped into the boat as Aaron came to stand beside Meg.

She turned and hugged him hard. The tears were threatening to spill again, but she forced them back. She did not want Aaron to remember her as a sobbing, weak fool. “Take care, Aaron. I fear you will come to harm in the next few days. For your sake, I hope the British leave New York City alone.”

“I shall burn the island myself before I let the British take it over.” Aaron’s voice was muffled.

Meg drew back. “Would you cut the ties that bind you to this city so easily?” she asked, knowing they were not speaking of the city itself.

He nodded and cast his gaze out to the warships bouncing in the gray, rippling water of the Hudson.

Meg reached up to touch his face. “I will love you forever.”

He did not reply as he descended into the skiff and held out his arm. Gently he conveyed her into the boat and led her to a seat, arranging her skirt so it would not get wet. He kissed her cheek before he stepped back onto the dock and nodded at the oarsman.

As the boat pulled away, Aaron stood motionless, as if he were a statue adhered to the dock. The tears could now flow freely. Colonel Webb handed Meg a handkerchief but said nothing. She watched the figure of Aaron Burr grow smaller and smaller, half hoping he would dive into the water and swim to the boat, declaring that he changed his mind, that he would marry her after all. A tiny smile emerged on her lips. Aaron was too much of a gentleman to put on such a scene. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared as Meg cursed the fate that brought so fine a man into her life only to let her be torn apart from him.

As though nature had sensed her mood, it began to rain. The waters were rough and Meg’s stomach dropped. “Is it much farther?” she asked Colonel Webb. Now that her providence had been determined, Meg was anxious to see her father again. Colonel Webb narrowed his gaze and looked off to the distance. “I see a British barge approaching under a flag of truce.”

“Are we not to reach the Eagle, then?”

“No, miss. My orders were to meet your countrymen. We cannot board a British man-of-war no matter what the circumstances.”

Meg sighed. As the small skiff pulled up next to the barge, a red coated arm was extended. Meg grasped it as she stepped across the boats. “I am Lieutenant Brown,” the officer said once Meg was secure aboard. He wore a full uniform, complete with powdered wig. His face was round, his beady eyes eclipsed by the chubby cheeks of a young man. “I’ve come to convey you to the Eagle.” He turned toward Colonel Webb. “Sir, I also bring a letter.” He bent down to pass it to the colonel.

“This envelope is addressed to George Washington, Esquire,” Webb stated.

“Indeed,” Brown replied. “Can you present it to Mr. Washington?”

Webb frowned. “I know no one in the army of that address.”

Perplexed, Meg stared down at the rebel. His face was tight with anger. “Surely you know it to be the Commander-in-Chief!” she cried.

Webb looked up at her. “You must refer then to General Washington.”

“This letter is not of a military nature,” Brown spat out. “Hence the address.”

Webb handed the envelope back to Brown. “I’m sorry, I cannot deliver this letter. As an Englishman, you should know the necessity of proper titles.”

Brown tucked it back into his breast pocket. “As an impertinent rebel, you should know the insult you have propagated on your army’s behalf.”

Colonel Webb sat down in the boat and the oarsman began to row away from the barge. Meg turned away from the railing and, thus, turned her back on America.

Meg was dismayed to find out her father was not aboard the Eagle. He had remained on Staten Island to supervise the redoubts.

Admiral Howe had extended an invitation to dine at his table so Meg put on her finest gown, the same one she wore to the ball only a fortnight ago, and arranged her hair in a similar style.

Twenty or so impeccably dressed guests were seated at the long mahogany table. Most of the men wore British uniforms and were adorned with powdered wigs. Meg was relieved to see that she had been placed next to Major Montresor’s wife, whom she had known since she was a little girl.

“Such a beautiful dress, Meg,” Mrs. Montresor said, bending her gray head in closer. “Were you much taxed to be forced to bunk with a rebel leader?”

“No, missus.” Meg stabbed at her chicken. “General Putnam and his family were very kind to me.”

“Nonsense,” a man clad in a brown coat and waistcoat sitting across from her replied. “The rebels have not enough manners to be kind to anyone.”

“A toast!” Admiral Howe stood and raised a crystal goblet. “To the King. May the sun forever rise over his vast empire.”

“To the King!” his guests cried, lifting their glasses.

“May reason return to these wretched colonies,” Howe continued. He turned in Meg’s direction. “I welcome Margaret Moncrieffe, returned to us at last from the Americans’ grasp. Who do you drink to, m’dear?”

Meg recalled her promise to toast to Washington if she ever found herself in the company of her countrymen. “Cheers to General Putnam, my protector,” she declared instead.

The guests paused, their glasses still in the air, unsure of whether to drink to the enemy. “You must not name him here,” Mrs. Montresor hissed.

Admiral Howe spoke from the head of the table. “By all means, we may drink to him, if he be the lady’s sweetheart.”

The guests tittered and lifted their goblets to their lips. Meg’s face flushed. Everyone must have been aware of Putnam’s advanced age. “Don’t mind Admiral Howe,” Mrs. Montresor whispered. “We all know that his brother, the head of the army, has his own mistress. And a married one as well!”

The champagne left a bitter taste in Meg’s mouth. She was relieved when the men rose from the table. Howe’s close confidants adjourned to his parlor to enjoy brandy and cigars while the other, lesser guests, attended to their wives and departed for the shore. As she had the night before, Meg threw herself on this new, finer bed, and cried.

The day after Meg arrived on board the Eagle, Admiral Howe, via Lieutenant Brown, summoned her to his office. Hastening to get ready, she searched her reticule for a brush to tame her curls. Her fingers bumping the letter Aaron had put there only yesterday. It was addressed to Admiral Howe, she noted before tucking back into her bag.

Lieutenant Brown was waiting outside her cabin and accompanied her to Howe’s office. He knocked and then opened the door when the admiral’s voice rang out to come in. Brown bowed to Meg but remained at his post in the hall.

The admiral’s office was small and dark, the walls papered in navy silk. Bookcases filled with thick books on the art of war adorned the wall, but the room was void of furniture save for a desk, which Admiral Howe sat stooped behind, and a scattering of chairs in front of it. Meg studied him as she approached the desk. His gray hair needed no powder though a few frizzy pieces had escaped from its ribbon. He wore a black coat trimmed with gold braid. Up close, his face bore the wear of a man near fifty. His brows were thick and heavy but his brown eyes were not unkind.

“I have a message for you from General Putnam,” Meg said, tentatively extending it toward him.

“Oh?” The admiral accepted the envelope. His large hands tore back the seal and he perused the paper inside. Suddenly he roared in deep laughter. He handed it back to Meg. “Go ahead and read it. It concerns you.”

It was written in the general’s own hand and contained his atrocious spelling.

Ginerole Putnam’s complermints to Major Moncrieff. He presents him with a fine darter. If he don’t leike her, he must send her back agin. And he will pervade her with a good Twig husband.

Israel Putnam

Meg sighed as she folded the letter and handed it back to the admiral. By Twig he must have meant Whig, and by that, he must have been referring to Aaron. “What news of my father, sir?”

“He is to join the troops at Flatbush.”

Meg’s heart felt as though it had been pierced by a bayonet. Perhaps the general was right and Aaron and her father would indeed come upon each other, fighting for opposite sides.

The admiral gestured for her to sit at the wooden chair across from his desk before he opened a drawer and took out a folded paper. “Miss Moncrieffe, that correspondence is not the only one I’ve received from Putnam’s household.” As he unfolded it, Meg was surprised to see her map of the fortifications in New York City. “I also was privy to this, and I am told that you were the artist.”

“Yes, sir.” She sat in the chair. It was made of exceptionally hard wood and pressed into her spine.

“This will be of much benefit when the time comes for us to arrive on Manhattan.” Meg’s chest grew tighter as she remembered Aaron’s promise that he would burn the city he loved so the British could not occupy it. “Do you know of any more information that could help our cause?”

Meg folded her hands on her lap as she tried to recall those muddled moments in Putnam’s office. “Something about roads and passes on Long Island.”

“Yes?” the admiral prompted.

“They are sending troops to protect them. Except, there was one they didn’t think needed much defense.”

The admiral shouted for Lieutenant Brown. When he entered the room, Howe demanded a map of Long Island. Brown fetched it from a corner and then stood over Meg to unroll it onto the desk, setting a silver mug in one side and an inkwell in the opposite corner to hold it taught. Meg felt a pang of sadness—the scene reminded her of the one in Putnam’s office only a few days ago.

“Do you remember the name of it?” Admiral Howe asked.

Meg peered at the map, but couldn’t make out anything from it. “It sounded foreign. Jamba. Jericho.”

“Jamaica?”

“Yes, I believe that’s it.”

Brown pointed to a black line that curved around a green area. “This pass is the Jamaica Road.”

Meg closed her eyes, remembering how the general’s hand had been on the left side of the map. She opened her eyes again. “Yes, sir, I believe that’s it,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation.

“Thank you, Miss Moncrieffe.” The admiral sat back in his chair to light a pipe. “Brown, we will prepare to descend through Jamaica Pass. We will do it in the dark of night. The Americans will be taken by surprise.”

Meg leaned forward. “Sir, can I get your word?”

Admiral Howe blew out a ring of smoke before nodding.

“There is a man. He fights with Putnam by the name of Aaron Burr. If he is captured, will you spare him his life?”

The admiral nodded again.

“I suppose you want us to have mercy upon Putnam as well,” Brown said, his beady eyes appearing even more narrowed as he squinted at her.

“Yes, please.” Meg’s heart began to hammer as she realized she had just placed both Aaron and Putnam in imminent danger.

“We will do everything we can to honor your request,” the admiral said. “When we arrive in New York City, I will release you to the safety of your father.” He nodded at Brown, who went to the door and opened it.

“Thank you, sir,” Meg said. She curtsied before exiting the room.

Lieutenant Brown led her back to her cabin. He bowed before saying, “I must take my leave of you, Miss Moncrieffe. I’m afraid we have an army to destroy.”

Panic rose in Meg’s chest. She tugged on the lace sleeve of the lieutenant’s uniform. “Aaron Burr. Remember the name.”

Brown’s face twisted cruelly as he shrugged her off. “No rebel needs to be spared. Especially not one that thinks himself in love with a proper English lady.”

Chapter 9

Sally

August 1776

True to his word, Papa used his political influence to secure Robert a position as commissary with General Woodhull’s army. From what Sally understood, that meant Robert supervised the troop’s provisions on Long Island. He and Papa left for Queens County in mid-August to protect the cattle. To Sally it seemed such a trifling task, relocating livestock when a British attack seemed imminent, but Robert impressed upon her the importance of protecting their food supplies. He reminded her of the year before when the British had confiscated and then hoarded the cattle of Gardiner’s Bay, on the eastern side of Long Island, while the locals starved. At least it meant that Robert and Papa would not be involved in the fighting, Sally told herself. If it came to that.

Papa returned home a few days later, saying that the mission had been somewhat of a success. Robert was moving eastward with what were left of Woodhull’s men, for many of them had deserted. Mother commanded her daughters to pray for their brother’s safety.

Chapter 10

Elizabeth

August 1776

A few hours before dusk on August 21, Elizabeth was startled to see a massive thundercloud form over the North River. As it started to rain, the thunderclaps boomed with seemingly no break in between, and sounded louder than even the British cannon had been outside her window.

The cloud hung overhead for hours, emitting the worst lightning storm Elizabeth had ever seen. The baby inside of her seemed to have the hiccoughs, its rhythmic movements matching the staccato of the lightning. Later Elizabeth would hear of people in the street being struck down by the bolts, which blackened their bodies and melted the coinage in their pockets.

As if pulled by the same magnetism that kept the cloudburst from moving past the city, Elizabeth and Abigail stayed near enough to the window to watch the storm light up the night sky, but far enough away to give some measure of protection. Although she knew Jonathan had installed one of Franklin’s lightning rods atop the roof, Elizabeth’s heart still pounded every time she saw a bolt streak across the darkened horizon.

When she finally went to bed, Elizabeth had a sleepless night, kept awake by the tossing and turning of her son and daughter on either side and the kicking of the baby in her womb.

The cloud had completely disappeared by the next morning, which dawned clear and bright. But before long, Elizabeth could see a massive cloud of smoke rising across the river.

The British had invaded Long Island.

Chapter 11

Sally

August 1776

It was a rainy afternoon in August and the Townsend women were in the midst of making strawberry preserves when Robert burst into the kitchen. “Long Island is lost!”

Sarah turned to her son, her hands red with strawberry viscera. “What?” Audrey put a chair directly behind her and her mother sank into it. “Samuel!” she shouted.

Papa, who had been in the parlor going over his books, rushed in. “Robert?” he asked, his face white.

Robert gestured toward another chair. “Sit down, Papa. The news is not good.”

Robert relayed the story of the capture of Long Island. “General Woodhull was stationed at Jamaica with less than a hundred men. He had sent most of us on to convey the stock eastward. Somehow the British knew that the Jamaica Pass was left unguarded.”

“And then?” Papa asked wearily.

“A British victory,” Robert replied in a soft voice. “And a massacre of the American army.”

“How goes General Woodhull?” Sally was aware that he knew the general personally, as Woodhull’s first cousin, Mary, was married to Robert’s friend Amos Underhill.

Robert shook his head. “No one is quite sure of his fate.”

“How did you escape?” Sally asked as his mother handed Robert a wet rag to mop his face.

“It wasn’t easy,” was all he said before he buried his face in the rag.

Chapter 12

Elizabeth

August 1776

Elizabeth waited in vain for news of Jonathan. Gossip at the storefront, as repeated by the middling amount of customers she had that week, was of a near annihilation of the new army of the United States of America, but there were no specifics about how many men were lost, let alone the names of any of them.

Elizabeth had woken up early on the morning of the 30th to prepare breakfast when she caught sight of movement on the streets below. The fog, thick as a blanket when she awoke, had thinned enough for her to make out the parade of soldiers beneath her window. Her hands on the curtain began to tremble as it occurred to her that the British might have invaded Manhattan, but after a moment of worry, she could see that some of the men wore Continental Infantry uniforms.

Contrary to the times that she had watched them march past her apartment in the summer, there were no fifes or drums playing now and these soldiers half-heartedly plodding by were in no discernible formation. She crept into her bedroom to grab a cloak before rushing downstairs to study each man as he passed by her, hoping to spot her husband’s form among them. A few met her eyes, and Elizabeth could see shock registered in their sleep-deprived faces. Many of them appeared malnourished, their clothing soaked through by the recent rainstorms.

“Ma’am?” A young man in an officer’s uniform paused in front of her.

“Yes?”

He clicked the heels of his boots together and folded his arms behind his back. “Ma’am, General Washington ordered our evacuation from Long Island last night, and my troops have been up since then. Would it be possible for some of my men to catch a smattering of precious sleep in your apartment?”

Elizabeth was taken aback. She fussed with the ribbons of her cloak, closing it tighter around her body, while she thought of a reply. She wanted to say that her husband would think it improper for strange men to be in their house when he was not home. But then again, if Jonathan were somewhere else, she would hope that another woman would be willing to supply him a quiet place for a few hours of rest. “You can have my children’s room,” she finally replied. Since Jonathan had left, Catherine, Abigail, and Johnny were all sleeping in the master bed anyway. “There are two beds in there. I can get bedding so that some men can sleep on the floor as well.”

Relief flooded the young man’s tired eyes. “Thank you ma’am. You do a great service to your country.”

The men did not stir until midday. Elizabeth had let Abby know of their presence behind the closed bedroom door and instructed her to have supper on hand when they woke.

Elizabeth went down to the store, but, after several hours of not receiving any customers, went back upstairs to find the four men seated at the table, a meager spread of bread, salt meat, and ale before them.

“What news of General Woodhull’s men?” Elizabeth asked the table as she refilled their mugs. “My husband was among them.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances with each other. One fair-haired young man ventured to say, “General Woodhull’s men were on cattle duty.”

“Cattle duty?” she replied.

Another young man stood up to offer her his chair. “Yes’m. General Washington wanted to keep the livestock from getting into the Redcoats’ hands. So he had the general round them up.”

Elizabeth sat down, relieved. She could nearly picture the disdain on her husband’s face when he found out that his charge was not to press through the British lines, but to play cowboy to roaming cattle.

The seated men exchanged another tense glance as the blond one continued, “General Woodhull and some of his men spent the night in a tavern to keep out of the rain. They were captured there the next morning.”

“Captured?” Elizabeth sat up straight.

“Captured,” the blond man repeated. The other men nodded.

“Where is General Woodhull now?”

Another man ventured a guess. “The lobsterbacks have probably taken him prisoner.”

Her hand reached out to grip the blond man’s arm “My husband is Jonathan Burgin. Do you know his whereabouts?”

He shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, but I can ask when I return to duty.”

“Please do,” Elizabeth said, dropping the man’s still damp sleeve.

Heretofore, most of New York society would have considered it improper to explain what happened on the battlefield to a woman and her maid, but the war had ended all thoughts of decorum, especially in the minds of these young men. Using halting, defeated language, the men filled Elizabeth and Abigail in on what they called the ‘Battle of Long Island.’

The British had waited five days before firing any shots, lulling the American troops into a false sense of security. The men at Elizabeth’s table were from General Sullivan’s division. They had been stationed at Flatbush Pass when they were surrounded by British and Hessian soldiers. Their leader had been captured along with Lord Stirling and General Woodhull. The men mentioned that some of their fellow soldiers had been run through with bayonets by Hessians after they’d already surrendered. They’d received word that all of Washington’s army was to evacuate Long Island for Manhattan earlier that morning,

“We have lost one island and now we are trapped on another,” one of the men stated sourly. “And those Redcoats across the river can strike here at any moment.”

“So we are still in danger,” Elizabeth said quietly, with an eye on her children playing in the corner of the living room.

“Indeed,” another man agreed. “You should leave the city as soon as possible. There’s talk of burning it down to the ground so the British can’t occupy it.”

She exchanged a panicked look with Abigail as the maid cleared the plates. Both had lived in Manhattan all of their lives, albeit growing up under different circumstances. Elizabeth put a hand on her swollen belly. “We know how to survive in times of crisis.”

“I certainly hope so,” the blond man said. “We hadn’t slept for three days before you were so kind as to give us quarter.” He wiped his mouth and set down his napkin before nodding at the soldiers still seated. Simultaneously they rose from the table.

Elizabeth also got up to see them out. “Jonathan Burgin,” she repeated to the men at the door. “Please find out where he is.”

The blond man put on his tricorn hat and said, “I will do my best,” before he left with his company.

Chapter 13

Sally

September 1776

As the British presumably planned their siege of New York City, Papa and the rest of the Provincial Congress were summoned to meet in Fishkill.

The morning before he set off, Papa wore one of his finely cut suits, his gold tipped cane perched next to him as he wiped a spot off the large buckle adorning his shoe. Some of the Friends from church were known to criticize Papa’s finery as unbecoming of a Quaker, but he never paid them much mind. He’d even bought Sally an outfit from White Plaines. It was in the newest fashion—the yellow skirt gathered just below the bodice, revealing a blue and white striped petticoat underneath. At first Sally had refused the dress, stating she’d rather stick with her homespun and hand-me-downs, but decided to keep it when Audrey and Phoebe each begged to have it instead. The lack of a hoop skirt allowed Sally to join Papa in sitting on the portico as he waited for their servant, Caesar, to bring his mare around. They both looked up as the sound of horses grew closer. A black stallion topped by a British dragoon stopped outside the gate.

Papa held his hand in front of his eyes to keep out the glaring sun as the officer dismounted. Although it was early in the morning, the temperature was already well above what it would have been for a typical September day. As the Redcoat approached, Sally wrinkled her nose in response to the smell of sweat and muck that clung to his uniform. Her eyes were glued to his brass helmet, which was topped with a mane of red horse hair and featured a menacing cross and bones on the front.

“Sam Townsend?” the man demanded loudly. Sally recoiled inwardly at the casual shortening of Papa’s Christian name.

“I am that man,” Papa replied as he stood.

“You are under arrest.”

“On what cause?” Papa asked as Sally gasped.

“Anti-loyalty to the Crown.”

“Ah, I see.” His voice held no surprise and Sally recalled Robert’s words two months ago about villagers reporting their neighbors. Papa gestured toward Caesar, who had dismounted Gem and now stood awkwardly looking on from the side of the house. “Shall I ride my own mare?”

The great man threw his head back in laughter. After he’d regained his composure, he spit on the ground and cursed.

“Go inside now, Sally,” Papa said.

But Sally’s backside seemed adhered to the porch as her father asked the dragoon if he could have a few minutes to gather some personal items.

“Don’t take long,” the Redcoat replied before spitting again. “We have many other rebel obstinates like you to arrest today.”

Papa took Sally’s hand and dragged her inside the house. He headed up the stairs and Sally followed, blinking against the sudden dim light. She paused, dropping Papa’s hand as she heard the front door slam shut another time.

From her perch on the stairs, Sally watched that same Redcoat gaze around their living room, a sneer on his face. She angled her head, trying to see what it was about the plain Quaker house that seemed to offend him. He marched over to the fireplace and pulled the small musket that Caesar used to hunt waterfowl off the mantel.

“Sir?” Robert asked as he entered the living room from the kitchen. Mother and Sally’s younger sister Phoebe stood just behind him.

“No rebel should own such a weapon.” He rammed the stock against the floor again and again as Phoebe screamed. Mother reached around to put her hand over Phoebe’s mouth. “Hush now, Daughter.”

The gun destroyed, the Redcoat threw it down. Next, he stalked over to the other side of the living room and stood in front of a painting of the oldest Townsend boy, Solomon. Robert joined him, half-blocking the portrait from the Redcoat’s angry stare with his body. Robert’s lean form and dark mane contrasted with Solomon’s fair hair and stocky build. Sally wondered what the real Solomon would do if he were there, deciding that he’d probably do something stupid to get them all killed. On that matter, it was a good thing William, the next brother after Solomon, was absent that morning as well.

For his part, Robert remained outwardly calm. “You would be pleased to be informed that my brother is supporting the British Island on the Glasgow,” he told the officer softly. “It is not within your power to wreak your vengeance on this painting of a fellow Loyalist.”

Despite Robert’s reassurances of Solomon’s position, the Redcoat seemed inclined to reach for the portrait and treat it as he did the fowling gun. At that moment, Papa came down the stairs. “I am ready,” he announced.

“Samuel?” Mother asked, glancing between the officer and Papa.

“Sarah.” Papa approached her and Phoebe and embraced them both at once. “I won’t be long.”

“You won’t be long for this world,” the Redcoat sneered, advancing toward the door. “A life in prison awaits you. Perhaps your fate includes one of the ships moored in Long Island. But first, to the field headquarters in Jericho.”

Not the floating prisons, Sally thought as her legs regained the ability to move. The conditions aboard the decommissioned ships were said to be deplorable. If Papa was to be sent aboard one of them, it was as good as being sentenced to death.

Needing to get away from the Redcoat’s damage to their home and the reminder of the power of the Crown, Sally fled outside. As she ducked past the officer, she felt the yellow ribbons on her hat loosen from their bow.

More Redcoat dragoons had arrived, Sally saw as she secured the ribbons under her chin. Neighbors had gathered outside and loitered in scattered groups, sweating from the heat. No one dared to say a word as long as the British cavalry towered over them.

Tories, all of them, Sally determined sourly as she looked upon her neighbors. Old Lady Wooden stood with her arms crossed and seemed pleased by Samuel Townsend’s predicament, although her eldest daughter, Mary, looked on sadly as the officer marched Papa out of the house. If only they’d use some of their Loyalist influence to help Papa. Her steps grew faster as a radical idea popped into her head. She had to refrain from running to the side of the house where Caesar had taken Gem, lest she call attention to herself.

Their next door neighbor, Thomas Buchanan, was a staunch and outspoken Tory and well respected by the other Loyalists in the area. He was also Papa’s best friend. That very morning, Sally’s older sister Audrey had accompanied Thomas and his wife, their cousin Almy, to Norwich to go shopping. They hadn’t left too long ago, and, since they were in a carriage, they might not have gotten far. Norwich was on the road to Jericho. If Sally could catch up to them, perhaps she could convince Thomas to use his influence to help free her father before they reached the military headquarters.

“Miss, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Caesar said as Sally grabbed the reins of the still saddled Gem from him. “Your father—”

“My father needs me.”

“But miss...”

“Shh.” Sally touched a finger to her lips and nodded toward the front of the house, where, from the rise in commotion, it sounded as though the Redcoats were preparing to march, with Papa in tow.

Sally led Gem on foot to the edge of the meadow until they were out of sight of any onlookers. She was once again thankful for the lack of a hoop skirt as she mounted the horse. She triple knotted her bonnet before racing Gem the long way around, avoiding the main road for fear of meeting the British troops.

As Sally reached Front Street, she quickened her pace. She finally caught up to Thomas and his band as they were descending the hill on Pine Hollow Road.

“Sally?” Audrey asked incredulously.

“It’s Papa!” Sally cried as she pulled Gem to a halt. “They’ve taken him prisoner.”

“Who?” Thomas asked as he exited the carriage.

“The Redcoats. They’re taking him to Jericho.”

Thomas looked down the road, but Sally gestured behind them. “I got ahead of them. Please, sir, you have to help Papa.”

“I will certainly try.” He nodded at the coach driver, a Negro slave, who directed the horses to turn around.

Sally rode beside the coach at an agonizingly slow pace. When the cavalry came into sight, their numbers even larger than before, she edged Gem into the woods, the dread of seeing the Redcoat from the house winning over her wanting to catch a glimpse of Papa.

As they came closer, Sally realized that there were more captives sprinkled in with the dragoons, John Kirk and Papa’s cousin George among them.

The slave brought the Buchanan coach to a halt as the soldiers encircled them. Sally saw Thomas approach the lead Redcoat. Even before he spat, she recognized him as the man from that morning’s nightmare. The Redcoat’s harsh voice indicated he was not going to agree with Buchanan's attempts at mediation. When the dragoons again took up their march, Sally dismounted Gem and handed Thomas his reins.

As he took off in the direction of the brigade, Sally joined Almy and Audrey in the coach, the three of them staring after the retreating band of British dragoons and American prisoners in silence. Sally’s heart sunk as they disappeared beyond another hill.

No one said a word on the way back to Oyster Bay. The tears flowed freely down Sally’s face. She had hoped that Thomas would have been able to use his Loyalist influence with the soldiers, to no avail. Now she could only pray there would be a senior officer more willing to negotiate when they reached Jericho.

As soon as Sally arrived home, she saw Robert and William standing on the portico.

“Papa?” William asked, pushing his floppy blond hair back off his forehead.

“Thomas Buchanan is with them now,” Sally answered, shaking her skirts out. The pretty yellow gown was now covered with dust and her petticoat clung to her sweaty legs.

“It was a good idea to enlist Thomas Buchanan’s help, Sally,” Robert said approvingly. He handed her a handkerchief. Although neither brother had commented on her appearance, Sally could well imagine that the tears she’d shed after Thomas’s failure at negotiation had left trail marks down her dirty face. “Perhaps Thomas can still convince those lobsterbacks to release Papa after they realize he is no threat to them.”

"If they can discern anything through those thick helmets, they will see that Papa is innocent,” William added. “I wish I would have been there.”

“It’s a good thing you weren’t,” Robert replied. “Your beetle-headedness would have ensured that you’d have ended up a prisoner, too. And the Buchanan ploy would have never worked.”

William waved his hand, the lace sleeve billowing in the breeze. “You’re right. I guess Sally’s plan was the best we could have done.” He turned to his sister. “Who would have thought you inherited the Townsend savvy, after all?”

She shrugged off William’s attempt at a compliment and went upstairs to join Phoebe and Mother in praying for Papa’s release.

A few days later Sally’s efforts were rewarded when Papa and Thomas Buchanan returned to Oyster Bay. As soon as she spotted Papa walking Gem up the front path, she ran to him. The fine lace of his undershirt was tattered and his clothes were covered with dirt, but he seemed unharmed. After he gave Gem’s reins to Caesar, Sally followed him into the house.

Mother and Phoebe were in the living room, attempting to needlepoint. Mother rose and hugged Papa. Phoebe, never one to wait, embraced both of them. After more hugs and greetings, Mother assisted Papa upstairs to nap.

At dinner, Papa explained to William and Robert how Thomas had secured his discharge through a hefty payment, what Papa called a “baron’s bribery.” He also had to assure the Redcoats that Papa was not of Whig tendencies. Thomas offered yet more money—several thousand pounds in fact—for the release of George and John Kirk, but both men’s previous actions toward their Tory enemies spoke more than Thomas’s reassurances could.

“Now what, Papa?” Robert asked.

“I must go before the magistrate.”

“They will probably have you swear an oath of loyalty to the Crown,” William said.

Papa sighed. “Indeed. But it is against all of my beliefs to swear allegiance to an unjust government.”

“But Papa, if you do pledge allegiance, does that mean that you will be safe from the charges against you?” Phoebe asked.

Across the table, Robert raised his eyebrows thoughtfully but said nothing.

“Husband, if you comply with what they have asked of you, you could avoid the fate of John Kirk and your cousin George,” Mother added.

“I hear they are under the jurisdiction of that bandog, William Cunningham. He’d rather his prisoners rot in hell than feed and clothe them.” Robert said, finally ending his silence. “Mayhap we can arrange for you to live with our Connecticut relations.”

“No, if I were to flee, they would go after Thomas Buchanan. He would lose the money he put up for my bail. They might implicate him in my escape as well, despite his loyalty to the Crown. Or worse yet, they would come after you boys,” he said, casting his eyes to Robert and then William.

Sally sat silently. Of course she wanted a guarantee of safety for her father, but she was not sure if Papa swearing that oath would be worth the sacrifice. The past few years had demonstrated that the British government did not often keep its promises.

Phoebe got up from the table and moved next to her father. “Please, Papa, they are only words. None of our friends will think you a traitor. They know you as an honest man who would do anything to protect his family.”

“I will think about it, poppet,” Papa said, patting Phoebe’s curls.

A few days later, the summons came for Papa to appear before the court. Sally dressed in a red silk sack back gown with a white petticoat. She hoped that her choice of colors would please the British authorities but discreetly tucked a blue handkerchief into her bodice as a subtle act of patriotic defiance.

The magistrate was Judge Whitehead Hicks, a Loyalist, of course. As he began his questioning, Sally’s heart sank. Judge Hicks asked Papa about past behaviors that could have been construed as rebellious, including assisting General Woodhull.

Hicks tilted his wigged head in inquiry. “Did you help his troops herd livestock onto Hempstead Plain in August of this year?”

“Yes, sir,” Papa replied. “But we did not move more than a couple thousand. Woodhull was cursed with having many of his men desert night after night.”

The judge shuffled the papers in front of him. “And your son was commissary to General Woodhull.”

Papa gave a brief wave of his hand. From her perch on a wooden chair behind him, Sally could see it shake briefly. “Only for a day. Of course you are aware of the general’s fate.”

Judge Hicks nodded as Papa continued, “Robert is now living at home, with his family.”

The judge pushed the pile of papers to the side and stared intently at Papa . “You are prepared to take the oath of allegiance to his Majesty, the King?”

Sally could feel her brother’s form stiffen beside her.

“I am,” Papa said loudly.

“I am as well,” Robert declared as he stood up.

“Robert,” Sally whispered to his back. “Why?”

Robert did not answer. Instead, he strode forward to stand next to his father.

Judge Hicks scrutinized Robert before he finally stated, “Very well, then.”

Sally sat back as both her father and brother raised their right hand and repeated the prompts from Judge Hicks. Robert stood erect, but Papa’s frame was slouched and his words were lost in the murmurs from the courtroom audience. They were probably wondering, as Sally was, what had possessed her brother to willingly pledge allegiance to a Crown that provided nothing but injustice to its citizens. Sally wondered how her proud papa would bear the shame of standing before Congress now.

In exchange for their vows, Judge Hicks issued both Papa and Robert a certificate as proof of their fidelity to the King.

Later that night, Sally knocked on the door to her brother’s room. The door was not shut and it nudged open. Sally caught sight of Robert packing up his things. He looked up as she walked in.

Sally’s original intention was to query why he volunteered to take the oath, but she abandoned that line of questioning to ask, “Are you going somewhere?”

“New York City,” Robert replied tersely.

“New York City? Now?”

He hefted the bag over his shoulder. “Someone has to provide for this family, and I’m not sure Papa is in the right shape to do it.”

She sat down in Robert’s wooden chair. “That’s why you took the oath—to do business on the island.”

Robert patted his pocket. “This certificate will get me past the sentries stationed at Dobbs Ferry.”

“For a moment there, I thought you’d switched allegiances.”

“I have no allegiance.”

“But you worked for General Woodhull. And you gave money to the Sons of Liberty.”

Robert looked around the room as if there might be British spies lurking in the corner. “We shouldn’t talk so loud about it.”

She laughed. “Not even in our own house?”

“No,” he said sullenly. “But if you must know, I find it best to remain neutral. That way I can continue doing business with both sides.”

“Isn’t that a rather cowardly way to look at it?”

Robert approached her. “Not if you want to be able to eat once the British occupy New York. Besides…” he pulled at the skirt of her petticoat, “someone’s got to pay for this fine clothing.”

“Sell it,” she told him blankly, pulling away from him. “I don’t care for such things. Papa bought it.”

He looked at her earnestly. “And that is why I’m going.”

* * *

John Kirk and George Townsend were committed to Provost Prison. When Cunningham learned that Kirk had contracted smallpox after a few weeks of ill treatment, he sent the men back to their homes, probably hoping he’d infect the rest of the Oyster Bay Whigs with the dreaded disease. Kirk’s wife, happy to have her husband home, nursed him through the illness. Kirk recovered, but his wife and his newborn daughter both died of smallpox a short time later. Their deaths only served to inspire more hatred of the Crown in the townspeople of Oyster Bay, especially in George Townsend, as well as Sally’s brother Robert.

Chapter 14

Elizabeth

September 1776

In early September, Rivington returned to the store. He was dressed similarly to the first time Elizabeth met him, clad in another finely cut suit, this one a sage green.

“Can I help you, Mr. Rivington?” Elizabeth asked. “Do you require more ink?”

Rivington approached the counter and doffed his hat.

She gave him a tight smile as he stood silently, twisting the hat in his hands. “Sir?” she asked encouragingly.

“It pains me to say this, madam, considering your husband’s kindness to me in the past. And, also,” he gestured to Elizabeth’s torso, “in light of your delicate condition.”

“Yes?” Her heart was now in her throat.

“I was given a list of American prisoners taken at Long Island to print in my paper.”

“Jonathan,” she concluded in a whisper. “Where is he?”

Rivington did not reply right away. His hat was now a wrinkled mess. “He is aboard the Jersey.”

Elizabeth gave him a helpless look. “Where? New Jersey?”

Rivington flicked his hand toward the East River. “Not New Jersey. The Jersey. It’s a prison ship. There were not enough places in the city to put all the captives taken in the Battle of Long Island so the British employed decommissioned ships for their confinement.” He dug into his pocket to present a piece of paper. “I managed to use my connections to get you a pass.” He handed the slip to Elizabeth. “But, Mrs. Burgin, I have to warn you, those prison ships are not pleasant places to be.”

She let out a deep breath. “I would think not.” She reached out to clasp his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Rivington, for arranging this.”

He nodded, pulling his hand back and then taking a step away from the counter. “It was the least I could do. As I said, your husband has always been kind to me.”

The next day, Elizabeth set out for the Jersey¸ stationed across the East River in Wallabout Bay. The only other person aboard the small transfer boat, besides the rower, was a tall, handsome man in the blue and buff uniform of the Continental army. He helped Elizabeth onto the skiff before introducing himself as Captain Benjamin Tallmadge.

As they approached the hulking figure of the former battleship, Elizabeth could see that the portholes had been sealed. In their place were small square windows cut into the side of the ship. Iron bars, one vertical and one horizontal, severed the window into four equal parts and prevented any hope of escape. There was no canvas attached to the masts, for the Jersey was no longer able to set sail, and served to further illustrate the fact that she was merely a skeleton of a formerly grand man-of-war. The attuned sense of smell that accompanied her pregnancy became a curse as Elizabeth could detect the overpowering effluvia of hundreds of prisoners packed onto the ship. The stench, combined with her nervousness as to her husband’s condition, caused her stomach to heave. She clutched the side of the boat and willed herself not to vomit.

The deck was overcrowded with sailors, who went about their business with barely a sound. Sentries stood by every exit point. The disturbing silence was interrupted only by the waves breaking at the helm of the ship or the officer in charge barking orders.

Captain Tallmadge approached the officer and, in a muffled tone, asked to see his brother, William, before nodding at Elizabeth, who managed to squeak out, “Jonathan Burgin.” The officer summoned a nearby soldier and repeated the names before turning to Elizabeth and demanding to see her papers.

The officer glanced through them and then handed them back to her, asking how she was acquainted with Rivington. Captain Tallmadge grimaced at the name as she tentatively replied that he was a customer at her husband’s store.

Elizabeth turned as she heard shuffling behind her. She refrained from running to Jonathan as soon as she spotted him. He stepped forward from the edge of the hatchway, blinking at the sudden sunlight, as the guard elbowed him from behind.

She bit back her shock at the change in her husband. A graying, matted beard occupied the lower part of his face; his cheeks and forehead had lost their sunburned ruddiness and now appeared yellow. Every inch of both his tattered uniform and skin was covered in filth. In only a few short weeks, his once stocky figure had become practically emaciated, the manacles at his wrist seeming to be able to slip right off.

Elizabeth heard Captain Tallmadge inquire again about his brother as he pulled the officer aside, affording the couple some privacy.

Jonathan smiled a thin, weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, my wife.”

“Jonathan.” Elizabeth made to hug him, but he ducked, giving the appearance that it greatly pained him. “Lice,” he explained.

She settled for grasping his hands in hers. “Are you hurt?”

“Not much.” The act of speaking must have also been painful. His lips were dry and cracked, his voice groggy as though he hadn’t used his throat in a long time. He attempted another smile as he put a weak hand on Elizabeth’s belly.

“Your second son should arrive soon,” she told him. “Within a month or so.” Of course she did not know the sex of the babe growing inside her, but she knew the thought of it being a son would be a comfort to Jonathan. She began to chat amicably about Catherine and Johnny, trying to ignore her husband’s clearly weakened state for both of their sakes. She made no mention of the evacuation of Long Island or the renewed soldiers’ presence in New York City. After a few minutes, the officer returned and announced that their time had concluded. The same soldier from before appeared and shoved Jonathan in the direction of the decks below.

Elizabeth wanted to scream at the soldier not to touch Jonathan. She blinked back a tear for her formerly proud, successful husband, now reduced to this miserable hostage. She longed to reach out and grab him—at his attenuated state, she could probably have lifted him, even with her extended stomach—and take him back to Manhattan with her. But she could do none of these things. She watched as her husband went back down the hatchway and felt an overwhelming foreboding that she would never see him again.

They rowed back in silence, both passengers disturbed by what they had seen. As they approached the shore, Elizabeth tentatively asked Tallmadge about his brother. He shook his head as he replied, “Dead.”

Elizabeth frowned as he continued, “And I’m not surprised. No one has much chance of survival aboard that floating squalor. They wouldn’t let me below, but I could smell enough to picture the putrid conditions they are keeping our soldiers in.” He wiped furiously at his eyes before remembering Elizabeth’s situation. He pulled out a handkerchief and then reached across the skiff to hand it to her. “I will see what I can do about arranging a prisoner exchange for your husband.”

Her attempt at a smile faded as she once again pictured her husband’s cracked face and felt that sense of hopelessness as she watched him walk away. “Thank you,” she told the captain.

That night, Elizabeth waited until her maid and children were fast asleep before she crawled out of bed. She lit a candle and went to the window that overlooked the East River. Across the darkened bay, past the myriad of British war ships tied at the wharf, she imagined she could see the hulk of the Jersey. For the first time since Jonathan had joined the war, Elizabeth found herself breaking down. She tried to keep her sobs quiet, but was unable to stop the flow of tears. Whatever assurance Captain Tallmadge had attempted to provide, given the state of Jonathan’s skeletal body and his pallor, Elizabeth knew her husband didn’t have much time. Never in her life had she felt as helpless as she did then, practically alone in a deserted city with a baby on the way, her country at war, her husband near death on a torture ship. She felt defeated, much in the way that General Washington must have felt after the Battle of Long Island. Still, Elizabeth thought, the general managed to recognize when it was time to retreat, and rally his troops in order to prepare for yet more battles in this war for independence. Elizabeth wet a linen napkin and patted it under her eyes, trying to keep the swelling down, before extinguishing the candle and withdrawing to her bed.

Chapter 15

Sally

September 1776

After the British victory at Long Island, the Whigs, including Samuel Townsend, worried over what would become of their businesses now that their beloved territory was in enemy hands. Stories swept down the island, rumors of Patriots in Setauket, a few miles to the east, having their homes, harvest, and livestock seized by the British.

In late September, Sally answered the door to find a short, broad man dressed in British regimentals.

“Yes?” she asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice as the uniform brought the nightmare of her father’s arrest back to the surface.

“Miss…” he stood up straighter, as if preparing to recite a litany, and then thought better of it. “Are your parents home?”

“No.” Sally shifted impatiently. “May I help you?”

The Redcoat’s shoulders sank and he seemed to deflate before her eyes. “Miss, my name is Joseph Green. Colonel De Lancey has ordered me to quarter with your fine family this winter. I’m told you have a room available?”

“There is no room,” Sally told him resolutely.

From somewhere behind her, a voice piped up, “My brother Robert has only just left for New York City.” Phoebe appeared beside Sally. “I suppose you might as well occupy his room.”

Sally stood firm at her post at the entryway as the officer transferred his bag from one arm to the other. Phoebe elbowed Sally hard enough that she was forced to step aside. The officer made no move forward as he stated, “New York City. Isn’t that quite a dangerous place to be?”

Sally smiled sweetly. “No more so than any other spot on the Continent during this infernal war.”

“Indeed.” The soldier dropped his bag. “If you don’t mind sending your father to speak with me as soon as he arrives, I’ll just make myself at home on this stoop.” He turned toward the portico steps.

“But Papa is home,” Phoebe stated. “I’ll get him for you.”

Sally shot daggers at her sister’s back as Phoebe departed for the interior of their house. How dare this enemy officer demand to share our home! In Robert’s room, no less. Her eyes threatened to tear over at this newest indignation, but she blinked hard. She would not give this Redcoat the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Papa gave his second eldest daughter only a brief glance as he passed by, but his meaning was clear: stay out of this.

Sally sullenly retreated to the kitchen to help her mother with supper. Presently, she could hear two sets of footsteps in the hallway, and knew that there was no alternative: the Redcoat was going to spend the winter at the Townsends.’

Chapter 16

Meg

September 1776

In mid-September, the British landed at Kip’s Bay, an inlet on Manhattan off the East River. The few continentals stationed there fled as cowards instead of fighting and the island was then completely under British rule.

Meg and her father were finally reunited soon after. When she heard the announcement that a few men from his company had arrived on the Eagle, she went to ask news of him. Captain Moncrieffe himself was standing on deck and Meg ran into his arms as soon as she spotted him.

“Daughter,” he said finally, pulling back to look at her. “I’m glad you are safe.”

“Of course, Father. General Putnam and his family were very kind to me.”

It had been nearly a year since Meg had last seen her father. He did not look that much different—the face that so many late wives had admired was still handsome, if only a bit more faded. The stern voice, however, had not changed in the least. “Seems like you are not a little girl anymore.”

Admiral Howe sauntered over to stand by Captain Moncrieffe. “No, she seems to be quite the woman now. And she’s made a few admirers of my men,” he continued with a wink at Meg.

She lowered her eyes. “You flatter me, sir.”

The admiral put an arm around Captain Moncrieffe. “General Putnam says he could find her a good husband, but I think we would do better to find one of our own.”

Captain Moncrieffe shook his head. “She’s still too young.”

“A bit young in age, perhaps, but not in temperament. Sometimes when she speaks, I think her double her years.”

Captain Moncrieffe nodded.

Another man appeared and saluted, his face dark. “Admiral, sir, we are the bearer of distressing news.” He gestured toward New York City. “The west side of the island is in flames and the fire is spreading.”

The admiral went to the bow of the boat and spit into the water. “Forgive my rudeness, but though they may be British citizens, those rebels are no Englishmen.”

Meg placed a gloved hand on the banister and peered at the distant island. She could just barely see a column of smoke rising from the opposite shore. She had heard not a word from Aaron, but knew that, despite his threat, he couldn’t have been the one to set fire to his beloved city. She knew, too, that he wouldn’t have been among the soldiers who threw down their arms rather than fight at Kip’s Bay. It was true that Aaron Burr did not consider himself an English gentleman, but he still had his own sense of worth. She wished she could query the admiral of Aaron’s fate, but did not want to face the fatherly inquisition it was sure to incite in Captain Moncrieffe.

Chapter 17

Elizabeth

September 1776

There were no church bells to warn of the fire. After the British had entered the city, Washington ordered that all bells be taken down and melted for cannon fodder. Elizabeth watched the progression of the fires from her second-floor window. From her vantage point, she could see at least two or three conflagrations, the nearest one off Broadway at the White Hall inn. After the unusually wet August, the September days had been mostly dry. The wells had been wanting of water and the fire spread quickly through the city.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, mentally shutting out the screams and terror of the people running through the streets. If she had time to think of it, she might have been pleased that her beloved New York City, though now even more of a ghost town, was fighting back against the British invasion. But she didn’t have time to dwell on anything else: the baby was coming.

Elizabeth steeled her mind away from the thought that the birth of a child often resulted in loss, either of the baby, like her last child who had died shortly after she was born, or of the mother, like Elizabeth’s own mother who had died in childbirth. Now was not the time to panic.

“Ooh.” she nearly doubled over as another contraction began.

Abigail’s eyes widened with fear. “Missus, you’ve got to get in bed.” She cast her eyes toward the window and outside, which, even though it was nine in the evening, was currently filled with more light than at dawn. Abby cursed under her breath as she dragged Elizabeth into the bedroom. She got her mistress settled and then ran for the tureen of water boiling in the fireplace.

The labor pains, as with the fire, continued through the early morning. When she wasn’t attending to Elizabeth, Abby paced around the floor in the living room. She instructed Johnny to sit at the table and learn his letters while Catherine played with her dolls. But every time their mother screamed in pain, both children looked at Abby with frightened eyes. Abby knew she needed help, but, from the sound of the chaos below her, it seemed that the few people that lingered in the city after the arrival of the British were finally fleeing as their homes and businesses went up in flames. Abby paused as a thought occurred to her. Mrs. Underhill!

Mary Underhill was an old family friend of the Burgin’s. She was only a few years older than Elizabeth and they had become fast friends after Elizabeth’s marriage to Jonathan. She and her husband Amos ran a boarding house on Queen Street. Abby knew that Mary had two girls in their early teens, so she would be the best person to help with the birth. That was if she hadn’t also left the city.

While Elizabeth dozed fitfully, Abby hastened to the Underhill’s boarding house. Thankfully the fire hadn’t spread to the east side of town, at least not yet. Mary Underhill was seated at one of the tables in the tavern with her husband, Amos, and a few other men.

As Abby rushed toward them, she shouted, “Mrs. Underhill, you must come quickly! Mrs. Burgin is in labor!”

Amos stood, knocking over the wooden chair he had been sitting in. “Is she all right?”

“So far.” Abby stooped over, panting from her run. “But Mr. Burgin has been captured and there’s no doctor to be found.”

Mary grabbed a worn satchel off a nearby hook and went into the kitchen. She emerged a few seconds later, the satchel bulging with cloth. She nodded at Abby and the two women headed back to the apartment above Jonathan Burgin’s store, wet handkerchiefs placed over their face so as not to breathe in the smoke that hung in the heavy air.

When they arrived at the apartment, Elizabeth was awake and once again grunting with labor pains. Mary commanded Abby to take the children downstairs to the storefront. She handed Elizabeth a twisted handkerchief and told her to bite down on it when the pain got too much to bear. She wet a washcloth with cool water and patted Elizabeth’s sweaty face.

After several more agonizing hours, the baby finally arrived. Mary’s expert hands cut the umbilical cord and wrapped him in swaddling before handing him to his exhausted mother. He possessed a hearty wail, Elizabeth was pleased to note. He had Jonathan’s mouth and eyes and just looking at him triggered both sorrow and happiness in his mother.

“He’s beautiful,” Mary declared as she came to stand behind mother and baby.

Elizabeth softly rubbed his button nose. “If only Jonathan could see his new son.”

“You’ve still had no word from him?” Mary began gathering up the bloodied linens and cloth.

Elizabeth shook her head wearily as she tried to get the baby to suckle her breast. “Not for a month.”

“I know it’s not much of a comfort now, but just think—your son will be able to grow up in a free country because of men like his father.”

Elizabeth managed a tiny smile as she stroked the head full of dark, wispy hair. “I think I will name him George. George Washington Burgin.”

Mary’s worn face relaxed into a grin. “I’ve yet to hear of a finer name.” She hoisted a sack of soiled clothing. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go home to wash up. I’ll send Abby back to take the baby.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

She nodded. “Get some rest. You need to keep up your strength.”

Chapter 18

Meg

September 1776

Admiral Howe rewarded Meg’s father—and Meg herself, though only the admiral and Lieutenant Brown knew of her assistance regarding the Long Island raid—by giving them a fine brick townhouse on Queen Street. Meg installed herself in the largest of the three bedrooms, complete with a walnut bed frame and pink and white striped chintz curtains. The house had once been occupied by a wealthy rebel merchant who fled the city during the invasion. Like many such properties, the British declared the house to be payment to the King and assumed ownership. It stood near the Hudson in a part of the city that was spared by the fire.

The captain’s military duties still required him to be absent quite frequently, so he invited the widow of a British soldier to stay with Meg. Her name was Mercy Litchfield and her house had been destroyed in the fire. Mercy was a true aristocrat: her mother was of Old Dutch stock and her father’s Scottish lineage stretched back to ancient times. She lost her husband, John Litchfield, a British captain, in 1775. Mercy was what Belle Putnam would have called a “breath of fresh air.” She was devastatingly beautiful, and, despite the dire circumstances of a city under siege, seemed to find humor in everything.

A few days after she arrived, Mercy burst into the townhouse. Her cheeks, flushed from the autumn wind, were a color similar to the damask curtains lining the first-floor parlor Meg was ensconced in.

“Meg!” She fluttered the paper she held in her hand. “We’ve been invited to General Howe’s house!”

Meg hid the embroidery hoop she’d been working on by tucking it under her skirt. “Pardon?” General William Howe was the brother of Admiral Richard—one family member fought the Americans by land, the other by sea.

Mercy sat in the claw-footed wooden chair across from Meg. “A night of musical celebration, hosted by General Howe, is to take place in a fortnight!”

“And what are we celebrating? This incessant war?” Meg longed to retrieve her sewing but she did not want Mercy to know what she had been working on.

“No, silly. We are celebrating the handsome Englishmen that will bring back New York society.” Mercy rose elegantly from the chair. “I wonder if Mulligan fled with the rest of them. I wouldn’t mind a new frock.”

As Mercy flounced upstairs, Meg retrieved the hoop, frowning. She didn’t want to celebrate any Englishmen. She pulled at an errant stitch. She had been attempting to sew the initials A.B. onto a handkerchief, on the off chance she’d ever lay eyes on Aaron again. But the sewing would not have been up to Aaron’s fine taste. In a fit, Meg used the tip of her scissors to pull out all of the stitches before crushing the hoop under her satin shoes.

Meg could not have been less enthusiastic about the party. Mercy, in her growing gaiety, did not notice. Normally it would have been unseemly for a widow to be gallivanting around New York, but, with the onset of the war and the fleeing of many of the leading matriarchs, a lot of societal norms had all but disappeared.

The night of the party, Meg and Mercy set out in a splendid coach, which had also been confiscated from a Yankee. When they crossed Broad Street, Meg’s eyes did not move from the window. The commercial district, through which she had passed with Aaron less than a month ago, was now a wasteland. Brick chimneys and cellar holes were about all that remained in the smoldering ashes that had once been stately Dutch homes. Tears of relief sprang to her eyes when she saw her beloved Kennedy Mansion, and next to it, Aaron’s old residence at Three Broadway, both miraculously spared from the conflagration.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of One Broadway. “Why have we halted?” Meg asked.

Mercy gave her a quizzical look. “Because we’ve arrived at General Howe’s.”

“Howe’s residence is the Kennedy mansion?”

Mercy was busy gathering up the skirts of her blue taffeta gown and didn’t reply.

Once outside, Meg, dressed in a pale pink sacque dress covered with tiny rosebuds, started. A Union Jack flag, placed in the forefront of her old safe house, fluttered in the breeze. She felt an unexpected twinge of sorrow as she gazed upon the flag of her home country. She could only imagine Aaron tearing it down if he saw it in front of his general’s former headquarters. The defeat of the American army and their loss of New York suddenly became very real. She hoped that wherever the Putnams—and Aaron—were, they were away from harm.

Accustomed as she was by now to see the tailored red uniforms of the British army, Meg had to blink twice to notice them stuffed into the parlor in which Dolly Putnam had once established her sewing circles. Beautiful women in a rainbow array of chintz, damask, and taffeta sat among the Redcoats.

Meg and Mercy took seats on fine, though unfamiliar, Chippendale chairs. Although she could hear the lilting tunes of a harpsichord, Meg’s view of the room was obscured by the woman in front of her, whose hair rose in a pyramid shape at least two feet off her head and was topped with an ornament that remarkably resembled the Eagle.

Mercy caught Meg staring at the unusual coiffure and nudged her with a grin. She put her arm around Meg’s shoulders to pull her toward her, giving her a view of the busty woman sidling up to the harpsichord. “That’s Elizabeth Loring,” Mercy whispered in Meg’s ear.

Meg looked at her blankly.

“General Howe’s mistress. They say that her husband, Joshua Loring, has been promoted to commissioner of prisoners.”

Meg wrinkled her nose. “Seems like an awfully high price to pay for being cuckolded.”

Mercy nodded before sitting upright in her seat.

After the rather off-key performance of Mrs. Loring, the parlor was turned over into a dance hall. Besides the Loring/Howe dalliance, gossip that night was of an American man caught spying behind British lines.

“What was his name?” Meg asked a foppish fellow in the red regimentals of an officer.

“Nathan Hale, I believe,” the officer returned.

Meg sighed inwardly in relief that it wasn’t Aaron. Her relief quickly turned to horror as the man continued, “His body is still hanging outside the Dove Tavern.”

Even Mercy seemed shocked and gasped aloud before saying, “Is that not a bit cruel?”

The man shrugged. “It’s what happens to spies caught by their enemies.”

“Tell me, Major,” Mercy said, subtly pulling down on her bodice. “What do you think Howe’s plan is now?”

“Besides cuddling up next to Mrs. Loring?” the man asked with a leering grin at Mercy’s décolletage.

“Now that they have control of most of New York, do you think the army has plans to invade Philadelphia? Or have they set their sights on New Jersey?”

The man shrugged as he drank Madeira from a cut crystal goblet. “I have heard no plans yet.” His mouth turned down. “Why do you ask?”

Mercy gave a dainty roll of her shoulders before placing a hand on Meg’s elbow. “If you would pardon us, Major. My throat is much parched.” She pulled her companion to the refreshment table in the corner.

“What was that all about?” Meg asked, picking at a display of fruit.

“I have relatives in the Jersey area.” Mercy stepped closer to her friend. “Meg, I can’t help but notice how many eyes are on you tonight. You could have your pick of any officer in this room.”

Meg bit into a grape. It tasted sour and she swallowed it nearly whole, feeling its lump move down her throat. “None of them whet my fancy.”

“What about that one?” Mercy used her fan to gesture to a tall, well-shaped man with sand-colored hair. “I hear Major André enjoys his ladies very much.”

Though handsome, in Meg’s opinion the man called Major André was nowhere near Aaron’s caliber. An even lesser-looking gentleman in a double-breasted navy coat who had been conversing with the major caught the women’s stare and shoved his way over to them.

“John Coghlan,” he stated in a heavy Irish accent, sticking out a pudgy hand. His bald head glistened with sweat and there was a yellow stain on the cream lace of his cravat. His portly stomach seemed to test the strength of the buttons of his vest.

Another macaroni, Meg thought, before she curtsied and then introduced herself.

“Ahh, yes, Captain Moncrieffe’s daughter,” Mr. Coghlan concluded. “I am acquainted with your father.”

“Indeed?” It was Meg’s turn to find an excuse to leave the conversation. Unfortunately they were already standing next to the refreshment table. She cast her eyes about the room.

Major André caught her glance and walked over. “Ah, Mr. Coghlan, I see you have wasted no time in finding the loveliest ladies in the room to converse with.”

Coghlan frowned as he bowed toward André. “I see you are trying to do the same. I am interested in finding out what other acquaintances Miss Moncrieffe and I have in common.”

André bestowed a brilliant grin on Meg and Mercy. On second thought, maybe he is not so different from Aaron, Meg thought. “Although I believe it is becoming late. General Howe does not approve of women being out past curfew.”

Meg’s return smile toward André held a hint of gratitude.

Coghlan’s gaze was icy as he must have known that he could not argue with the major. He bowed before saying, “I hope to see you again, Miss Moncrieffe.”

As Meg linked her arm through Mercy’s, leading her to the door, she whispered, “I hope never.”

Chapter 19

Elizabeth

October 1776

Despite the chaos that had accompanied his birth, George was a surprisingly calm baby. He took to the breast eagerly and expertly. Although he slept in four-hour patches, Elizabeth still felt constantly drained. Abby took Catherine and Johnny out for daily walks and filled her mistress in on what was happening in the city around them.

The fire had exhausted itself, but not before it destroyed nearly every building between Broadway and the Hudson River, save for the Kennedy mansion at One Broadway and a few others. Roughly a quarter of the city had gone down in flames, including Trinity Church.

Elizabeth couldn’t muster the strength to go down to open the store, consequently there was no money coming in. Abby usually managed to scrounge up milk from somewhere and Mary Underhill visited daily, often bringing meat and loaves of bread.

One day in early October, Abby startled Elizabeth while George was feeding. “Mrs. Burgin, Mrs. Underhill is here.”

“Show her in.”

“She’s also brought Mr. Underhill and another man with her. I told him you were busy, but they insisted on waiting outside until you are ready to receive them.”

Elizabeth glanced down. George must have had his fill because he was now sleeping at her breast. Elizabeth gently broke the contact between the baby’s mouth and her nipple. After handing the infant over to Abby, Elizabeth slipped her bodice back around her shoulders and realigned her stomacher, the strings still tied loosely now to accompany her wide belly. Mary Underhill was used to seeing Elizabeth half-dressed, but that would be no way to greet a strange man.

She went out to the living room and arranged herself as elegantly as she could before nodding to Abby. “Show them in.”

The man who entered with the Underhills was tall and thin, with brown hair tied back in a low ponytail. He had solemn blue eyes above a hawkish nose. His plain dress indicated that he was probably a Quaker. He bowed in Elizabeth’s direction before holding up his hand in a clear urge for her not to get up to return the gesture.

Amos Underhill also bowed. “Mrs. Burgin, I would like to introduce you to Robert Townsend.” Amos sat down in one of the wooden chairs Abby had arranged in the living room while Mary remained standing by the fireplace.

Elizabeth nodded slowly. She had heard the name many times: the Townsends were Jonathan’s biggest competitors. Their import business sold many of the same items, though they operated mostly out of Oyster Bay on Long Island. “What brings you to see me?” She waved her hand toward another chair and Robert sat down.

“I am aware of Mr. Burgin’s recent…” Robert paused as if to find the right words. “Capture. I am also aware of your new arrival. I can only assume that things must be challenging for you at this time.” Robert’s speech was dotted with breaks. It was clear the matters this pensive man came to discuss were difficult for him to voice.

Elizabeth folded her hands over her dress. “Indeed, but I’m not sure what concern it is of yours. Especially given the circumstances betwixt you and my husband.”

It was Robert’s turn to nod. “I am aware that, in the past, my family’s store might have been seen as a rivalry for Mr. Burgin. However, there are affairs that have precluded our business in Oyster Bay. My father was recently arrested, and now we are forced to have the British quarter with us. The army will soon settle for the winter, and I fear that the same might be brought upon your household.”

“Soldiers? No one, including General Howe, will be forcing the enemy upon my home.”

Mary interceded. “Elizabeth, you haven’t been about the city. Everywhere there are doors painted with the black G.R.”

“G.R.?” Elizabeth asked.

“For Georgius Rex,” Amos spat out. “Indicating that the house has been confiscated by order of his majesty.” Amos wiped his gleaming bald head with a handkerchief. For an October day, it was quite warm outside.

Robert steepled his long fingers. “Mr. and Mrs. Underhill mentioned that you are alone here and they worry about you. Some of the abandoned businesses have been looted, and there are riots breaking out constantly. There are stories of British soldiers raping American women.”

“The taverns are clogged with enemy soldiers and Loyalists,” Mary added. “They are pouring into the city.”

Elizabeth went to the window. The streets below were littered with broken glass and trash. “What will become of us?” she asked, more to herself than the room.

“I believe that I can offer a solution.”

Elizabeth pivoted her head toward the speaker. “What exactly are you proposing to me, Mr. Townsend?”

“I am suggesting that you might let me run your shop for the winter. With the British occupation, they are in need of worldly goods more than ever. Every day the store remains shut, you are losing money.”

Elizabeth glanced at Amos. He and Jonathan had grown up together in Setauket. Amos wouldn’t suggest anything to her that Jonathan wouldn’t abide by. “Mr. Underhill, are you in agreement with this?”

Amos nodded. “Mary and I both think it is the best solution. That way you will have protection of a man, and one in good favor with the British.”

Elizabeth sat back down. “What have you done to cause such favoritism?”

Robert had the grace to color slightly. “I swore an oath to the King.”

Elizabeth’s hands tightened into fists. “You are a Tory, and a traitor to your faith.” Her uncle had been a Quaker and Elizabeth knew that the religion specifically forbade taking oaths.

Mary put a restraining hand on her friend’s shoulder. “These are trying times, Elizabeth. Many people do things they don’t approve of to get by.”

Elizabeth took her eyes off Robert to gaze around the room. Many of Jonathan’s fine art and trinkets had disappeared—Abigail had to hawk what she could to keep food on the table. Every day she went out into those streets, Elizabeth worried for her. She worried for all of them. Amos was right: Robert’s presence in the shop below would offer them some measure of safety, at least until Jonathan returned to take his rightful place. Elizabeth finally nodded her assent at Robert. “You may manage my store. I expect to get the majority of the profits.”

Robert stood to bow again. “Thank you, madam. You will not regret your decision.”

Elizabeth also rose. “We all must do what we can to survive mustn’t we?”

Robert’s blue eyes looked pained as he replaced his cap. “Indeed.”

Elizabeth still didn’t feel strong enough to venture downstairs, but Abby’s daily excursions provided the excuse to spy on Robert.

“He reads a lot, Miss Elizabeth. Whenever the store is empty of customers, he usually has his nose buried in a book.”

“And are there customers?”

“Oh, yes, missus. The shelves are stocked again with all kinds of things: tea, perfume, feather pens, even rum.”

“Rum?”

Abby nodded, her eyes wide. “Sometimes the Redcoats are queued up outside the door. They love their drink. That’s why they are so loud and rowdy in the streets at night.”

Hmm, Elizabeth mused, wondering how Robert was able to stock such luxuries. She went to the window. The docks were packed with British warships and Elizabeth could surmise that the Redcoats were carefully monitoring the harbor. One would think it would be difficult to get items imported from other parts of the world. Either her new business partner had money to bribe British officers, or else he was somehow affiliated with the privateers that roamed the harbors.

Elizabeth thought she’d confirmed her latter suspicion when she finally felt well enough to see the effects of Townsend’s tutelage for herself. True to Abby’s word, the store was filled with lobsterbacks and commoners alike. Though the shelves were not completely full, a peek inside the storage room proved that it was not because of short supply but more due to people buying items faster than Robert could stock them. Elizabeth watched from the corner of the counter as Robert served a few customers, the scent of tea and exotic spices filling the room. She held the air that she intended to supervise, hoping that Robert would not guess she was unfamiliar with most of the nuances of being a merchant, especially with the new goods.

“Rob!” a boisterous voice exclaimed.

“Cal!” Robert returned in an equally excited voice. He shook the man’s hand before addressing Elizabeth. “Mrs. Burgin, I would like to introduce you to my friend, Caleb Brewster.”

Elizabeth obligingly came forward and curtsied. “Mr. Brewster, how do you do?”

Brewster bowed. He was taller than even Robert and much broader, but he had a disheveled look about him: his unruly brown beard was in need of a serious trimming and his trousers were worn at the knees.

“I knew Caleb before he was a whaler,” Robert offered.

“And now, sir, what do you do?” Elizabeth asked. “I imagine whaling expeditions are hard to come by, what with the Redcoat seizure of the harbor.”

“Everyone still needs whale oil.” Brewster scratched at his beard. “But it’s true, madam, that I’ve parted with my whaling ways. I served the Continentals during the Battle of Long Island.”

“And now?” Elizabeth repeated.

“Now I’m a longshoreman.”

Ahh, Elizabeth thought. That’s how Robert has access to these items: ‘longshoreman’ must have been code for privateer, someone who profits from robbing ships of their cargo.

Elizabeth glanced at Robert. He was noting something in the ledger and didn’t look up. The bell rang and all three pairs of eyes watched the newcomer step inside. Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to speak a customer’s name. “Mr. Rivington!”

Robert’s pen paused as he scrutinized the impeccably dressed Rivington striding over.

Brewster’s friendly expression became sour. “As in Rivington’s Gazette? You own that paper?”

Rivington nodded. “I do.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Burgin, it is a pleasure to see you. Are you feeling well?”

“Well enough, thank you.”

“Then, would you mind if I had a word?” He directed Elizabeth to a corner before pulling a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket. The store had emptied and both Brewster and Robert were watching them, Elizabeth noted.

The normally composed Rivington seemed nervous. His halting manner panicked Elizabeth as she took the slip from him. “What is it, Mr. Rivington? Is it news of my husband?”

“It is from one of my contacts aboard the Jersey.”

The store seemed eerily hushed as Elizabeth scanned the paper. In response to your inquiries… Elizabeth skipped down to the bottom, her heart hammering away in her chest. Cannot find any trace of a Jonathan Burgin. Immediately Robert was at Elizabeth’s side, grasping her hand to support her weight so she wouldn’t sink to the floor. “Is he…?”

Rivington dropped his gaze. “As the letter stated, they cannot find a trace.”

“But what does that mean? I saw him with my own eyes on that awful ship.”

Brewster shook his head as he went into the stockroom, his baritone voice booming as if he were still in the same room. “If it’s the Jersey you speak of, he wouldn’t have lasted long. He would have died either from the pox or from starvation. They presumably dropped his body overboard once they found out he expired. The same thing happened to my friend Ben’s brother.” He returned, brandishing a chair which he set in front of Elizabeth. As Robert helped her into it, Brewster continued, “I’m sorry to say, madam, but he’s probably shark fodder now.”

As Robert elbowed Brewster, Elizabeth buried her face in her hands and wept. Although she didn’t fully love Jonathan when he first proposed marriage, she had grown to both respect and admire her husband. Not to mention depend on him. The past few months had been very difficult, and she had to constantly console herself by thinking of how things would right themselves once Jonathan was set free. But now he was gone. He would never meet his new son, never see his children grow up in an independent country, never get the chance to be fully out of England’s grasp.

When the tears had finally calmed, Robert handed her a handkerchief. As she wiped her eyes, her sorrow turned to anger. “How dare they?” she demanded. “How do they let such a fine man as Jonathan die and then not even give him a proper Christian burial?”

Rivington picked up the letter and tucked it back under his waistcoat. “I’m afraid that many more men will suffer the same fate.”

Robert and Brewster exchanged an uneasy glance. They were probably fearful of Elizabeth losing her composure again. But Elizabeth was done crying, at least for the time being. Unsure of how she’d found herself in the company of two Tories and a smuggler, she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her weak. As she rose out of her chair, she informed them, “Not if I have any say of it.” With that, the new widow walked out of the store and wearily climbed the steps back to her apartment.

Chapter 20

Sally

October 1776

As more British troops began moving into town, the Oyster Bay Tories, once too fearful to declare their political sentiments, now pinned red ribbons to their coats and hats in demonstration of their loyalty to the Crown. Thomas Buchanan delivered one such rosette to Papa, who tucked it into a drawer. Major Green, for his part, never mentioned the Townsends’ lack of red ribbons.

The same could not be said for the other British authorities who occupied Oyster Bay. One morning, Papa asked Sally to drop off a few items from his store to Daniel Youngs’ place on the far side of the Bay. Sally promptly agreed. Even though both Robert and Papa publicly submitted their oath, she couldn’t help feeling the Redcoats were watching her father’s every move and was eager to keep him out of their sight.

Sally set out on her ride. The fall day was sunny and cool, the yellow and orange leaves falling casually in front of her. She was nearly there when she spotted a British dragoon letting his horse graze in Mr. Titus’s field. She rode on without a second glance, but before long, she heard a voice behind her loud enough to resonate over the galloping horses. “You, girl,” the officer called out.

Sally slowed Gem but didn’t halt.

The soldier pulled up beside her. “I see neither your horse nor you are wearing red in honor of our King.”

Sally looked over at the man riding next to her. He was short and squat, his face the same, with heavy cheeks that reminded her of a chipmunk. He returned her gaze, his blue eyes narrowed.

“That’s right,” she couldn’t help telling him. “Gem here happens to have Whiggish leanings and reared when it was suggested he wear Tory red. Besides,” Sally patted her horse, “I prefer him as he is.”

The dragoon’s eyes, for a brief second, seemed to grow even colder as he put spurs to his horse and galloped away. Sally could see that he was also heading in the direction of the Youngs’, and her heartbeat sped up, keeping time with Gem’s quickened pace. She cursed herself for being so rude, for possibly putting her family in yet more danger.

As she rode up to the property, she saw the dragoon tying his horse to a post.

“Sir.” Sally tried her best to sound casual, but the man ignored her.

Just then, Daniel Youngs stalked out of the house and approached Sally. He smiled warmly and held out his arm to help her dismount as the Redcoat looked on. After Sally had gracefully climbed down from Gem, Daniel gave her a hug. As he pulled away from her, Sally figured the dragoon would take the opportunity to tell Daniel about her rudeness, but he stayed silent.

Daniel took the wrapped package from Sally and led her toward the house.

“Daniel?” Sally asked, subtly nodding at the Redcoat, who was examining his horse’s shod.

“Ah, yes.” Daniel said, his hand placed lightly on Sally’s back. “That dragoon is a member of my militia.”

“Your militia?”

“Yes. As a Loyalist officer, I have been given command of a unit stationed here at Oyster Bay.”

Sally fell silent for the rest of the walk. Susannah had been a childhood friend, and Sally had been fond of Daniel. She supposed he was aware of her family’s stance, but that he was choosing not to say anything more, which put only a little salve on her regret that Susannah married such a Tory.

“I hear that you have become hosts to a Loyalist militia unit,” Sally stated to Susannah after the Youngs’ slave girl had served them tea and pastries. Sally picked up a biscuit, but her stomach was still in knots over the fear that the dragoon outside would speak of her behavior to Daniel, that it would get back to Major Green, or, worse yet, Papa.

Susannah shrugged. “You know how it is.” She took a bite of her cookie. “And I hear that your family is hosting Major Green. Tell me, is he good-looking?”

“He is clearly not in want of a good meal.”

“Yet I assume he looks handsome in a uniform,” Susannah giggled.

Sally wanted to state that it was the wrong uniform, but she bit her comment back along with her biscuit.

An hour later Sally headed back to the Townsend home. Her hackles were raised, expecting to meet yet another soldier on the road who would demand to know why Gem wore no red, but she made it home without incident.

Phoebe met her at the door. “Mother has decided to throw a party!”

“A party?” Sally removed her riding bonnet. “Whatever for?”

“For Major Green, of course.”

Sally ran a hand through her dusty copper curls. Major Green’s presence was not the nightmare Sally had expected the day she found him on the portico—he had kept mostly to himself and was not altogether unpleasant at mealtimes. He had an unassuming, if aloof demeanor, and allowed the Townsend family to go on with their life as it were. Still, it didn’t seem proper to host a party in his honor, given the Townsends’ political leanings.

“Papa?” Sally stood at the doorway of the peach-colored dining room that doubled as her father’s study, watching him as he leaned over his books. She had to repeat his name again before he finally looked up.

“What is it, Sally?”

She entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She also closed the adjacent door that led into the kitchen and then stood beside his chair. “I was just wondering why we should have a party for Major Green.”

Papa set down his quill. “After what happened earlier this fall, I wanted to make sure De Lancey knows that his officer is a welcome guest in our home.”

“But if the British—”

Papa placed his hand over hers. “Sally, these are the times we live in. Officers are quartered all over the colonies. It could be worse. Youngs’ militiamen are terrorizing the town. I’ve heard stories…”

“I know.” Sally had heard them too—stories of Loyalists plundering their fellow countrymen’s farms and homes, and of them kidnapping and raping young women. “I suppose Major Green does offer a bit of protection now that Robert has gone to the city.”

“And for that we can be grateful.” Papa turned back to his ledger, indicating the conversation was over.

The party took place a few days later. The Youngs were invited, as were Jacob Townsend—Papa’s younger brother—and his wife, Mercy, along with a few other Oyster Bay neighbors.

Sally and Phoebe were conversing in the parlor with Major Green, decked out in his uniform, when their cousin Hannah arrived with her sister Almy Buchanan and her husband. Major Green paused what he was saying mid-sentence to peer at Hannah.

“Who is that?”

Phoebe mistook his query. “Thomas Buchanan is a good friend of Papa’s. He helped him during Papa’s trial.”

Major Green did not seem to hear her. He sauntered over to the newly arrived guests and, as custom, politely introduced himself to the married couple before turning to Hannah and bowing. She returned a curtsy, giggling as her cousins watched. Phoebe turned to Sally, eyebrows raised. The three girls, similar in age, had always been close, but Hannah usually garnered the least amount of attention when they were all together. Sally shrugged. She would not have entertained Green’s attentions, anyway. From the way Hannah pranced in front of him, Sally figured she’d follow in her sister’s footsteps by marrying one whose sentiments went against their newly founded country.

In fact, Major Green, though the celebrated guest of the party, did not leave Hannah’s side much of the night until it was time for her to depart.

“Tell me more about Ms. Townsend,” Green begged Sally after most of the guests had gone.

“Hannah?” Sally slid a chair back to its customary place in the corner. She briefly considered saying something to avert Green’s obvious enchantment with her cousin, but then thought better of it. Hannah was only a year her senior and more than capable of making her own decisions. “Her brother-in-law is a staunch Loyalist.”

Green nodded as he moved another chair. His mind seemed preoccupied.

A few days later, the couple announced their engagement. Green was adamant that the wedding take place as soon as possible.

“Why so promptly?” Sally asked him when he entered the kitchen. It was the servants’ day off and Sally was tasked with making supper. “Are there plans for winter deployment?” After the words left her mouth, she turned to place a bannock pan onto the hearth, hoping to hide her red face. Her question, though posed out of curiosity, might be taken in offense, as though she were trying to dig up information.

“I know of no such plans,” Major Green replied casually. “But, if that were the case, I would like for Hannah to have some prospect of a pension should anything befall me.”

Sally turned back toward him and Green nodded at her before swiping a biscuit on his way out of the kitchen.

Her heart was still thumping at the conversation. True, Green had provided no useful information, but what if he had? Sally had resented living in such close quarters with the enemy, but now she began to ponder if somehow she could take advantage of the situation. Perhaps, if prodded in the right way, Green—or any of the other myriad of British officers stationed in Oyster Bay—might divulge secret plans or tactics.

Silly me, Sally thought, wiping her hands on her apron. What would I do with that information anyway? Whisper it in General Washington’s ear? She pulled the pan out of the fire and set it on the trivet to cool before removing her apron.

Chapter 21

Elizabeth

October 1776

As the weather began to cool, life settled into routine for Elizabeth. Although rumors of raping and pillaging spread throughout the city, they were mostly contained to the charred remnants of the west side. The ironically named Holy Ground had been decimated, but in its place sprung Canvas Town, a much more apt epithet. The poor, who had no money to rebuild, spread sails from old boats over the burned-out chimneys and ruins and continued their bawdy revelry. The deluge of Redcoats on the street became a familiar sight to Elizabeth and no longer struck fear in heart.

The loss of Jonathan was not as easy a reconciliation, however. As independent as she had become in his absence, she missed him terribly. As was her custom while he was away at war, every morning she woke up without him, she reminded herself that he’d soon return home. Gradually the realization that he was never coming back would sink in, along with the sorrow. The time between the two thoughts grew closer together as the month went on, but that did not mean the pain lessened.

Mary Underhill stopped by for tea at least once a week. She was well informed of Elizabeth’s grievances against Robert Townsend, who had befriended Rivington and started writing Tory trash for his paper. At one such meeting, Mary shrugged off Elizabeth’s complaints to ask, “But how goes the store?”

Elizabeth took a sip of tea and carefully set the porcelain cup back on the plate before answering. “Well enough. Mr. Townsend used his contacts at the Gazette to secure a contract to supply the British army with stationary.”

Mary broke off a piece of scone. “That should bring in a good amount of money.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I suppose, but I cannot get the image of General Howe writing orders to condemn a man using ink and paper procured from Jonathan’s store.” The words, uttered from her own mouth, stung her unexpectedly and her eyes filled with tears.

Mary reached out to pat her friend’s hand. “I’ve said it before, Elizabeth, but we all do what we can.”

Mary was a first cousin of Nathaniel Woodhull, the general under whom Jonathan served, and who was tortured in battle, later dying of his wounds. It seemed to Elizabeth that Mary was too quick to forgive traitors. “I just don’t understand how Robert Townsend can go about openly associating with Redcoats.”

“Elizabeth, things aren’t always what they might seem. A lake with calm waters at the surface can run very deep.” Mary’s voice carried an ominous undercurrent. Elizabeth searched her friend’s face to see if her expression might belie her meaning, but the teacup she held to her mouth obscured any telltale sign.

Robert Townsend himself was a contradiction. As much as Elizabeth resented him, he, for his part, made himself useful. It helped that there was a continuous flow of money into Elizabeth’s account, which was a double blessing as the price of fuel skyrocketed with the British occupation. The unusually cool October foreboded an even more frigid winter.

One morning she stopped by the store to check on things while Abby was out on a walk with the children. She flipped uselessly through the ledger while Robert restocked shelves before slamming the book shut with a loud sigh.

Robert turned toward her. “Anything wrong?”

Elizabeth did not want to admit her ignorance, but something seemed off to her. “There are a great many blankets and canned food attributed to a Mr. George Higday, but I don’t see any payments, on loan or not.”

Robert colored slightly. “No, Mrs. Burgin, that is true. I make the payments from my own account.”

“But why?”

Robert walked over and stood on the other side of the counter. “Mr. Higday serves the prison ships.”

“The prison ships? How?”

“He arranges a trip out there on a whaleboat at least once a week to offer food and other necessities to the prisoners.”

“But why are you aiding him?”

Robert put both hands on the counter. “I consider it my patriotic duty.”

“You’re no Patriot.”

Elizabeth’s voice held less animosity than usual, but still Robert visibly recoiled at the harsh words. “I’m a Quaker. I have no side.”

“Then you are definitely not a Patriot.”

He returned to his former position restocking inkwells. Elizabeth ran a finger across the cracked leather of the account book. As much as she hated his Tory-leanings, she felt badly that she had obviously offended him. “I’d like to meet this George Higday,” she said finally.

Robert gave her a long, searching look before he nodded in return.

A few days later, Elizabeth was knitting in her apartment when someone knocked at the door. Abigail raised her eyebrows at her mistress, who shrugged. It was not the day of Mrs. Underhill’s weekly visit and, besides Robert Townsend, they did not get many visitors.

“Is Mrs. Burgin available?” a rough voice called after Abby had answered the door.

Elizabeth rose. “I am here.”

Caleb Brewster, the former whaler and Townsend’s probable smuggler, stood in the hallway holding a faded hat in his hands. He bowed. “Mr. Townsend wanted me to inform you that a mutual acquaintance of yours has entered the store.”

Elizabeth frowned before remembering her request to meet Higday. “I’ll be back shortly,” she told Abby. She ran into the bedroom to grab a blanket she had quilted and then followed Brewster as he clomped downstairs.

George Higday was a squat man with a large paunch. His goat’s hair wig was too small for his head, revealing his own graying hair underneath it. He stood before the counter as Robert Townsend wrote in the ledger.

“Ahh, Mrs. Burgin, I’m glad you were able to finally make the acquaintance of Mr. Higday,” Robert said, nodding at the man.

Higday turned to Elizabeth and bowed. “Mrs. Burgin.”

She set the blanket on a shelf behind her before extending her hand. “I hear you do a great service to your country.”

Higday glanced at Robert, who returned an almost imperceptible nod. Higday turned back to Elizabeth and gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Oh, I do not do much. I am mostly in charge of the garnering letters from the prisoner’s families. Dame Grant and William Scudder are the ones who actually gather the supplies.”

Elizabeth could not help noticing that he seemed rather nervous. His glassy-eyed stare bounced from Robert to Brewster and then back to Robert, who had his hand wrapped around his chin while he studied Higday.

“Who is Dame Grant?” Elizabeth inquired.

Again, Higday looked at Robert before replying. “It looks less suspicious if a woman is on board.”

Robert coughed and Higday’s countenance took on a guilty look, as if he had said something awry.

“Suspicious?” Elizabeth asked.

“He means it makes it look more meaningful,” Robert clarified. “The prisoners like to see a cheery female face as it reminds them of their wives and daughters.”

Brewster covered up his guffaw by stretching his arms overhead and pretending to yawn.

Elizabeth did not tell them that she was also acquainted with Dame Grant, a corpulent older woman. Although Dame Grant’s patriotic blood ran deep, Elizabeth questioned whether her face, with its deep-seated frown lines and heavy jowls, would be considered cheery. There was definitely something the men were not telling her. “And William Scudder?”

“One of my crew,” Caleb Brewster drawled.

One of your smugglers, Elizabeth corrected him silently. “And what happens when you arrive at the prison ships? Do you go aboard?”

“No,” Higday answered. “It’s too dangerous—many of the men have the pox. We anchor next the accommodation ladder and a guard lowers it for us.”

“I am familiar with the dangers of the hulks,” Elizabeth said, forcing a vision of an emaciated Jonathan out of her mind. “But how do you know your supplies are actually getting to the prisoners?”

“Well…” Higday gestured toward Robert, who answered, “They have to make sure the guards on duty are His Majesty’s soldiers and not American loyalists. Our fellow countrymen are much crueler than their British counterparts. And we have a note from the commissary to prisoners, Lewis Pintard. He is charged with making sure our men receive decent care. As much as can be done in those rotting hulks, anyway.”

“The guards will open the letters and read them, but we usually pick up an unsealed reply from the prisoner on the next visit,” Higday added.

Elizabeth nodded before remembering the blanket behind her. “Please include this in your next delivery.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Burgin.” Higday took the proffered blanket and folded it under his arm.

Brewster hefted a box off the counter. “I’ll help transport this to your carriage.”

“Until next time, then, Mr. Higday,” Robert told him.

Elizabeth watched as the two men exited. She was about to demand that Robert explain to her whatever it was Higday was trying to cover up, but the silver bell rang again as a blond man entered the shop.

“Robert!” he exclaimed heartily.

“William?” Robert inquired. “What brings you here?”

The man named William leaned his muscular body over the counter. “Just visiting New York City.”

“How did you get past the sentinels near the ferry?”

William grinned. “I have my ways.” He turned smoothly to Elizabeth. “And who do we have here?”

“Mrs. Burgin,” Robert replied, an emphasis on the Mrs. as William extended his hand.

“And you are?” Elizabeth asked.

“William Townsend.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it as Elizabeth studied him. He had the same blue eyes as Robert but where Robert’s were often guarded, William’s were wide and friendly. William was shorter than Robert, but with broader shoulders and a perfectly proportioned face. All told, he reminded Elizabeth of the story of the Greek Adonis that her mother used to read to her.  

William turned back to Robert. “Mother and Audrey send their love.”

Caleb Brewster reentered the store. “And what about your loveliest sister, Sally?” he asked before embracing William.

William threw his head back and laughed. “Sally’s all up in the boughs because of Major Green.”

“Major Green?” Brewster asked.

“Of De Lancey’s regiment,” Robert said tersely. “He’s quartering with my family for the winter.”

Brewster laughed nearly as loud as William had. “I’ll bet Sally is spitting mad.”

“Why?” Elizabeth could not help but ask.

Brewster turned to her. “Sally Townsend’s as much of a Whig as Washington himself.”

“A Whig?” She turned to Robert. “Are the ties that bind you so loose that you and your sister could be on different sides of the war?”

William opened his mouth to say something, but Robert held up his hand. “I told you Mrs. Burgin. I am neutral.”

Although she was facing Robert, out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth could see Brewster and William exchange a quick glance.

Wary of the undercurrents that stirred beneath these obviously veiled conversations, Elizabeth took her leave of the brothers and Brewster. As she ascended the stairs, she couldn’t help but hear Mary’s warning. Indeed, there was something about Robert Townsend that ran much deeper than what was discernible on the surface.

Chapter 22

Meg

November 1776

The cold weather brought a halt to the fighting, and Captain Moncrieffe returned home. Mercy and Meg threw him a small party to welcome him back. Any Loyalist female would have been impressed by the guest list, which included titled lords and heirs to fortunes, not to mention Admiral Howe, his brother the general and, of course, his mistress Mrs. Loring. Standing among the handsome regimentals and gilly macaronis in the Moncrieffe’s parlor—and as conspicuous as a babe in the woods—was John Coghlan.

“How did he get invited?” Meg asked Mercy, peering at the corpulent fellow, now clad in a red velvet coat.

Mercy took a bite of cake. “He is of Irish nobility.”

“Him?” Meg sneered. “I understand the Irish as I can practically smell the whiskey off him from over here. But nobility?”

Mercy leaned in to whisper, “I hear his father trades African slaves.”

Mr. Coghlan spent most of the night trying to engage Meg in conversation, who likewise went out of her way to avoid him.

He followed her into the parlor corner between the refreshments and a potted palm. “So we meet again, Miss Moncrieffe,” he stated in an oily voice.

“So we do.” Meg’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an excuse to take leave of him.

As if he knew of her desire, he took one step closer. “What do you think of our men who now occupy this fine city?”

“Pardon?”

“There are many eligible bachelors in our ranks. I was just curious if you had set your eyes on one. Major André, perhaps.”

Meg giggled distractedly as she leaned backward, trying to put as much distance between her and Mr. Coghlan as possible without being obvious. “I’m not quite of marrying age yet.”

“And even those who are not so eligible are still an ocean away from their wives and more than willing to spend their wages on a worthy female. If she herself is willing.” At this he glanced deliberately at General Howe and Mrs. Loring.

Meg put her hands on her hips. “Why, Mr. Coghlan, are you implying that a maiden would cuckold herself with a man just for money?”

“Not necessarily money. For protection, status, or even just a supply of firewood.” Somehow he was able to keep that leering grin as he spoke. “War brings on difficulties only previously imagined.”

Meg raised her chin. “I’m perfectly fine under the protection of my father. And I would never marry a man for his money.” She thought, as she often did, of Aaron. She would have married him on the spot and lived on a soldier’s wages forever, if only he had let her.

“With these trying times, anything could happen,” Mr. Coghlan replied cryptically.

Meg bit back another retort as Mercy lived up to her name and appeared by Meg’s side. “Meg, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Mulligan.” She turned and curtsied. “Why, Mr. Coghlan, how nice to see you again,” she said before pulling on her friend’s arm.

“That bracket-face always seems to be cornering me at parties,” Meg said as Mercy led her away.

Mercy hooked her arm through Meg’s. “You would think you would be used to it, being the most beautiful woman in the room and all. Any of these men would give their eyeteeth to be your husband.”

“I don’t think I ever want a husband if they are all like Mr. Coghlan,” Meg muttered under her breath.

“But you’d be a spinster!” Mercy leaned in conspiringly as she pulled Meg toward a group of men. “Even though I loved my husband dearly, it is not too bad being a widow—you are protected from sullying your reputation by the Mrs. preceding your name.” She paused in front of an impeccably dressed, portly gentleman. “Miss Moncrieffe, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hercules Mulligan.”

He bowed before taking Meg’s hand and kissing it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Moncrieffe,” he stated with an Irish brogue.

“He is the owner of a tailor shop on Queen’s street,” Mercy continued.

Mulligan, Mulligan, Meg’s mind raced. Where had she heard that name before? “Thomas Walcott!” The words came out before Meg had a chance to think about what she was saying. All three people—Meg herself included—seemed startled by her outburst.

“Why, yes,” Mr. Mulligan said hesitantly. “Mr. Walcott was my guest for a few days. How do you know of him?”

Meg thought fast. She couldn’t exactly state that she gave Thomas fortification plans to help the British attack the city. Or could she? After all, wasn’t this supposed to be a Loyalist affair? “The Walcotts are old friends of the family. I saw Thomas right before the Battle of Long Island. He mentioned that you were acquainted with Alexander Hamilton.” Meg hoped that the reference to the known rebel would take the heat off her in case Mulligan knew that Thomas was a spy.

Mr. Mulligan glanced at Mercy. “Captain Hamilton boarded with me while he attended King’s College. That is, my wife and I.” He nodded at a thin dark-haired woman across the room. “She is the daughter of Admiral Sanders of the Royal Navy,” he said pointedly.

Mercy gave a twinkly laugh. “We must judge on people’s declared loyalty, not necessarily on their past actions.”

“Or their past acquaintances,” Mulligan cut in.

“Right,” Mercy said quickly.

Mr. Mulligan held his hands out to Mercy, who grasped them. “We all know our little Mrs. Litchfield here is one of the biggest Tories there is, even if her father is a known Son of Liberty and former member of the New York Congress.”

As she regarded Meg, Mercy’s smile faded slightly. It then grew to unnatural proportions as her friend gave her a quizzical look. Meg barely heard Mr. Mulligan apologize as he took his leave of them.

“You never told me your father was a rebel,” Meg said accusingly as soon as Mr. Mulligan was out of earshot.

Mercy shrugged. “What does it matter?”

“Does he fight for the Patriots?”

Mercy tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yes.”

“What battles?”

Mercy’s eyes darted around the room before focusing back on Meg. “He fought with General Putnam at the Battle of Brooklyn.”

Momentarily stunned, Meg regained enough composure to ask if she still had contact with him.

“No,” Mercy shook her head vehemently. “I gave up my ties to that side when I married my late husband.”

Meg nodded. She had half-hoped Mercy would have been able to write to her father and asked about Old Put and Aaron. “I see.” Meg wanted to ask her more about it, but Mercy gave another of her laughs. “We all do what we have to for love, don’t we?”

After the party, Meg had trouble falling asleep. She kept hearing Mercy’s voice saying so matter-of-factly that she had given up her father to marry her husband. She wondered if Mercy ever regretted that move now that her husband had died. Did Mercy, a Whig by upbringing, ever feel alone in a room full of Tory strangers? The opposite could have been Meg’s fate, if only Aaron had agreed to marry her. Would it have been worth it to be Aaron Burr’s wife, even if only for a short while?

Captain Moncrieffe was already seated at the table when Meg made her way down at midday the next afternoon.

“You’re up late today, my daughter,” he said by way of greeting.

Meg smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Father. I think my feet are still exhausted by all the revelry.”

He peered at her from above his bifocals. “I didn’t see you do much dancing. It seemed you and Mercy spoke to Hercules Mulligan for a long period of time.”

Meg pretended to be confused. “Oh yes,” she said loftily. “The tailor.”

Captain Moncrieffe steepled his fingers. “There is something about that man I do not trust. I am suspicious of anyone who can change their loyalties so easily.”

His meaning was clear: stay away from Mr. Mulligan. “Yes, Father,” Meg said.

“You missed our morning visitor,” Captain Moncrieffe went on to state.

“Oh?” Meg perked up. Mayhap Aaron was able to get through the lines to deliver a message declaring his undying love.

“Mr. John Coghlan. He asked if he could call on you. I invited him to dine with us this evening.”

Meg couldn’t help wrinkling her nose.

Her father took notice. “That is enough now, Margaret—he is a fine gentleman.”

Meg did not reply in lieu of saying what she was thinking, that he was a fine durgen but no gentleman.

Mr. Coghlan arrived promptly for dinner dressed in a similar velvet coat as the previous night, but this time in a garish purple.

After he was announced in the dining room, he immediately went to Meg, who was standing next to Mercy, waiting for permission to be seated. He lifted her limp hand to his lips. “Good evening, Miss Moncrieffe.”

“John,” Captain Moncrieffe said. “We’ve set your plate next to Margaret.” He nodded at his daughter, who took her usual place at the table, adjacent to her father at the head. Coghlan sat on her right.

“A drink!” Coghlan said, holding up his glass. The sudden movement caused powder from his wig to shower the air around him before landing on his shoulders. “To new acquaintances and the hopes they will become more.”

Meg lifted her goblet half-heartedly before putting it back down on the table. No one noticed that she hadn’t drunk from it.

Coghlan seemed pleased by the quality of the wine—he slurped from his glass and set it down before smacking his lips. As the Moncrieffe’s serving girl, Athena, entered with the first course, Coghlan tapped his empty goblet and then turned to Meg. “Is that frock not in last year’s style?”

“It is,” Meg replied pointedly, laying her knife down with the blade on the plate, the way she’d been taught at boarding school. “I find that new dresses are hard to come by presently.”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps you need someone who will gladly keep his girl in new clothes. A pretty girl deserves equally charming outfits.”

“I am perfectly fine wearing last season’s clothes,” Meg said as Mercy raised her eyebrows from across the table. Meg turned her head as Coghlan dug into his meal with enthusiasm. Her former headmistress would be shocked at the number of etiquette rules Coghlan was breaking, including making small noises in his throat as he ate.

“Mr. Coghlan, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?” Captain Moncrieffe asked before setting his fork down.

“Well, let’s see.” Coghlan sat back and folded his hands over his wide belly as the servants cleared the table in preparation for the next course. “My father made his wealth as a merchant in Bristol.”

You mean made his wealth selling slaves, Meg thought as the serving girl set down a plate of seafood in front of her.

Mr. Coghlan leaned over to sniff his food before he continued, “My mother is descended from Jones family. My great-great-grandfather was a member of Oliver Cromwell’s Parliament.”

The only person this served to impress was Captain Moncrieffe, who nodded enthusiastically before glaring at Meg as she picked up an oyster and then set it down again without eating it. The thought occurred to her that Coghlan was not that much different from the shellfish: slippery and likely to leave a fishy taste in one’s mouth.

“I also sailed with Captain Cook on the Resolution.”

At this, Mercy gave Coghlan a polite smile as Captain Moncrieffe asked, “You sailed around the world?” before taking a drink of his Madeira.

Coghlan eyes shifted to Meg, who once again pretended to be absorbed in her meal. “Well, nearly so. Life at sea can be challenging.”

Captain Moncrieffe nodded. “I’m sure that it must have been quite an adjustment, given your background.”

Coghlan slurped down an oyster before saying, “And then I joined the Loyalist militia to help suppress this rebellion.”

“And your plans for the future?” Captain Moncrieffe asked.

“I’ll be returning to Bristol when the war is over.” He glanced again at Meg. “Hopefully with a wife and a babe in tow. Maybe two, depending on how long the rebels hold out. I need to find a fertile wife to beget me heirs.”

Mercy covered her gasp at his brash words with a sip of water. Meg returned her friend’s gaze with wide eyes.

Coghlan and Captain Moncrieffe spent the rest of the meal discussing the Howes’ next possible move, whether it would be to follow the rebel forces into New Jersey and engage them or turn north to Philadelphia. Mercy appeared to be listening intently, but Meg tuned out, pushing her dessert of berries and cream around the bowl with her spoon.

After dinner the gentleman took leave to go into the parlor and drink their brandy. Mercy went off to bed while Meg sat staring at her embroidery in the living room. An hour or so later, Mr. Coghlan and the captain emerged from the parlor, along with a cloud of smoke. It seemed to Meg that Mr. Coghlan was ogling her as his customary smirk returned. She imagined the expression he wore was probably similar to that of his relatives as they sized up a slave to sell.

“Miss Moncrieffe, I must take my leave.”

Her father frowned at her until she got up to bid Mr. Coghlan farewell. His lips seemed to linger on her hand as their servant, Noah, opened the door. “Until tomorrow, then,” Mr. Coghlan said before donning his hat and exiting the house.

“Tomorrow?” Meg asked as Noah shut the door. “What does he want with me tomorrow?”

Captain Moncrieffe extended his hand toward the parlor. “Come, Margaret, I need to speak with you.”

Meg walked into the parlor and sat down on the mauve loveseat. A pair of spent cigars were still smoldering in the ashtray on the table. She coughed daintily before asking, “Yes, Father?”

He settled in a wingback chair across from her. “It seems Mr. Coghlan, too, noticed you speaking with some…” he paused as he folded one leg over the other, “questionable characters last night. Both of us agreed that we wouldn’t want your good name to be criticized.”

“Father, you don’t need to trouble yourself—”

“Now, Margaret, you know I worry about you while I’m on duty. I am quartered here for the winter, but what about next spring and the winter after?”

“Mercy is here now.”

“Mrs. Litchfield can hardly vouch for your reputation, being the daughter of a rebel herself.”

Meg wanted to question why he had Mercy move into the townhouse in the first place if that’s the way he felt, but knew that would not be the way to win this argument. She was about to try her usual ploy, begging, but her father continued. “Mr. Coghlan had a reasonable solution: to ask for your hand in marriage.”

Meg’s tongue froze in her mouth. As if in a nightmare, her father went on to state, “I agree that it is the best solution. He is well disposed to take care of you financially and will protect your standing socially.”

Her tongue finally clicked into motion. “But Father, I hardly know this man.”

“Most couples on the throes of marriage do not. That’s what your newlywed year is about,” he said with a wink.

He seemed particularly impenetrable this evening, as casual as though he were ordering a new suit, not planning a future she did not want. She bit back her panic to try a different tactic. “I’m not of marrying age.”

He waved his hand. “Mr. Coghlan has connections with Governor Tryon and seemed to think that getting a special license would be no problem. He wants to have the ceremony in haste as he might be ordered to leave the city with the army in the spring.”

Meg glanced at the chimney and imagined herself behind it, as though each statement from her father were another brick trapping her in. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe and jumped to her feet to loosen the pressure of her stomacher. “But Father, I don’t love him!”

Her father looked taken aback. “Love? What know you of love?”

Rather than confess her feelings for a rebel, Meg fled from the room.

She ran upstairs to her bedroom. Instead of flinging herself onto the bed and crying, she sat at her writing desk to compose a letter to Aaron, begging him to come rescue her. She wrote a whole page before she realized that she had no notion as to how he could receive it, and even then, he would have no way to get through the lines to save her. Despondent, she crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. After she dressed in her nightclothes, she lay in bed trying to find a way to avoid her new fate. She settled on the two best options—asking her Father to send her back to boarding school in England and politely but firmly refusing Coghlan’s offer to his face—before falling into a dreamless sleep.

Coghlan arrived early the next day and awaited her in the parlor. Athena, the maid, acted as chaperone. She held a feather duster but made no shame of the fact that she openly listened to their conversation.

“Miss Moncrieffe,” Mr. Coghlan said when she entered, dressed in a light blue gown over a cream-colored stomacher. This time he wore his red regimentals, complete with polished boots and sword.

Meg curtsied before settling herself in the loveseat. “Mr. Coghlan.”

“I suppose you might as well call me John, now that we are betrothed.”

Meg pasted on her best smile. “Mr. Coghlan,” she said sweetly, “I mean, John, do you not want a wife who is of equal mind to yours?”

Coghlan unbuckled his sword and placed it on the table before settling into a chair. “There is no woman of equal mind to me.”

“Of course not.” Meg fought to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “What I meant was, a woman who had as much affection for you as you have for her.”

“I am not in need of affection. I am in need of a wife with a good family name.”

Meg did not expect that answer. She paused for a moment before asking, “You do not wish to marry for love?”

Coghlan sat forward. “Margaret, I realize that you are very young, and new to matters of the heart, but a marriage does not necessarily spawn out of love.” That was something Meg could agree with. “But, given time, love might spawn out of a marriage.”

Not out of a marriage to you, Meg thought. She glanced at Athena, who stood near a corner bookshelf and pretended to polish the leather bindings of the books. Meg ventured to say, “John, I think you should know that my heart belongs to another.”

He nodded before sitting back in his chair. Meg sighed inwardly, thinking at last she had won, but then Coghlan replied, “Again, it does not matter. Love is fleeting, but you will take my name forever.”

“No!” Meg couldn’t stop herself from crying out. “Can you not do the honorable thing and give up your pursuit of me?”

“Honor?” Coghlan asked with a sneer. “It is precisely to protect your honor that your father agreed to my proposal. And,” he continued as he stood, “it is only your father’s approval that I need. The wedding will take place in February.”

Meg felt tears of defeat well in her eyes, but she would not let Coghlan see them. She blinked them back as he lifted her hand and kissed it before exiting the parlor. Athena gave her a sympathetic moue before turning back to the books. Meg wiped more tears with the sleeve of her dress. She sniffed and tried to gather herself. Obviously trying to reason with Coghlan did not work, but mayhap she could plead her case to Father. He was normally not so rigid in his views. Surely Meg could convince him to change his mind.

But just then her father burst into the parlor and marched toward her. “Margaret! What is this?” He thrust a crumpled piece of paper in her face. Meg recognized it as the letter she tried writing last night. “Who is Major Aaron Burr?”

“Father…” She reached for the paper but he crushed it in his fist.

“A rebel? You fall in love with a rebel and then refuse to accept the husband I wish to provide for you?”

Meg stood. “Father, you don’t understand. Aaron’s a good man.”

“No rebel is a good man.” Meg had never seen her father so angry. His face was as red as his uniform and spittle flew out of his mouth when he spoke. “I order you to your room to think very carefully about the choice I am about to give you: marry John Coghlan or I will disown you.”

Chapter 23

Sally

January 1777

Robert returned to Oyster Bay bearing supplies for the wedding reception of Major Green and Hannah. It had only been a few months’ time, but it seemed to Sally that her brother was thinner, his cheeks more sunken, the circles under his blue eyes darker.

Papa led his son to the dining room so Robert could tell him the updates on New York City. Sally polished the pewter as Robert solemnly relayed the news of Washington’s army. Since the evacuation of Manhattan, the Continental army had suffered great losses, including the forts of Lee and Washington. The disheartened rebels, pursued endlessly by Redcoats and Hessian mercenaries, had fled further into New Jersey and, according to Robert, were cornered on the east side of the Delaware River near Princeton. “The talk in Manhattan is that the war will not last much longer. Many of my Tory contacts predict Washington will yield early into this new year.”

“He cannot concede yet,” Papa said. “What of our cause?”

Robert let out an ironic guffaw. “Hordes of our soldiers are deserting every day. The recruitment attempts are disastrous: no one wants to be on the side of the failing army.”

Papa sighed audibly. There was a few moments’ pause as Sally continued in her work, rubbing the cloth endlessly across a fork. Finally Papa changed the subject by inquiring about the Townsend family business.

Robert stated that sales had been good. He had partnered with a woman who had recently become a widow. “Her husband fought for our cause,” he continued in his quiet way. Sally saw a dimple on his cheek play in and out as it occurred to her that her normally stoic brother might actually have feelings for this woman, whomever she was.

“And your cover?” Papa asked.

“I enforce my neutrality whenever I can,” Robert replied. “I have Caleb Brewster running supplies past the blockade.”

“Caleb Brewster? That old smelly whaler?” Sally asked, setting down the fork. Caleb had been a childhood friend of her brothers’, and therefore, to Sally anyway, a nuisance.

Robert turned to his sister. “You will probably never meet a man more loyal than old Cal.”

Papa stood, gripping a candlestick in one hand and his gold-tipped cane in the other. “It is time for me to retire.” He looked wearily at Sally and Robert. “Do not stay up too late, my children.”

After she had put away the silver, polished to almost appear new, Sally joined her brother in the parlor. He was brooding, staring somberly into the fire.

“You care about this widow, don’t you Robert?”

He did not turn away from the fire; the look on his face was as impassive as always, as though he hadn’t heard her. She studied him, looking for any sign of emotion. Finally he stated, “I don’t think she holds me in high regard. I maintain my Tory contacts. I know she does not approve of the British soldiers always coming and going in her husband’s shop.”

“Why Tories?”

He turned to her. “It’s good for business.”

“Hogwash,” Sally said. Sally and Robert had always been unfailingly honest with each other. Theirs was the type of relationship in which they could tell the other anything and know they would not be judged for it. But whatever it was laying under the surface, Robert didn’t let on.

After a few more moments, Sally got up to close the door. When she came back to her chair she stated simply, “If I could find out where General Green’s battalion is to be placed this spring, do you think you could get it to the right person?”

Robert coughed as a log crackled and sparked. “Like who, General Washington?” The ridiculing big brother was back.

“I’m just asking.” She was even not entirely sure she could provide Robert with that location, but something in her compelled her to ask, even if it was just to get a reaction out of him.

“Sally, you know that’s treason talk. You’ll be hanged as a spy.” There was a hint of something serious behind the light teasing tone Robert’s voice took on. “And besides, how would you even find out that intelligence?”

Sally stretched her cold fingers toward the fire. “When people live together, there’s bound to be information to be shared.”

“You’d be surprised at how much information one can hide when one wants.”

Sally’s head quickly spun to catch his meaning, but Robert was staring once again at the fire, his face inscrutable.

The next day was set for the sewing bee to finish Hannah’s quilt top. As it was one of the most important rites of passage for an Oyster Bay bride-to-be, Audrey had been planning the bee ever since the engagement was announced. Eight girls fit comfortably around the quilt frame, so Audrey had to whittle her intended guest number down to only that. After the Townsend sisters, the bride and her sister, Almy, that left only three other girls: Mildred Underhill, Sally Coles, and Susannah Youngs. Although Sally had always been good friends with her, now that Susannah was married to a staunch Tory, she probably would have refused the invitation, but for the fact that the Townsend cousin was marrying an officer of the British army.

Audrey had commanded her younger sisters to set up the frames in the parlor, which had the best light in the house. The morning of the bee, Sally and Phoebe hung the frames across low-backed chairs of similar height. They stretched the backing of the quilt in the frames as tightly as possible and then laid the cotton fill above it.

“Queen Charlotte’s Crown?” Sally asked when Hannah arrived with the top.

“Why, of course,” Hannah said, casting a curious look at her cousin. “Beautiful Queen Charlotte is a woman to be revered.”

Sally wanted to argue, but she supposed it wasn’t the queen’s fault she was married to a tyrant.

“What will your pattern be, Sally?” Susannah asked after the rest of the girls had arrived—dressed in similarly pastel colored dresses and all with their hair in casual updos—and were seated around the quilt. A maiden usually designed and pieced the tops of her future bedspread and then wrapped and put it away to await her engagement.

Sally shrugged. “I have not gotten many pieces together.”

Mildred looked up. “How old are you now?”

“Nineteen.”

The girls all exchanged looks. “I suppose it’s difficult to find a husband when all of the best gentlemen are away at war,” Mildred replied.

Audrey, temporarily forgetting about her betrothed, twittered, “Maybe there will be another handsome soldier when Major Green moves out.” This inspired giggles from the rest of the quilting bee.

Sally stabbed her needle through the three layers. During the jubilant talk of Hannah and Susannah regarding the British triumphs in New York and New Jersey, the warmth of the fire could barely keep out the cold and Sally’s fingers felt numb.

Sarah Underhill stated that she’d recently heard a story from Tunis Bogart, who had stayed at her cousin Amos’s boarding house in New York City last September. “They were witnesses to the hanging of Nathan Hale, the pretend Loyalist who was executed as a spy.”

Sally’s heart sped up. She too had heard the tragic tale of Nathan Hale, and every time she thought about it, she couldn’t help likening him to Robert. She recalled the clandestine conversation they had last night by the fire and suddenly realized what Robert’s undertone had been trying to conceal. He was courting those Tory contacts in order to keep abreast of the movements of the enemy. She felt a fleeting burst of pride for her brother before the unwelcome image of Robert hanging from a rope beneath a maple tree followed. She stood, dropping the frame off her lap.

“Sally!” Audrey cried. “What on Earth?”

“I’m sorry, Aud.” Sally put her hands above her stomacher. “Something is just not sitting right with me.”

“The beef stock from supper?” Phoebe ventured.

Sally nodded. It was more the fear of Robert being called out as a spy, coupled with the seemingly light, but still Tory banter, coming from her quilting partners, but she could not tell her sisters that. She rushed out of the room.

* * *

Hannah would have preferred to hold her wedding ceremony in New York City at Thomas Buchanan’s townhouse, but her father declared that to be an unnecessary peril. The wedding took place early in the new year, on January 7, 1777. Sally was slightly buoyed by Robert’s news that Washington had finally crossed the Delaware and had successfully attacked twice: at the Hessian outpost at Trenton on Christmas Day and at Princeton four days before Hannah’s wedding.

The Tory Reverend Leonard Cutting conducted the ceremony at the modest Christ Church on Main Street. Hannah had chosen an ochre brocade dress while her husband-to-be wore his British uniform. Sally had to admit that both of them looked exceedingly happy, but she secretly still seethed at the match. She felt that, in marrying the enemy, Hannah was betraying her new country. To distract herself, as Hannah took Major Green’s hand in hers and began to recite her vows, Sally tried to picture herself at the altar. In only two years’ time she would be of age. Audrey was nearing twenty-two and set on getting married just as soon as her betrothed got enough leave. Sally supposed her own marriage would follow soon after.

But who would be the bridegroom? Sally’s eyes squinted, trying to imagine the man who would stand beside her at the wooden altar, but she couldn’t picture him.

After the ceremony, the wedding party descended upon the Buchanan’s fine home and feasted on oyster and duck. When the festivities had concluded, the Townsends returned home and Sally and Robert found themselves once again in front of the fire. As if reading her mind, Sally’s brother nearly asked the same question she had inquired herself that morning: who might she marry.

“It won’t be a British soldier, that’s for sure. Or a Loyalist, for that matter,” Sally added, thinking of Audrey and Captain Farley.

Robert nodded thoughtfully. After a while, he declared, “I cannot seem to imagine you marrying anyone.”

“Maybe I’ll end up a spinster.”

“There are worse fates,” Robert stated.

Sally, her thoughts turning again to Nathan Hale, silently agreed.

Chapter 24

Meg

February 1777

Captain Moncrieffe used his contacts to get the Governor of New York, William Tryon, to grant Meg a special license to wed John Coghlan. The wedding was to take place the last day of February 1777, at Saint George’s on Chapel Street in Lower Manhattan. Originally christened by Trinity Church to cater to their east side congregants, the church became the site for Dr. Samuel Auchmuty’s sermons after the main chapel burned down. A Loyalist, Reverend Auchmuty had fled to New Jersey in late 1775, but returned with the British occupation. Meg had once thought the building, with its arched windows and towering steeple, regal. Now that she was being forced into marriage, Meg saw the church as a prison, and the Reverend her condemner.

Although Meg’s robin’s egg blue wedding dress was low-cut, she felt as though the lace at her bosom was choking her. Mercy, clad in navy velvet, helped her get dressed in Meg’s room at the townhouse the morning of the ceremony.

She noticed Meg pull continuously at the bodice. “Are you nervous?” Mercy asked.

“Nervous?” Meg gave a hateful laugh. “No. Angry is more like it.”

“Why go through with this, then?”

Meg sat in her vanity stool and looked in the mirror. Despite the fact that she’d barely slept for months, the young lady who stared back at her looked clear-eyed and calm, the hue of the dress agreeing well with her fair coloring. “Father says I have to.”

Mercy sat down on Meg’s bed. “It’s probably for the best.”

Meg turned to her friend. “Would you have done things differently if you could do it again?”

“You mean not marry John because my father disapproved?”

Meg nodded.

Mercy folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not sure. I did love him.”

Meg lifted a pouf full of powder to her face. “Well, I don’t feel the same for Coghlan, that’s for sure. I love Father, but I don’t know if I can go through with this.”

Mercy hopped off the bed in a flurry of blue velvet. “Be right back.”

Meg continued to powder her face. When Mercy returned, she stuck a silver flask under Meg’s nose.

“What is that?” Meg cried, a delicate hand holding her nostrils shut. “It smells awful.”

Mercy leaned forward to look at Meg’s face in the mirror. “It’s what will help get you through the day: whiskey.”

Meg dropped her hand and wrinkled her nose as Mercy waved the flask at her. Meg took it from her and, tilting her head back, took a giant swallow. Immediately she began to cough. “It burns.”

“Yes, but do you feel better about marrying Coghlan?”

“No.”

“Just wait,” Mercy said.

A few more sips from Mercy’s flask and Meg was able to enter the carriage that was to take her to her doom.

The alcohol had begun to wear off when the organist played his opening notes and Captain Moncrieffe had to practically drag his daughter down the aisle. Each step Meg made felt more like a march to her condemnation. John Coghlan must have been partaking in the whiskey himself that morning, Meg mused as she met him at the altar. He stank of the alcohol and his eyes were rimmed with red. Throughout the ceremony, he swayed slightly in his place.

Meg tuned out the Reverend’s sermon; her only thoughts were concentrated on how much she hated her soon-to-be husband. He wore a gray coat with wide lace undersleeves. The flounces that extended from his collar to his belt gave the illusion that he was even fatter. The entire look was not unlike that of a white breasted pigeon, save for the scowl that never left his face. Finally, Reverend Auchmuty’s voice boomed over the congregation as he pronounced them husband and wife.

They were the last couple to be married by the man. Three days after the ceremony, Auchmuty died. Meg decided it was due to the part he played in the vile union of her and John Coghlan. Perhaps if she had been able to follow her heart and marry Aaron Burr, the great Reverend would have still been among the living.

Chapter 25

Elizabeth

March 1777

Elizabeth was restocking the shelves with coffee when Caleb Brewster, accompanied by a rather handsome man, dashed in. “Dame Grant is dead.”

Robert, standing behind the counter, frowned at his friend. “There is a lady present.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Brewster said, pulling off his hat as he bowed. “But the lady is precisely why we’re here.” He turned to the man beside him, who was dressed in a blue and buff uniform. “Mrs. Burgin, this is Benjamin Tallmadge, newly appointed Major of the Second Continental Light Dragoons by Washington himself. We grew up in Setauket together.”

Elizabeth turned to get Robert’s reaction to Brewster’s introduction of the rebel officer, but Robert merely nodded.

Tallmadge bowed toward Elizabeth.

She curtsied back. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look quite familiar.”

“Yes, ma’am. We met on the skiff to the Jersey. My brother, William, died aboard.”

Elizabeth’s hands tightened at her sides as she recalled that day.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband,” Tallmadge continued. “In fact, I come in regard to the prison ships.” He looked around the store. “Is there somewhere we can talk that is a bit more private?”

“We can go up to my apartment,” Elizabeth replied, gesturing at the stairs.

Tallmadge nodded as Robert bent down and grabbed his keys. He went to the door of the shop and locked it.

“This is about Mrs. Burgin, Rob,” Brewster said. “It doesn’t necessarily concern you.”

Robert flipped the sign to the ‘closed’ side. “That may be, but I don’t want you to manipulate Mrs. Burgin into something without her being fully aware of the danger.”

“What is this all about?” Elizabeth asked when they were comfortably settled around the dining room table. She’d sent Abby on a walk to drop off doughnuts at the Underhills’.

Tallmadge, seated at the head of the table, spread out his hands. “With the passing of Dame Grant, we are in need of a woman to help deliver supplies to the prison ships.”

Elizabeth blew out her breath before replying, “And you are asking me.”

From across the table, Robert told her that she could say no. “It’s a dangerous endeavor.”

Ignoring him, Elizabeth asked Tallmadge, “How would it work?”

Brewster leaned forward. “Once a week or so, we would climb into my whaleboat and I would row you and Higday across the East River to Wallabout Bay. Some of the more accommodating guards lower the gangway when they see us coming and we load it from the water. You would never even have to go aboard. And we’ll pay you.”

“It’s a meager sum, straight from the funds of the Continental army,” Tallmadge added quickly.

“But I hear the East River is filled with smugglers,” Elizabeth replied. She did not necessarily need the money, not with Robert running the store, but was intrigued by the opportunity to help her country.

“Brewster knows those waters better than anyone,” Tallmadge told her. “You will be safe.”

From across the table, Caleb Brewster winked at her.

Elizabeth thought again of the sight of her formerly proud husband, reduced to skin and bones before dying a lonely death aboard the Jersey. “I’ll do it,” she said finally.

Caleb’s face broke into a wide smile. “Your country thanks you for your service, ma’am.”

“I just have one final question,” Elizabeth continued. “How did Dame Grant die?”

Brewster and Tallmadge exchanged a quick glance. “It was the pox.”

“You have been inoculated, haven’t you?” Robert asked Elizabeth.

She shook her head.

Robert opened his mouth to say something, but Tallmadge held up his hand. “I can get access to the best surgeon in the army. She will be fine.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I once brought up the idea of inoculating all of us, my children included, to Jonathan, but he refused, saying that it is God’s will to take his subjects off the Earth when he wants.”

This time all three men exchanged looks. “I suppose it is your decision to make now.” Robert said.

Elizabeth considered that conversation so long ago, recalling Jonathan’s argument. “Is there not a risk of actually contacting the disease through the inoculation?”

Tallmadge nodded. “Inoculation means that you are infecting yourself with the actual disease, although a weakened form of it. There is a chance that you could develop a full-blown case of the pox. But we’ve all been through it. Waiting to contract it the natural way is basically just waiting for a death sentence. Inoculation will protect you from that.”

Elizabeth looked at Robert. “What do you think, Mr. Townsend?”

Robert seemed a bit taken aback at Elizabeth’s asking for his advice. “Some people suspect that the British are infecting slaves with the pox and sending them out into cities like Philadelphia. Even if that’s untrue, we do know that pox is affecting both armies. All you need is to come in contact with one infected soldier to be exposed.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I think, for the safety of your children and yourself, inoculation is the best solution.”

Elizabeth turned toward Tallmadge. “Who is this surgeon you speak of?”

Dr. Charles McKnight was a well-kept man with a high forehead and kind brown eyes. He reassured Elizabeth’s fears that she was consciously endangering her family by telling her that he would use what he termed, “cowpox,” a milder form of the disease, instead of the typical method of using pustules taken from an infected patient. Elizabeth decided to inoculate Abby, Johnny, and Catherine, but not Georgie, as he was still too young. Mary Underhill took him into her boardinghouse while Elizabeth recovered.

From his bag, Dr. McKnight took out a small vial and dumped the contents onto a rag.

“Is that the cowpox?” Elizabeth asked. A few little black specks were scattered on the rag.

“Yes,” Dr. McKnight replied. “These are the remains of blisters I scraped from a milkmaid’s hand. She recovered quite quickly.”

Elizabeth shuddered as the doctor took out what appeared to be a sewing needle.

“I grew up in a farming community in New Jersey,” he said as he poked at the spots. “It’s well known that maids who develop cowpox do not get infected with smallpox. I believe there is something in these scabs that prevents that, much like a person who had smallpox once will not get it again. Hence the reason for inoculation.” He peered at Elizabeth, a scalpel now in his hand. “You are nervous?”

“Yes, of course. I did not realize you were going to rub someone else’s scabs on me.”

“Not to worry,” he said, his scalpel moving closer to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth recoiled and pulled her arm away from him.

Dr. McKnight set the scalpel down on a nearby table. “Mrs. Burgin, as an army doctor, I’m going to tell you the biggest threat to our military is not the British. It is smallpox. I’ve inoculated hundreds of soldiers with no problems, but thousands more will die because of the disease. This is the best protection I can offer you, as well as your children. Now, for all of your sakes, let me do my work.”

When Elizabeth didn’t move, Dr. McKnight stated that he could spare some laudanum. “It will put you more at ease. I try to only use it for emergencies, but, as you seem of a nervous constitution, I’d be willing to give you a dose.”

“No,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “I’d rather you save it for the soldiers who truly need it.” With that, she held out her arm. Dr. McKnight used the scalpel to lightly scrape skin off of her forearm and then swabbed the needle with the cowpox into the scratches. He did the same to her other arm and then to the children and Abby.

“I will visit you each morning to make sure you are recovering well,” he told Elizabeth as he packed up his medical bag. She felt queasy, but whether it was from the pox taking its hold or just nerves, Elizabeth was not sure.

After a simple meal of salted meat, Abby and the children went to bed early that evening, but Elizabeth wanted to keep busy. Feeling too weak to do any chores, she curled up in a chair to read Thomas Paine’s newest pamphlet, The American Crisis. She agreed wholeheartedly with the opening words: “These are the times that try men’s souls.” As well as women’s souls, she added to herself.

Someone knocked at the door. Fearing that it would be a British soldier, Elizabeth walked slowly to the hallway. “There’s pox in this house,” she called.

“I know. It’s me, Robert Townsend.”

Puzzled, Elizabeth opened the door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Burgin.” He held up a plate covered with a kitchen rag. “I had my housekeeper make you some sweet cakes. I thought that you might not have eaten much supper.”

As if on cue, Elizabeth could feel her stomach growl. “Thank you. And, seeing as we are business partners, you may call me Elizabeth.”

“And I, Robert.”

Elizabeth opened the door wider. “Come in, Robert. That is, if you think it safe.”

He stepped over the threshold and headed into the kitchen. “My father had us all inoculated when we were younger.”

Elizabeth settled into a chair as Robert poked at the fire. In a minute, he had it sparking fiercely, warming up the cool room. He put the plate with the cakes next to the fire and then sat down across from her. “Have you much of a fever?”

“No.” Elizabeth touched her forehead. “I don’t think so. But there are these.” She held out her hand. A few light pink spots had formed between her thumb and forefinger.

Robert took her hand in his and examined them. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. At least we know that the inoculation has taken its hold,” he said, releasing her. His hands had been warm and soft.

Elizabeth felt a bit light-headed. To compensate, she asked Robert to tell her more about his family. “I’ve met the handsome William,” she said with a smirk. “And I’ve heard about your sister, Sally, but what are your parents like?”

“My father, Samuel, is a merchant as well.”

Elizabeth nodded. That much she knew. “But what of his political leanings? Brewster mentioned that Sally was in favor of the rebel army. What of your father?”

Robert’s face became even more guarded. “He was a Whig, but was forced to swear allegiance to the Crown. I took the oath as well.”

Elizabeth bit back a cutting remark about the King’s tyranny as she studied Robert. He stared over her shoulder at the fire, avoiding her eyes. There had been a bitter tone in his voice when he spoke of the oath, and it occurred again to Elizabeth that there was something that Robert was not telling her. “And William?”

Robert chortled. “William’s loyalties lie where the money is.” He stood to retrieve the cakes, correctly guessing which cabinet the plates were stored in. He sat back down, handing Elizabeth a plated cake. “Now that you know more about my family, tell me a bit about you. Where did you grow up?”

Elizabeth took a hesitant bite of sweet cake. It was warm and filling. “In New York City. My father shopped at Jonathan’s store. When Father’s eyes started failing, he would bring me to help purchase his goods. That’s when Jonathan made his marriage proposal. Father was only too pleased to have someone willing to take me in before he left this earth.”

Robert swept a crumb off the table into his hand. “I worry about my own father. I think taking the oath was hard for him. He is very much a Patriot but unable to declare it.”

“Why?” Elizabeth took her last bite of cake.

Robert stacked the two plates on top of each other and pushed them toward the edge of the table. “Politically, he doesn’t want to alienate his customers but mostly, I suppose, because he is a Quaker. He’s not supposed to fight.” Robert finally met her eyes and Elizabeth realized he was not just talking about his father.

“There must be something he can do.” Elizabeth, too, was not necessarily speaking of Samuel Townsend.

Robert stood. “I think what you are doing is very brave. It’s not every woman who would willingly infect herself and her family with a dangerous disease in order to help American prisoners.”

He had changed the subject again. This time Elizabeth fed him a genuinely warm smile. “Thank you, Robert. And thank you for the cake. The children will be excited to have some after breakfast.”

After she let Robert out, Elizabeth went back to the fire to check the spots on her hand. They had spread further, and were now past her wrist and up her arm. She realized then, if she died, the sacrifice she had made in order to help her country would remain unknown. Not unknown, she reminded herself. There were three men with knowledge of what she had been willing to do: Caleb Brewster, Benjamin Tallmadge, and Robert Townsend.

Chapter 26

Meg

March 1777

The few guests at the wedding—mostly men from Captain Moncrieffe’s unit—and Mercy had retired to the Moncrieffe’s townhouse after the ceremony. Coghlan did not own a house in the city. He had been quartered with a Loyalist family on the west side, but would be moving temporarily into Meg’s room before most likely being commanded to relocate in the spring. That time could not come soon enough for Meg.

That night Coghlan took his liberties as Meg’s husband. She lay still on the pink coverlet as he ripped off her wedding attire. When it came time for him to enter her, he did so forcefully, causing Meg to cry out. She fought back the urge to fight him and reminded herself that he was her husband now.

“You are still a virgin,” he muttered more to himself than to Meg. By the way he slurred his words and the smell of alcohol on him, Meg knew he was still drunk. Consequently, he did not last long and when he spent himself, he climbed off of her, rolled over, and went to sleep.

Emotionally exhausted, Meg could still not enter the bliss of sleep, the area between her legs throbbed so painfully. Even with one candle she could already see bruises forming on her upper thighs where her new husband had grabbed her. She wiped away a lone tear and then laid back, staring at the chintz curtains, cursing her fate, the final words she had spoken to Aaron ringing through her head. Because she was a woman, she indeed would never be free. Both her father and John Coghlan were as tyrannical as the Whigs all thought King George was. For the first time since the war started, Meg sympathized with the rebel cause. If they could someday emancipate America and renounce the King, maybe perhaps she could share in a slice of that victory, as she would never be able to relinquish either her father or Coghlan’s hold on her.

Coghlan seemed somewhat cheerful the next morning. Mercy took the opportunity to ask him about the possibility of visiting his troop’s encampment as she and Meg ate breakfast with him in the kitchen.

“Whatever for?” Coghlan asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Meg dropped her eyes, trying to avoid her husband’s sneer. That evil voice only brought back the pain of last night.

“I wanted to complain about the confiscation of some of my personal property,” Mercy told him.

“It’s all for the best cause,” Coghlan replied.

“Yes, but I feel that since my late husband was a loyal soldier to His Majesty, they could have at least spared me my carriage.”

Coghlan shrugged. “Why did you not bring this up last autumn at his social gathering?”

Meg, though only half-listening to the conversation, was thinking the same thing.

Meg saw Mercy wave her hand out of the corner of her eye. “I did not want to mix business with pleasure. And I thought that I could forgive His Majesty’s soldiers, but now the Moncrieffe’s carriage is in disrepair and we have no respectable way to get about town.”

“I can see to it that you will have an audience with General Howe but I don’t think that going to the encampment is the wisest way to go about it. It’s a dangerous place for a woman.”

“Meg will come with me.” Mercy said.

Meg finally looked up. “Why?”

“To keep me safe,” Mercy chirped.

Coghlan began to laugh. “Two women in an encampment is even worse than one!”

The next morning Coghlan declared that General Howe would be at the shipyard near the wharf. He walked the ladies outside and pointed toward the east side of the island. “I informed his aide-de-camp that some women wanted to speak to him.” He narrowed his eyes at Meg. “I did not offer that one of them was my wife.”

I wish I could deny that as well, Meg thought. She gave her husband a fake smile. “Thank you.” The words were hard to get out.

Mercy pulled her hood up. It was a typical early March day: cold and gray. Coghlan retreated for the warmth of the townhouse.

“Here,” Mercy said, handing Meg a red rosette. “Pin this on your cloak.”

“What is it?”

“It acknowledges our loyalty to the King so that no one will bother us.”

The wharf was only a few streets away. Near the shore was what Coghlan referred to as the “shipyard.” Dozens of small skiffs no bigger than a whaling boat and in various stages of construction were nestled on the embankment. A few of them were not much more than wooden ribs and looking not unlike pigs after the feast had ended. Mercy headed for what must have been the sentry as he was standing at attention with a gun on his shoulder.

“Excuse me. Sir?” Mercy called.

Meg’s breath caught as the sentry turned. It was Thomas Walcott, the soldier who had passed her message about the New York fortifications on to Admiral Howe.

“Miss Moncrieffe. Forgive me for not showing you the proper obsequies, but I am on duty,” he stated.

“Actually, it’s Mrs. Coghlan now,” Meg replied dourly.

Thomas broke attention to look at Meg. “You’re married?”

“Indeed.” Meg curtsied. “We are here to see General Howe.”

Thomas smiled. “You two don’t exactly look like Mrs. Loring, but you might do for the general.”

Mercy’s jaw clenched, but Meg placated her by saying, “He’s only jesting. Aren’t you Thomas?”

He nodded and then turned to a soldier standing a bit farther down the shore. “Andrews!”

The young man glanced over. He had a baby face and did not look much older than Meg. “Take over my post while I escort these ladies to see the general,” Thomas commanded him.

“Thomas,” Meg hissed. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“It’s okay. He was supposed to take over for me soon, anyway. C’mon.” He started walking east, creating a lane through the flat-bottomed boats.

“What are they building?” Mercy asked, her voice raised to be heard against the wind.

“They’re called Durham boats. Good for navigating shallow rivers.”

Mercy gazed at a nearly finished boat as they passed by. “Oh? I didn’t think the Hudson was so shallow.”

“No. It’s for the Chesapeake Bay. Howe’s planning on sailing up the Chesapeake to march on Philadelphia.”

Meg watched Mercy’s lips repeat the word “Philadelphia.” When Mercy caught Meg watching her, she readjusted her hood and focused her eyes forward.

Thomas reached a large tent. “Visitors for General Howe,” he told the Redcoat standing outside, who narrowed his eyes at the ladies.

“We have an appointment,” Mercy added.

He shrugged and then ducked into the tent. When he returned, he announced that the general would indeed see them. He held the flaps back as Meg and Mercy entered. Thomas declared that he would stay outside. Meg figured that he would not want Howe to know that he had abandoned his post.

General Howe stood when they entered. He was slightly younger than his brother, the admiral, with softer features. He wore a regal red coat with heavy gold epaulettes at the shoulders.

“How can I assist you ladies?” he asked in a booming voice.

Mercy curtsied and glanced at a group of men in the corner, who paid her no heed. “First of all, General Sir, I would like to thank you for seeing us. I know you are a busy and important man.”

The general waved a large hand as he took in the rosette pins at their bosoms. “I am always willing to assist our Loyalists. Especially if they are beautiful ladies.” He winked at Meg, who curtsied uneasily. She did not want to give her name for fear of being linked to either Coghlan or her previous activities with Thomas Walcott.

Mercy explained her carriage plight.

General Howe nodded. “So you say that your husband was a soldier? Did he die in battle?”

Meg looked at Mercy, realizing that Meg herself was also unaware as to the circumstances of Mercy’s husband’s death.

“Smallpox,” Mercy ventured in a low voice. “In 1775.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” General Howe put a casual hand on his sheathed sword. “I wish I could be of more help, but I will not be in New York for much longer.”

Mercy tilted her head. “The army is moving on?”

General Howe gave her a tight smile. “I cannot divulge that, but we will do our best to see about your coach when the army returns for the winter. Isn’t that correct, André?” One of the soldiers in the corner turned. Meg recognized the handsome gentleman with sand-colored hair from Howe’s party in the fall. He walked toward them and bowed. “We will do our best.”

Mercy nodded, her eyes on André. Meg noticed that she did not seem that upset about her carriage not being returned. She bowed and thanked both General Howe and André before grabbing Meg’s arm to lead her out of the tent.

Thomas escorted them to the edge of the wharf. “I was sorry to hear about your marriage, Meg.”

Meg bit her tongue back from telling him that she was too, but Thomas continued. “I was hoping to propose to you when you were of age, but I thought that you and that rebel Burr had something, the way he stood guard in the hallway when I first visited you.”

Meg blinked hard. “No,” she said finally. “We had nothing.”

The trio reached Thomas’s partner. “Are you ladies fit to return to your residence?” Thomas asked.

“We’ll be fine,” Mercy said. She led the way out of the shipyard. Instead of heading in the direction of the townhouse, Mercy turned the wrong way down Queen Street.

“Where are we going?” Meg asked.

Mercy stopped at a storefront and walked in without replying.

Meg peered at the sign above the door, which was imprinted with a threaded needle. The lettering read, “Hercules Mulligan, Tailor.” She followed Mercy in.

Hercules was talking in a low voice to a tall, lean man. Mercy unfastened the rosette from her cloak and marched over to them. “Mr. Mulligan, I need this rosette mended. It’s very important.”

Meg gave a curious look to her friend. She hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the brooch. Mercy’s eyes were focused on Hercules, who took the rosette in his hands. “Is it urgent? I am with a customer.” He gestured toward the tall man, who took a step backward.

“Terribly so,” Mercy replied.

“My business can wait,” the tall man said.

“Actually, I think I have some thread in the cellar that will do just fine for this rosette. Robert,” Hercules turned to his customer. “I think this particular thread would be of interest to you as well.”

Mercy eyed the man named Robert. “If you are sure he should be there,” she said to Hercules.

“What about…” Hercules’s gaze shifted to Meg.

“She can wait,” Mercy said. “We won’t be more than a minute.”

Hercules led his two patrons to the back of the store. Meg went to a window and watched as they walked into the alleyway. Mercy and Robert paused as Hercules lifted up the door to his storage cellar and then they disappeared.

Convinced now that there was something much larger occurring than a rosette in need of mending, Meg glanced around the store. It seemed like a typical tailor’s shop: a few wooden dummies in various states of dress stood in the corner of the room and a shelf held bolts of fabric.

Mercy had been acting awfully odd, Meg mused. But not all morning. In fact, she was fine up until… just then Meg espied the cellar door opening. She stepped away from the window and pretended to be absorbed in a cut of wool on the counter.

They returned the way they left, through the back door of the shop. Their raucous chatter seemed a bit forced to Meg.

“Well, Meg, are you ready to leave now?” Mercy asked.

“Of course.” Meg set down the wool. “Did you get your rosette repaired?”

“I did,” Mercy said, not recalling that the original task was only to retrieve thread.

“Here it is,” Hercules said, returning the intact brooch to its owner.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the tall man said before bowing toward Meg. “I am Robert Townsend.”

“Meg Moncrieffe, er, Coghlan.”

“C’mon Meg,” Mercy said, moving to the door. “Let us leave Mr. Mulligan and Mr. Townsend to their business.”

Meg gave Robert a polite smile as she stepped out of the shop. She was pretending to go along with Mercy’s ruse, but the best she could now figure out was that the fake rosette matter had something to do with the information about Howe’s next move that Thomas had betrayed to them.

Mercy must be a spy was the conclusion Meg came to that night as she laid in bed. As usual, she had a hard time falling asleep, but when Coghlan came in after having drinks and cigars with her father, Meg pretended to be sleeping.

She hoped this would deter him from performing his marital rites, but he lifted up her dress anyway. She kept her eyes closed and bit her lip as he roughly entered her. When he finished, he slapped her. Startled, she sat up.

“What was that for?” she asked, putting a hand to her tender face.

“I knew you were awake the whole time. But that’s no matter,” he said, getting up. “I prefer my women not to talk.”

“You’re an awful man!” Meg spat out.

He shrugged. “At least I have money. You could be married to a poor brute instead of a rich one.” He took his hat off a hook and put it on.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find myself a whore who enjoys a rollick.”

“But you were just intimate with me.”

“Yes, I used my good seed on you. As soon as you get a babe in your womb, I’ll give you a break and spend more time with my whores.” With that, he left the room.

Bewildered, Meg pulled her legs to her chest before calling Athena for a cool rag and the chamber pot. She would be damned if she allowed his seed to take hold inside of her.

A few days later, Coghlan announced that he’d been given orders to leave for Philadelphia. Meg lifted her eyes to Mercy’s face; the blank look Mercy held seemed contrived. Meg’s smile was genuine as she gracefully offered to help her husband pack. Anything to get him away from her.

Coghlan left for places unknown that afternoon; Meg figured he frequented Canvas Town, the area once next to Trinity Church that was once known as The Holy Ground and was in all actuality anything but. Captain Moncrieffe was summoned to a meeting with Admiral Howe.

“Should we pay a visit to Hercules Mulligan, then?” Meg asked Mercy when she was sure they were alone in the living room.

“Why, Meg, whatever do you mean?” Mercy replied.

“I mean, I know what you are doing—” Mercy sat up straighter on the couch, but Meg continued, “And I want to help.”

Mercy raised her chin and studied Meg’s face. “It’s dangerous work. If you’re caught, you could suffer Nathan Hale’s fate.”

“I understand,” Meg said firmly.

“Can I just ask one thing?”

Meg nodded.

“Why? This defies everything your father, and your husband for that matter, stands for.”

“That’s the first reason.”

Mercy leaned forward. “And the second?”

“Aaron Burr.”

Meg sat back. “You are a married woman, now, Meg. You will have to give up your hopes of ever being with Burr.”

Meg rose. “I no longer have such designs. But I never met anyone as devoted to a cause as Aaron. It will be my one sacrifice, the one good deed I do in this world, to help him achieve his dream in any way I can.”

Mercy stood as well. “Then let’s go call on Hercules Mulligan.”

Chapter 27

Elizabeth

April 1777

After a few days of a fever and mild achiness following her inoculation, Elizabeth felt much better. The spots on her arm had faded, and it seemed that the rest of her family would also survive unharmed. Elizabeth congratulated herself on making the right decision, difficult as it was.

When Mary Underhill came to return Georgie, she brought a well-dressed, dark-haired lady with her.

“Elizabeth, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Mrs. Mercy Litchfield.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Litchfield?” Elizabeth asked.

Mercy curtsied prettily. She had the air of a debutante, and, as she looked around, Elizabeth saw her living room through Mercy’s eyes: the shabby rug, the empty shelves where expensive knick-knacks once stood, the unpolished furniture. Although the store was doing well under Robert’s guidance, Elizabeth had begun selling off many of Jonathan’s prized possessions, including a mezzotint portrait of John Hancock and a sculpture of Julius Caesar, in order to buy more blankets and food for the prisoners. Elizabeth hoped both of the women realized that the unclean state of her apartment was due to her and Abby’s recovery and not any slovenliness on her part. As Mercy focused her blue eyes on Elizabeth, Elizabeth noticed they were not unkind.

“George Washington,” Elizabeth breathed, going toward her baby. “He’s gotten so big!”

“He’s walking now,” Mary said proudly.

“Soon he too will be ready for inoculation,” Elizabeth commented.

“How are you carrying on?” Mary asked, busying herself with tea in the kitchen.

Elizabeth gestured for Mercy to sit at the kitchen table. “Well, thank you.” As Elizabeth was about to seat herself, she heard a knock at the door. “Who could that be?” Elizabeth asked aloud as she went to the door.

It was Dr. McKnight. “I’ve just come to check on you,” he said. “General Washington has requested me to accompany the army on the next campaign, and I wanted to pay one last visit.”

“Please do come in, Doctor,” Elizabeth said, stepping aside of the door. “I have a few guests here, and Mrs. Underhill was just about to serve tea.” Elizabeth led him into the kitchen and introduced him to Mercy Litchfield as he was already acquainted with Mary.

“I think,” Mary said, setting a tray of tea and biscuits on the table. “I think we are all friends here.” She looked at each person meaningfully after she sat. “I know Abby is a competent caretaker, but please let me know if you ever need me to look after the children. I must say, Elizabeth, what you are doing is extremely brave.”

Dr. McKnight nodded. “I agree. The Redcoats burned my father’s church and then imprisoned him. He died aboard the Jersey.”

Mercy put a mouth to her hand. “How horrible!”

As Dr. McKnight turned to her, Elizabeth could practically see a spark light between them. “’Tis what happens in war,” Dr. McKnight replied.

Mercy dropped her eyes coquettishly. Elizabeth had always thought Dr. McKnight was good-looking and now it seemed the beautiful Mercy Litchfield agreed.

“Mrs. Burgin,” Mercy reached out to put her hand on Elizabeth’s. “Please do let me know if I could ever be of service. I believe we have more than Mrs. Underhill and now, Dr. McKnight,” she paused to look over at him, “as friends in common.”

Elizabeth gave her a puzzled look.

“Robert Townsend and Hercules Mulligan,” she said, again with a glance in Dr. McKnight’s direction. The doctor’s expression did not change, but Elizabeth fought to keep her eyes from widening. She knew that Hercules Mulligan still frequented the store, but was unaware that Robert and Hercules had more than a casual acquaintance. Not for the first time, she wondered just what Robert Townsend was up to.

Chapter 28

Sally

April 1777

Word spread of the injustices that Oliver De Lancey’s Loyalist troops inflicted upon their fellow countrymen in Oyster Bay. The Townsends’ neighbor, Joseph Lawrence, was arrested and put in jail after attempting to stop British soldiers from digging up his garden. Other families who were barely able to scrape by with what they had watched silently as De Lancey’s troops stole their horses, harvested their wheat, and slaughtered their livestock. It was the same up and down Long Island: the Loyalists even robbed from Tories who professed loyalty to the King.

One day in early April, Sally was relaxing in the orchard after her chores. The day was unusually warm and she sought relief in the shade of the apple trees. She had just begun to doze off when she was startled by drumming. The commotion was coming from in front of the house and Sally rushed over to what looked like a crowd forming. Audrey was already there.

“What’s going on?” Sally asked, breathless from her sprint.

Sarah Underhill was also among the crowd and came to stand next to the sisters. “John Weeks from down the road was out after curfew. When the sentry stopped him, he refused to give the countersign and tried running away. He was caught by De Lancey’s men and Judge Smith sentenced him to be whipped.”

Sally’s mouth flew open as two lobsterbacks shoved Old Man Weeks, his hands tied with rope, toward Papa’s giant locust tree. “They aren’t going to whip him right here, are they?”

No one replied as they watched the Redcoats manhandle their neighbor, a respected, kind man whom Sally had known her whole life. The soldiers roughly fastened another rope to the one between Weeks’s hands and then tied it around the tree.

“No!” Sally shouted involuntarily. Weeks’s adolescent daughter took up Sally’s cry as well.

“Hush child!” Mrs. Weeks commanded her daughter. “That’s not any help.”

Sally caught sight of her father walking out of the house, leaning heavily on his gold-tipped cane as he came to stand next to Sally.

“Papa,” she said, pulling on his lace sleeve. “Can’t you do something?”

He merely shook his head as the rest of the crowd fell silent. The lead Redcoat, a man with squinty eyes and an invariable frown on his face now covered with sweat, brandished a cat o’nine tails and lifted it over his head. Sally covered her eyes with her hand as he swung. The sound of the whip cut through the air, followed shortly by a man’s howl, and then a young girl’s whimper. Sally peeked with one eye at John Week’s daughter, who was sobbing. The girl’s mother grabbed her arm and then led her away while the whip cracked again. Every fiber in Sally wanted to run, to find sanctuary under the orchard trees again, but she was unable to move. The awful whipping sound seemed to go on forever. Eventually Weeks grew silent and Sally could feel a cool breeze as the crowd dispersed. She finally opened her eyes again to see the soldiers mounting their horses.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” the lead Redcoat sneered from atop his mount. “But if you haven’t, I’ll hang on to this. And that goes for anyone else who dares disobey His Majesty’s orders.” He waved the cat o’nine tails before he pulled at the horse’s reins and galloped away, his fellow officers behind him.

Weeks fell to his knees. Sally’s mother appeared with a jar in her hand. She silently bent down and began rubbing the salve onto Week’s wounds. He cringed but then managed to mutter, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mother paused to shoot a fearful look at her husband. He sighed and bent even more over his cane. To Sally, it seemed Papa had aged greatly in those few minutes. Instead of the stylish dandy she’d always seen him as, he now appeared every bit the old man, the cane more of a necessity than a fashion piece. Mother sent Audrey to go fetch Weeks’ wife and daughter and let them know that it was over. It took Sally and both of her parents to help Weeks into the Townsend home and onto the living room couch. Mother instructed Sally to make Weeks some tea as she gathered all of the pillows she could find.

Weeks fell into a deep sleep as his family came in and sat silently beside him. Sally’s heart sank as she watched the scene. They had all been wounded by the British soldiers’ authoritarian presence in their town, but Weeks’ scars would serve as indisputable evidence that the King’s tyranny was still present in Oyster Bay.

The whipping episode of John Weeks forced Sally to become even more determined to do what she could to help the rebel cause. She paid a visit to the Youngs’, hoping to pick up on some information about the Loyalist’s plans, but all she learned about was that some of the British had raided a Patriot storehouse in Connecticut a fortnight ago.

Finally, near the end of spring, the Loyalist brigade began to move out of their winter quarters in Oyster Bay, presumably to Connecticut to fight General Benedict Arnold. The summer of 1777 dragged by for Sally. She learned of snippets of information, such as the British occupation of Philadelphia, from Robert, when he paid his family visits from New York City, or Daniel Youngs. In August, Robert told her about the attack Caleb Brewster and company had made on neighboring Setauket, Caleb’s hometown. Robert explained that the Loyalist Colonel Richard Hewlett had pillaged the church ministered by the father of Benjamin Tallmadge—another of Robert’s acquaintances. Hewlett’s men had looted the interior of the church as well as knocked over the gravestones outside. When the Patriots had descended on Hewlett, a gunfight ensued, halted only when someone forewarned Brewster that several British men-of-war were headed to Setauket’s harbor. They managed to capture a few of the Loyalists’ horses on the way out.

“That sounds a lot like Brewster Bragging,” Sally replied when Robert had finished retelling the story. Caleb was sometimes known for embellishing his stories. He once told Sally about how a wounded sperm whale attacked his boat off Greenland.

Robert shrugged. “At any rate, it’s a good story.”

“Indeed,” Sally confirmed, wondering who the person was that tipped off the Patriots regarding the descending warships. If the Loyalists occupying Setauket were anything like the oppressive ones here in Oyster Bay, she didn’t blame Brewster’s men in the slightest for attacking them.

The harsh news that the British took over Philadelphia was brightened a month later by the news that General Burgoyne surrendered to the Patriots in Saratoga, New York. Sally read about it in the Gazette, knowing that Rivington rarely printed anything positive pertaining to the rebel cause, so it had to be of consequence. Below that was an editorial by Rivington himself, predicting that, if the Patriot victory did indeed lead to an alliance with France—and Sally fervently hoped that it would—then King Louis XVI would then be crowned the American King and would force the women of his new country to wear cosmetics and heeled shoes like the ladies of his French court. Even Sally giggled at that.

Chapter 29

Elizabeth

June 1777

Elizabeth rose early one day in mid-June. Now that she had suitably recovered from her inoculation, it was time to take on the duty of visiting the prison ships. Robert met her in the street carrying boxes of supplies. He nodded at her but did not say anything more as they walked the few blocks to the wharf. The day was gray and rainy and Elizabeth, standing at the docks, questioned Brewster whether it was a good idea to venture out to the hulks in this weather.

“It’s only a little cloudy,” Brewster replied, glancing up at the dismal sky.

There was something about Brewster’s unceasingly cocky manner that calmed Elizabeth. She took a deep breath before climbing into the whaleboat.

“You don’t have to do this,” Robert finally spoke as he set down one of the boxes in the middle of the boat.

“I know,” Elizabeth said softly, “but it is my duty to my country.”

From his spot on the dock, Brewster wound a few feet of rope around his arm. “Where’s Higday? He’s always late.”

Robert put his hand over his brow to shield out what little sunlight there was. “I think I see him coming now.”

Out of breath and empty-handed, Higday arrived and then sat on the other side of the whaleboat. Brewster unwound the rest of the rope from the pier and then settled in between the boat’s rowing poles. “See you in a bit, Rob, ole’ boy!” he called as he began to commandeer the skiff away from the dock.

After that, the passengers and rower fell silent. Brewster’s oaring was rhythmic and swift. Soon Elizabeth could see the ship emerging as if it were a ghost appearing in the mist. It was low tide that morning and more of the hull was visible than she remembered. The bottom of the Jersey was covered with mud and seaweed from the surrounding tidal flats and appeared even filthier than the rest of the boat. The swampy stench of rotten eggs from the exposed muck reached them even before the smell of fear and dying men.

“I hate the hulks,” Higday said, breaking the silence that had enveloped them along with the fog. “Evil lives there.”

“There’s nothing supernatural about them,” Brewster replied. “And not much living to be had, either. It’s a rare thing when one of those poor brutes finishes out his sentence alive.”

“Still,” Higday leaned over to the left side of the boat to address Elizabeth. “I dislike going there.”

“So don’t go,” Brewster said. He had to drive the oars with more effort now that the water was shallower. “But we won’t be paying you.”

Higday shook his head and sat back, muttering about the price of fuel during this infernal war.

Elizabeth gazed anxiously at the ship. The gray fog was lifting, letting more sun in. From her vantage point, it seemed the Union Jack was stamped at every porthole, even if it was only the daylight reflecting off the barred windows. A few prisoners, emaciated and wearing rags, were on the deck, trying to get fresh air before the sun began to bake down on them. They shouted weakly at their comrades below that Brewster and Higday had arrived.

One young man, who couldn’t have even been more than twenty, called to Elizabeth, “What’s your name?”

“Mrs. Burgin.” She wondered if any of them had known Jonathan. According to Brewster, the men who would have been imprisoned with her husband were most likely dead, victims of dysentery, smallpox, starvation, or just maltreatment and neglect.

“Thank you for your service, Mrs. Burgin,” the young man replied. Other faces, more wretched and gaunt than the boy, leaned over and thanked her as well. Some of the voices came as scratchy whispers, so dehydrated were the speakers. Elizabeth’s heart sank at the sight of the weakened men struggling to lower the accommodation platform. She was sure the skeletal forms before her had once been proud, robust soldiers and sailors, but the British army had purposefully neglected—or outright tortured—their prisoners of war. She fought back tears as Brewster and Higday loaded the boxes onto the plank. Elizabeth reached out to help them and found that her hands were shaking. She could not get the image of a desolate Jonathan leaning over the side, praising a different martyr for bringing him food and blankets. She hoped against hope that her husband did not die without knowing any form of kindness aboard that deplorable ship.

Their tasks completed, Brewster tipped his hat to the men on board as they called out more gratitude before he began to row away. Elizabeth felt a certain comfort as she watched Brewster maneuver the oars—his powerful arms were a welcome sight after the cadaverous forms of the prisoners. She tried to console herself with the fact that she had done a great thing, but at the same time, she could not wipe away the dread of knowing those men were likely to suffer Jonathan’s fate.

When they arrived back at the dock, Robert was waiting in the same spot, as if he’d never left. He reached for Elizabeth’s hand to help her out of the boat. She was so overcome with relief to be on dry land again that she threw herself into Robert’s embrace. He folded his arms around her and she felt the soothing sensation of being in contact with an able-bodied man still in the realm of the living. She broke apart to ask, “How could anyone be so cruel to other human beings as to lock them up on that… thing?”

Robert stuck his hands in the pockets of his breeches, seemingly befuddled by the unexpected contact. “It’s that bounder, Cunningham,” he said finally. Recovering, he added, “Come, let’s get you something to eat.”

Chapter 30

Sally

September 1777

As fall approached, the Townsends grew even more apprehensive as to who they might be asked to quarter for the winter. Major Green had moved in with Hannah’s family so Robert’s former room had been empty all summer.

“German mercenaries!” Audrey announced one afternoon as she came into the kitchen. She had spent the morning visiting Hannah.

“What?” Sally stood up from the table, the dough she’d been rolling spread out in front of her.

“The Germans are to occupy Oyster Bay for the winter season.”

Sally glanced at Mother, who had her hand held to her mouth. She pulled it away to ask, “Hessians?”

Everyone had heard of the stories of the hired German military men during the Battle of Long Island. After the Americans had realized they were trapped, they threw down their weapons and surrendered, but the Hessian troops charged them anyway, shooting down and then bayoneting the would-be prisoners of war. Now the barbarians were plundering through the countrysides of New York and New Jersey, burning any house or field in their path, after taking anything they considered valuable as part of their booty.

“Major Green said they were called…” Audrey wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Jägers?”

“The huntsmen,” Sally said softly.

* * *

Oberstleutnant Ludwig Johann Adolf von Wurmb, the Lieutenant Colonel of the 1st Battalion Jäger Corps, was the commander who moved into Robert’s room. Despite the residents’ initial fears, over time they realized that the Jägers that came to Oyster Bay were not nearly as destructive or insolent as the Loyalist troops.

At tea a few weeks into September, Daniel Youngs told Sally of a story about their neighbor, Jonathan Haire, who fired upon the Hessians after they supposedly shot six of his sheep. “Lieutenant Colonel Wurmb ordered Haire brought before him.”

Sally, recalling John Week’s fate, stated that she could only imagine what had happened.

“No,” his wife Susannah held up her hand. “Just wait to hear this, Sally.”

“Wurmb then asked,” here Youngs affected a German accent, “‘Did you fire upon my men?’ And then Haire replied,” Youngs switched back to an American accent. “‘I did indeed, as a result of them killing my sheep.’ Wurmb said that he hoped Haire would not repeat his actions, but Haire told him that he would do so again.”

“And what happened to Mr. Haire?” Sally asked.

“Wurmb gave him another reprimand, but allowed him to go about his business.”

Sally put a hand to her mouth. “The Loyalists have killed men for much less.”

“Indeed.” Youngs took a sip of tea.

As the townspeople realized that the newcomers were in fact polite, friendly, and, most of all, fair, the prominent families of Oyster Bay began inviting the Jägers to dinners and gatherings. During an outdoor concert, Lieutenant Wurmb presented all three Townsend sisters to the men of his Jäger Corps, the majority of whom were quartered nearby at Mudge’s farm. Sally found one man, introduced as “Leutnant Ochse” to be particularly attractive. It was evident by Audrey and Phoebe’s giggles that they felt the same. As Papa had recently announced Audrey’s engagement to Captain Farley, Sally no longer felt threatened by her older sister. However, Phoebe, now seventeen, had turned into quite a lovely young lady. Sally knew the competition was over when Phoebe broke a ribbon on her shoe, and Ochse sang her a little ditty accompanied by fife and drum to cheer her up.

Although Sally had to admit to herself that the billeting situation could have been much, much worse, she found herself slightly dismayed by Ochse’s preference for her sister. That and the fact that she was unable to garner much information from the reticent Wurmb to pass on to Robert contributed to the cloudy mood she exhibited for the next few weeks.

The regiments usually did not perform much action in the winter, so she was disconcerted to see Wurmb gathering a small group of soldiers near the churchyard in late November.

“Lieutenant Wurmb!” Sally called out without thinking. Already mounted, he gazed down at her, and Sally took advantage of the courteous smile he wore. “Lieutenant Wurmb, are your soldiers preparing to march?”

“Yes,” he replied in his thick German accent. “The rebels are sailing through the Devil’s Belt toward Setauket.”

Sally glanced around. There were no telltale expresses or messengers that she could see, only a sea of Jägers in matching uniforms. “How do you know?”

A young boy walked up to Wurmb and gave him a piece of paper. As Wurmb scanned the words, Sally wished she knew what syllables were being formed by his lip movements. “We have signal beacons on Norwich Hill,” he answered Sally before he stuck two fingers in his mouth to whistle loudly. He stabbed his spurs into his horse and ordered his men to move out.

Nothing much came of the raid: Sally heard later from Leutnant Ochse that the rebels had already fled when his battalion arrived. In her mind’s eye, Sally could almost see Caleb Brewster cursing and waving his fist at the Redcoats from the protection of his whaleboat.

The next afternoon Sally saddled Gem, determined to find more information about the “signal beacons” that Wurmb had mentioned. She told her mother that she was going to deliver some preserves to her Uncle James in Jericho. Norwich Hill was the same direction as Jericho.

Now that she was looking for them, Sally could just get a glimpse of giant stacks of logs in pyramid shapes placed sporadically. She was unable to get a good look at them because they were up on the hill and each one had a sentinel near it. Once, when she halted for a better view, a soldier called out to her. His voice caused warm blood to cascade through her veins and she clicked at Gem to move faster, giving a backwards wave to the sentinel as her horse galloped off. As soon as she was out of sight of the sentinel, Sally laughed to herself.

After she arrived back home on a hurried round trip, she closed her eyes and tried to process the information. If the large stacks of wood were lit, the bonfire could be seen for miles. She surmised that the placements of the log pyramids could provide some sort of message to the British. I’ve got to tell Robert! was her thought when she opened her eyes.

Chapter 31

Meg

October 1777

With Coghlan in Philadelphia, Meg felt liberated. Life in British-occupied New York was carefree and frolicsome. Hercules Mulligan introduced Mercy and Meg to hordes of high-ranking British soldiers and then stepped back to let the women use their considerable charms to ferret information. Hercules would then pass on a report to his handler, a man named Nathaniel Sackett, who somehow got the information directly to George Washington himself. Meg wondered what the Commander-in-Chief would say if he knew that some of the intelligence which guided his tactical decisions came from the feisty girl who once declined in front of him to drink to Congress.

Meg and Mercy would pay a visit to Mulligan’s tailor shop a few times a week, ostensibly to shop for clothing. Mercy encouraged Meg to purchase something every time, just to keep up appearances. Because she refused to buy anything for her husband, Captain Moncrieffe’s accessory collection grew by tenfold.

“Christopher Duychenik,” Hercules said one day when they were safely ensconced in the storage cellar.

“Short, stout, friend of Governor Tryon?” Mercy seemed to have a stellar memory when it came to Loyalists.

Hercules nodded. “He claims to be one of us, under the cover of working for David Mathews, the mayor, who has ties to William Franklin.” William was the illegitimate son of the founding father, Benjamin Franklin, but, unlike his Patriot sire, was a diehard Loyalist. He was the former governor of New Jersey and a suspected British spymaster, to boot. “We are not sure which way Duychenik’s loyalties lay. If he is indeed a double agent, the information he feeds to the rebels could be deadly.”

Hercules frequently spoke of the word “we.” Meg was not entirely sure who he was working with, but she suspected it might have had to do with that tall man, Robert, who was in the shop the day when Mercy presented Hercules with her rosette.

“How exactly are we supposed to suss that out of him?” Meg asked. “It isn’t as though he would say he actually worked for the British if we asked him.”

Hercules shook his head. “It’s more the impression he gives off.”

“But if he is a spy should he not be very careful of his impressions?” For some reason Meg thought once more of Robert Townsend.

Hercules sighed and glanced at Mercy, who shrugged. He tried again. “It’s—how do you say it—a woman’s intuition. We just need to know if it’s worth looking into. I want to know what you ladies think regarding Duychenik.”

“Noted,” Mercy replied. She poked Meg in the side with her elbow.

“Duly noted,” Meg countered.

Hercules introduced Mercy and Meg to Duychenik at intermission during a play at The Theater Royale the following night. The suspect was dressed in the red and blue regimentals of the loyalist militia, and Mercy started off by commenting on his coat.

“The number of buttons in a row indicates the battalion number.” He held out the navy lapel. “See, there are three, which means I’m of the 3rd Battalion.”

Mercy reached out to finger the coat. “You must be so brave.”

Duychenik laughed. “I haven’t exactly been in battle. We’re more tasked with keeping order in New Jersey.”

Meg had heard about the havoc caused by the Loyalist militia on the island she used to inhabit. Tasked with harassing the locals and stealing their food was more like it, Meg thought.

Hercules took his leave of the ladies of the group, citing the need of another drink. Mercy squinted her eyes at Meg in a gesture that said, You’re not being very helpful.

Meg turned a nearly bare shoulder to Duychenik. “I spent some time in Jersey last year. Are you on familiar terms with William Franklin?”

“I was,” Duychenik said smoothly. “I met him through the mayor of New York City when they had some business to discuss.”

“What sort of business?” Meg asked. She reached out and pretended to snag a loose thread from Duychenik’s vest.

“Oh, just men’s business, the type that would bore ladies of such grace.” Meg caught the glimmer of sweat that had begun to form over his brow. “How do you know Mr. Franklin?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.

Meg giggled. “Oh, I don’t know Mr. Franklin. I met his wife a few times. What was her name?” She pouted, pretending to have forgotten.

“Lizzie.” Duychenik replied immediately

“Ah, yes.” Meg hid her genuine smile behind her fan. “That’s it, Lizzie.”

At that, Duychenik bowed and took his leave of the ladies. As soon as he was out of range, Meg whispered to Mercy, “He’s lying.”

“Indeed.” Mercy hit Meg with the base of her fan. “See? Nothing to it.”

“I guess there is such a thing as a woman’s intuition,” Meg murmured as a servant came to announce the end of intermission.

Chapter 32

Elizabeth

November 1777

Elizabeth, Higday and Brewster continued to supply the prison ships every few weeks. The atrophied faces that lit up at the sight of them often changed, and Elizabeth knew that the absence of those familiar most likely meant their death and she soon stopped looking for them. She preferred not thinking of them as individual men with lives and families beyond the hulks. It was less painful that way, especially after the young man from her first trip failed to reappear. Instead, she studied the guards, noting that some were more cordial than others.

One day, Brewster surprised Elizabeth by calling out to one of the prisoners. “Selah Strong, you old bugger. What are you doing up there?”

The man who gave a half-hearted wave in return was tall and appeared somewhat robust from Elizabeth’s vantage point. It was obvious he had not been held prisoner for long. “Ah, Brewster, it seems the Redcoats have finally caught up with me.”

Brewster nodded. “They were never big fans of your politics, that’s for sure.”

Selah called out to someone on board and, as the accommodation platform began to descend, he leaned over the side of the Jersey. His face contained a great deal of emotion as he said, “Cal, will you please look out for my Anna while I’m confined?”

Brewster’s tone was uncharacteristically grave. “Will do, Selah.”

“You there!” Selah turned as one of the sentinels stationed on deck shouted at him. “Back away.” Selah held up his hand mournfully before he disappeared from view.

As they began to row away, Brewster told Elizabeth that Selah was a fellow Setaukian, a Patriot judge.

“And Anna is his wife?” Elizabeth asked.

“Indeed,” Brewster replied.

“Do they have children?” Elizabeth’s heart went out to this Anna.

“Aye.” Outwardly, Brewster did not seem overly concerned that his friend was aboard the hulks, but, as Elizabeth had learned from spending these boat rides with him the past few months, that was his nature. When he became agitated or aroused, the hint of Irish brogue grew thicker. “They must have four or five by now,” he said, his words heavily accented and barely discernible.

Elizabeth glanced back at the ship as Brewster rowed away. From that distance, too far to see the tortured figures of the prisoners on deck or smell the surrounding water spoiled by human decay, the ship looked like any British man-of-war. Elizabeth wished fervently she could do more to help the men on board. A vision of the laudanum Dr. McKnight had given her appeared in her mind’s eye. Suddenly, Elizabeth had an idea. It was a radical notion, and completely out of character, but plausible just the same.

As soon as they arrived back at the shop, Brewster pulled Robert into the storeroom. Elizabeth followed them, leaving Higday to the empty store. Neither man seemed to object to her presence.

Brewster shut the door before he declared, “Selah Strong is a long-time acquaintance of mine, and a friend to the cause. We have to find a way to secure his release.”

Robert shook his head. “The only way for a man to get off that boat is in a prisoner exchange or else promising to defect and serve the British.”

“Selah would rather die first.” Brewster folded his arms across his chest. “Which brings up the other way: when they feed his dead body to the sharks.”

Elizabeth listened as they went back and forth, hoping that Brewster’s determination to free Selah Strong would be the impetus to convince them that her scheme could work.

Robert sighed. “I can use my Loyalist contacts to see if the Continental army has captured anyone of consequence lately. If so, perhaps we can negotiate an exchange for Strong.”

Brewster shook his head. “He’s not an officer and would not likely merit a prisoner swap.”

“There is another way,” Elizabeth finally spoke up. Both men looked at her blankly. The bell rang, indicating a customer had walked in. “But we shouldn’t talk about it here.”

“You don’t mean—” Robert began.

“Tonight then,” Brewster interrupted. “At your apartment?”

Elizabeth nodded.

Someone from outside the storeroom inquired, “Mr. Townsend?” Robert sighed before he headed out into the main room of the shop.

Later that night, after Elizabeth relayed her idea to them, Robert threw down his hands, slamming his palms loudly on the pinewood table. “It is too dangerous. I won’t let you risk your life in that way.”

Brewster got up from the table to pace around the room, rubbing his hand on his beard. “Rob is right: it is quite risky. That warden watches us from the deck like a hawk seeking its prey.”

Elizabeth set the vial of laudanum in the middle of the table.

Brewster glanced at it before walking the length of the room. “We don’t even know if Selah can get close enough to the guards to slip that in their drink.”

Robert sat back and crossed his arms in front of him. “Let’s say Selah managed to get the drug into a few guards’ drinks. He would need the help of many men to overthrow the rest of the sentinels. Men who would want to be rescued in return for the favor. We won’t be able to bring them all back.”

“The channel is too shallow for anything but small skiffs. And there would not be enough time to make multiple trips,” Brewster added from the corner.

“There are a lot of complicated variables involved,” Elizabeth agreed. “But if we put more thought into this, mayhap we can come up with as much of a fail-safe plan as possible. It is the only chance Selah has.”

Brewster paused in front of the table and scratched at a spot on his temple. “I think we should bring Ben in on this. We could use his military expertise. And you, Rob.” He turned to his old friend. “We’ll need your sense of logistics. Will you help?”

“I don’t—” Robert began, but as he glanced at Elizabeth’s face, his own softened. After a moment, he sighed deeply and then nodded. “I will do what I can.”

Brewster peered outside. “I’d best be getting going. Those Tories in the Devil’s Belt aren’t going to scare themselves.” He bowed at Elizabeth and Robert before letting himself out of the apartment.

“I must be going as well,” Robert said, but he made no move to get up.

“Do stay.” The words slipped out of Elizabeth’s mouth before she had put any thought to them. “I’ll make some tea.” Robert was silent while Elizabeth bustled around in the kitchen. As she sat down with a tray of teacups and biscuits, she could feel Robert’s eyes on her.

“If you do not mind me saying, Elizabeth, you never fail to surprise me. There are not many women who insist on finding a way to rescue prisoners from their doom.”

“And then make tea,” she joked.

“Indeed,” Robert said, reaching for a cup and saucer. “Again, if you don’t mind my forwardness, you are handling the loss of your husband with the same competence as you grapple with everything else.”

Elizabeth removed her own teacup from the tray. “As time passes, I find that Jonathan’s absence becomes more tolerable.”

“What about the rest of your family? I know your father is gone, but what about your mother? Any siblings?”

“I had two: a brother and a sister, but both have passed on. My mother died in childbirth when I was fourteen, and my baby sister did not live much longer. That’s why, when the British invaded Manhattan, I had nowhere else to go.”

“What about your husband’s family?”

Elizabeth took a sip of tea. “Jonathan was an only child, and seeing that he was quite a bit older than me, both of his parents had died before we were married.”

“It must have been a trying time.” He looked out the window. “The harbor is not far away. You must have heard the cannon fire.”

“Indeed, we did. It was just me, Abby, Johnny, and Catherine. George was still in here,” Elizabeth said, gesturing to her stomacher.

Robert gave her an appreciative look. “Elizabeth, you are one of the bravest women I’ve ever met.”

Elizabeth gave a nervous laugh. “I do what I can. I just don’t want other families to suffer the way we have after Jonathan…”

Robert tilted his head toward her, changing the subject as smoothly as always. “You are very well educated as well. Did you attend school?”

Elizabeth reached for a biscuit and put it on her saucer without eating it. “For a bit. My brother had a tutor that came to the house. I would find excuses to not do my chores and listen in on their lessons. My mother knew about it, but never reprimanded me. And she never scheduled anything taxing while the tutor was there.”

Robert’s face finally relaxed as he pictured a young Elizabeth peeping at keyholes, trying to learn the classics. “What happened to your brother?”

“He died at Bunker Hill.”

“I am sorry. Indeed you have sacrificed much for the cause.”

Elizabeth set her empty cup down on the saucer. “And you. I’ve heard that you started writing for the Gazette. And there is the partnership with Rivington.”

Robert avoided her eyes. “As a reporter, I have to travel the city with my pen and notebook at the ready, and interview the British officers to be informed of their intentions.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly. Robert went on to explain how conflicted he had been when the war began; that he wanted to fight but his religion and family values had held him back.

There was a pause in conversation when he finished. Elizabeth stacked the tea cups back on the tray, deep in thought. He did not reveal which army he would have joined, but from the little information she’s picked up, his family had strong Whig ties. Robert was too honorable to ever confess the real reason he courted all of those Tories, but yet was friends with dyed-in-the-wool Patriots like Caleb Brewster and Benjamin Tallmadge. Elizabeth surmised that somehow Robert had found another way to defy the British—an undisclosed method that he would never admit to. She cautiously reached out to put her hand over Robert’s. He finally met her eyes over the candle flame, his pupils flashing with the understanding that Elizabeth knew his secret.

Chapter 33

Sally

December 1777

Sally did not know how to deliver the information she had gleaned to Robert. Luckily he invited her to stay with him at the Underhills’ in New York City for a few days in December. Robert even told Sally to bring her best gowns as there would be balls and parties in honor of the season.

Caesar drove Sally, dressed in a fine blue camlet coat, in a cart to Dobb’s Ferry. Upon reaching the checkpoint, two Redcoats in powdered wigs approached them, stopping near Sally’s seat. The one whose face held the dourest expression asked, “What business do you have in New York?”

“I am to visit my brother, Robert Townsend,” Sally stated smoothly.

The man broke into a knowing grin. “Ah, yes, Robert Townsend, of the Gazette. I have heard of him.”

Sally wanted to ponder that comment, but the other soldier was ogling Sally. “Would you like a better chaperone than your darkie?”

Sally raised her chin. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” the second man replied. The first man had approached Caesar’s side and was whispering in his ear.

“What did he say to you?” Sally asked Caesar as they pulled away from the checkpoint.

“He tole’ me that if I would join their army, they could make me a free man.”

Sally eyed the old man. He’d been a part of the family since before she was born. “And what did you reply?”

“I tole’ him I’d think about it, even though I won’t.”

Sally nodded. As a Quaker, she was bit uncertain of her feelings on slavery. On the one hand, she knew that the slaves provided necessary labor and her family had always been kind to their slaves. But on the other hand, she did not see how one person could claim to own another.

When they reached the harbor, Sally’s heart sped up a bit. She’d always loved New York City, the hustle and bustle of it. It hadn’t changed too much, but for the ensign on the flags waving in the wind. Massive ships lined the entryway into the port and the water sparkled in the December sunshine, promising the type of adventure she couldn’t get in Oyster Bay.

Robert was waiting for her when they arrived at the wharf. He thanked Caesar and told him to give Papa and mother his regards. Caesar nodded before he handed him Sally’s portmanteau and then climbed back into the ferry.

Robert pretended to almost drop the bag. “This is quite heavy, little sister. What do you have in here?”

“You told me to bring my best gowns!”

He smiled genuinely, causing Sally to search his face further. “You seem content,” she told Robert. “Almost, dare I say, happy. And you have on a new suit.” Instead of his usual plain Quaker garb, underneath his greatcoat he wore a royal purple vest that tapered at the waist.

“Do you like it?” Robert asked, affecting the manner of a Tory macaroni. “The tailor, Hercules Mulligan, advised me on the fit and color.”

Sally nodded. “What has affected your change in mood?”

Robert subdued his grin. “I wouldn’t say I was happy, exactly, not with the war still going on. But,” he darted his eyes around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “When General Burgoyne was defeated at Saratoga, it was good to get some favorable news. Perhaps this will be the impetus that France needs to join us in the fight against England.”

Sally folded her arms at her chest. Finally her brother was talking sensibly. The British had suffered a crushing defeat at Saratoga last month.

“General Arnold has shown himself to be an impressive field commander,” Robert continued. As convincing as he might have been trying to be, Sally knew that his cheery demeanor was not just due to the Patriot victory. At any rate, she was glad that he was able to break his Tory façade, even if it was just temporary.

Robert led her to the Underhills’ boarding house, a brick building in the Georgian style and bare of any fancy ornamentation. The front door opened into a cozy tavern, lit by an enormous fire. The tavern was nearly empty save for a slight young man sitting with one hand clasping the handle of a mug of ale.

Robert nodded when the young man looked up. He stood and Robert walked over to make introductions.

“Sally, I’m not sure if you remember Abraham Woodhull or not.”

In contrast to her foppish brother, Abraham Woodhull’s dress was very plain; he wore a waistcoat and breeches in neutral colors and his hair pulled back with no ribbon. Sally assumed that he was another one of her brother’s peers, but his appearance first gave the impression that he was much older. His brow had a permanent furrow while beard stubble nearly obscured his thin mouth.

Sally curtsied. “I’m not sure I do.”

Abraham bowed and said in a barely audible voice, “I visited your family in Oyster Bay a few times. I’m originally from Setauket.”

“Mary Underhill is his sister,” Robert continued.

“It is nice to see you again, Mr. Woodhull,” Sally said.

His lips turned up at the corners as he attempted a smile. Sally noticed that his eyes darted nervously to the front door as the bell rang. A couple of Redcoats walked in and seated themselves at one of the empty tables on the other side of the room. Abraham raised a hand to greet them before sitting back down to his ale. He gave a faint wave to the Townsends as they took their leave.

Sally followed Robert as he headed upstairs, his long legs navigating the narrow steps two at a time. It was hard for Sally to keep up with him in her satin shoes. “He’s a rather jumpy young man,” she commented, a little breathlessly.

Robert reached the top of the stairs and extended a hand to Sally, who took it gratefully. “Who, Abe?” Robert snorted as he escorted her down the hall. “I suppose so. He’s always been a bit fidgety, even when he was a boy.” Robert paused in front of a door before leaning in closer to Sally. “You know he was General Woodhull’s first cousin, right?”

“The one who was killed in the Battle of Long Island?”

Robert nodded before he unlocked the door. “This will be your room. I’m right next door if you need me.” He walked in and set Sally’s portmanteau on the bed.

She followed him into the simply furnished room. A single bed covered with a blue and white quilt was placed in the middle of the room while a desk was tucked into the corner, beneath a small window. Sally walked to the window to look out onto Queen Street. Robert came to stand beside her. He pointed below. “That’s the shop I run.”

Sally stood on tiptoes to get a better look. “Burgin’s Wares? Who is Burgin?”

“That was the previous owner, Jonathan Burgin.”

“The widow’s husband, then?”

Robert’s hand dropped to his side before he replied, “Yes.”

“I’d like to meet Mrs. Burgin,” Sally told him.

His face had taken on his usual inscrutable expression. “Of course. I believe she was invited to the ball tonight.”

Sally pulled a pair of satin gloves out of her bag. “Who is giving this ball, anyway?”

“Mr. James Rivington.”

“Rivington?” Sally asked indignantly. She thought back to the comment the soldier had made at the checkpoint. “Are you writing for his paper now?”

“Yes.”

So much for the end of his Tory sympathizing, Sally thought, which reminded her: “Oh, Robert, I almost forgot to tell you the most important information!”

“What is it?”

She told him about the beacons she had spotted on her ride.

He swiveled his head from side to side, as if to check that the room was still empty. “Sally, you mustn't go gallivanting around, spying on the British. You could be arrested, or, worse yet, Papa could be blamed for your crimes!”

“Papa?” The thought had never occurred to her that she would place any of her family in danger.

“And did you actually make it to Jacob Townsend’s with these preserves you promised?”

“No,” Sally said sullenly.

Robert sat on the bed. “A cover is one of the most important pieces of what you were doing. If you’d told, say Major Green, that you were dropping off the preserves and he asked Jacob the next day about them, that would reveal your culpability straightaway.”

Sally sat next to her brother and contemplated what he had said. It was just like him to reprimand her when she was only trying to help. After a moment of silence she asked, “Do you find the information about the beacons useful?”

Robert, his expression unchanged, nodded. “I do believe that is helpful.” He stood up. “I’m going to get ready for tonight.” He stopped halfway to the door and turned around. “Try not to put anyone off with your rebel banter, would you please?”

“Why, dearest brother,” Sally pulled off a glove and waved her bare hand at him. “I would never.”

Robert narrowed his eyes. “You would indeed.” He folded his arms in front of him. “One thing you should remember, Sal. We are not betrayed by what we feel inside. It’s what we express to others that may be viewed as deceitful.” With that, he left the room, leaving his sister to ponder his meaning. Did he mean that his Tory views that seemed so deceitful to her were only a ruse? Or was it more of a caution, that she should curb her rebel views around his Loyalist friends? Typical Robert, she thought as she unpacked her things. He doesn’t speak much, but when it does, his words usually have a double meaning.

“Why are we here?” Sally asked, peering out at the street. The coach Robert hired to escort them to the party had stopped in front of his store.

“This is where Mrs. Burgin lives,” he replied, opening the door. “I offered to pick her up as she no longer owns a carriage. Would you like to meet her?”

“Surely,” Sally said eagerly, taking his proffered hand.

As soon as they were introduced, Mrs. Burgin asked Sally to call her by her first name. Elizabeth’s apartment, like her dress, was simple but dignified. She wore bronze damask with a linen petticoat and matching fichu. In contrast to Sally’s blue brocaded gown that was strewn with yellow roses, the only flourish on Elizabeth’s dress was a small burgundy bow that fastened the fichu to her bodice.  

“Would you like a glass of sherry?” Elizabeth asked Sally, who accepted without hesitation.

Glass in hand, she wandered to the ornate tile fireplace in the living room. It seemed out of place in the otherwise sparsely decorated apartment.

“My late husband designed it,” Elizabeth said, coming to stand beside Sally. “Long before the war, he liked to show off his wealth.”

Sally smiled. “My papa was the same way.”

Robert had seated himself at the kitchen table and Elizabeth and Sally joined him. Sally filled Robert in on the family’s comings and goings. Elizabeth listened, periodically asking questions. Sally decided that Elizabeth was exactly the kind of woman she pictured Robert marrying: warm, stately, and generous.

As Sally brought up Audrey’s upcoming wedding, Robert appeared agitated, taking a long sip of the claret he’d been drinking.

“To whom is your sister betrothed?” Elizabeth asked Sally.

“A man named James Farley,” Sally replied. “He was a captain on the merchant boat with our brother Solomon in London. Captain Farley returned to America when Solomon fled to France. Solomon met Benjamin Franklin there,” Sally could not help the pride from entering her voice.

“A man we would all like to meet,” Elizabeth said, keeping her eyes on the table.

“Indeed.” Robert rose from his chair. “Are you ladies ready to leave?”

Chapter 34

Meg

December 1777

James Rivington was a good Loyalist contact for Meg and Mercy as his newspaper was extremely influential over the prominent Tory population of New York. Rivington himself was backed by his British officer supporters, who often wined and dined him in order to see their names printed in the Gazette.

Rivington was hosting a party in the tavern above his newest business venture: a coffee shop on Queen Street not far from the print shop. It was easy for Meg and Mercy to get invitations, given that Hercules was a regular at Rivington’s coffee shop in order to meddle with the British officers who frequented there.  

Upon arriving at the party, Meg spotted Robert Townsend amongst the sea of redcoated men and bejeweled women. He was deep in conversation with two women, one a stunning young maiden with copper-colored hair and the other appearing slightly older than her companion, with brown hair.

Mercy headed straight for their direction. “Robert!” she exclaimed before curtsying. She turned to the brunette. “And Elizabeth! I trust you are suitably recovered from your ordeal?”

Elizabeth nodded. “We all made it through, thanks to Dr. McKnight.” Her face lit up in a friendly smile that softened her features. “How is Dr. McKnight?”

Mercy cast a glance at Meg, who gave her a puzzled look. “Fine, thank you.”

“Mrs. Coghlan and Mrs. Litchfield, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Sally,” Robert cut in, indicating the copper beauty.

Sally curtsied toward each of the women in turn. “Pleased to meet you both.”

“And you as well.” Mercy returned the curtsy. “Your dress is beautiful,” she said, admiring Sally’s blue brocade. She turned back to Robert. “Where is your handsome brother William tonight?”

Robert shrugged. “Who knows? William keeps his own counsel.”

Sally nodded vigorously.

Rivington sidled up to the coterie. “Townsend!” He extended his hand toward Sally. “You never told me how beautiful your sister is.”

Robert turned to face him. “Of course not,” he replied as Mercy gave a tittering laugh.

Sally stuck her hand out, a bit reluctantly, Meg thought as Rivington kissed it.

“Have you heard the good news?” Rivington asked the group. As they shook their heads, Rivington continued, “Robert’s decided to become a partner in the coffee shop!”

Meg cast her eyes around the little circle. It was Sally’s turn to look puzzled. A frown darkened her exquisite face while Elizabeth tried to mask her expression by taking a sip from a crystal goblet. Only Mercy moved forward to congratulate Robert.

“Come, Robert. William Cunningham is here. I want to introduce you to him.” Rivington put an arm over Robert’s shoulders to lead him over to a heavy-set man in a frumpy coat.

“Cunningham,” Sally spat out as soon as the gentlemen were out of earshot. “The provost of prisoners? I hear he sells their provisions to pay off his drinking debts.”

“At any rate, he’s the one who executed Nathan Hale,” Elizabeth stated.

At the mention of the spy’s name, four pairs of eyes glanced at Robert Townsend and then each woman quickly focused on different points in the room: Elizabeth on her hands, Sally on the refreshment table, and Meg on Mercy, whose eyes were, in turn, on the floor in front of her.

“How can Robert associate with either one of them?” Sally asked. “They are both such vile human beings. I have half a mind to go over there.”

She gathered up her skirts, but Elizabeth put a gently restraining hand on Sally’s arm. “As your brother might say, a silent mouth means an open ear,” she told the younger woman.  

Meg saw the wave of understanding come over Sally’s face. She didn’t know, Meg thought. She might have suspected that her brother had another side to him, but she didn’t fully grasp that he was a spy. Until now.

Without speaking, each woman took one step closer, isolating the group even further from the rest of the party.

“When will your next run to the Jersey take place?” Mercy turned to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth cast a glance out toward the harbor, but the window had fogged from the heat the hundreds of candles had created. “As of late, the supply trips to the prison ships have been hampered by the ice over the harbor.”

Mercy nodded consolingly. “I understand. And I’m sure the prisoners do too.”

“The Jersey?” Sally broke in. “What business do you have with the prison ships?”

Mercy touched Elizabeth’s hand briefly. “Elizabeth brings supplies to the fallen men who have been captured.”

Sally turned a wondrous face to Elizabeth. “How very brave of you. I’ve heard of the tragic conditions aboard those ships, no thanks to that man.” She nodded at Cunningham, still in conversation with her brother and Rivington. Robert’s face was stern, but his eyes revealed no contempt for the two men next to him. “They say they are purposely starved and are shot on sight if they even think about speaking out against the King.” She paused before continuing, her voice deepening with emotion, “I wish I could do more for the war effort than sew uniforms.” She looked up, her lips pursed as if she longed to say more. Meg avoided her eyes by staring at the floor. She had the distinct feeling that each woman in the circle was contributing to the cause in their own, secret way. Including her.

“They introduced you as Mrs. Litchfield,” Sally finally ended the silence that had enveloped them. “Where is Mr. Litchfield?”

“Major Litchfield is no longer with us,” Mercy stated evenly.

“I am a widow as well,” Elizabeth said, her smooth voice filling the awkward void that followed Mercy’s reply. “My husband was captured at Long Island. He was stationed with General Woodhull at Jamaica Pass and then died aboard the prison ships.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry,” Sally declared. To change the subject, she added, “I met General Woodhull’s cousin the other day.”

“Abraham,” Mercy said. “I know of him.”

“Quite a small world we live in,” Sally continued, her voice echoing Mercy’s cryptic tone.

Meg had stopped listening. Her heart, it seemed, had only just begun to beat again and she could feel the heat rise in her face. “If you will excuse me,” she said as she rushed through the double doors that led to an outside terrace. Shivering, she enveloped her arms around herself.

“Meg!” Mercy burst through the doors, frightening Meg, whose heart was still racing, even further. “What are you doing out here?”

Meg turned to her friend with tears in her eyes. “Elizabeth’s husband died at Jamaica Pass.”

Mercy nodded before moving closer. “There are many that died there. Too many.”

Meg turned toward the view of Manhattan that the balcony offered. She grasped the handrail, putting her heeled feet between the posts, and leaned over. I could fall right now, she thought. Would anyone even mourn?

Mercy put her hand on Meg’s arm and pulled her down. “Meg, what are you doing?”

With her feet now back on solid footing, Meg’s tears spilled over. “Oh, Mercy, I am so ashamed.”

Mercy led her away from view of the windows into the darkness of the terrace. “Meg?”

Meg, desperate to tell anyone, even if she knew it might put her in danger, finally erupted. She told Mercy the whole story, how she’d overheard General Putnam discussing Jamaica Pass with Aaron and then told General Howe about it. She even divulged the part about the fortifications and Thomas Walcott.  

“Meg, it’s all right,” Mercy said when Meg had finished. Mercy rubbed her friend’s arm. “We all do bungle-headed things for love.”

“Yes, but most do not get other people killed.” Meg shrugged off Mercy’s embrace to once again brace her body on the railing. “What if Aaron had died? I never would have forgiven myself. It’s bad enough that a woman inside that tavern is a widow because of me.”

Mercy moved to stand beside her. “You cannot accept the blame for this. The British might have already learned of Jamaica Pass through several sources and yours was only a confirmation, notwithstanding the mismanagement by the Americans to leave it so unguarded. This is not your fault.”

Meg stared out at the landscape below. “I’m done,” she said finally. “I’m finished spying.”

Meg assumed her headstrong friend would try to convince her not to quit. She did not expect Mercy to reply, in a hardly audible voice, “I’m done, too.”

Meg turned to peer at her in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

“That doctor Elizabeth mentioned earlier. Dr. McKnight. He has proposed to me.”

“And you love him?” Meg asked, biting back a twinge of jealousy.

Mercy nodded. “He is a Patriot and cares for our sick and wounded.”

Meg raised her chin, not needing her friend to say any more. There was no way for Mercy to maintain her Loyalist contacts if she were to marry a rebel doctor.

“That’s why I wanted to introduce you to Elizabeth,” Mercy continued. “She is of our nature. But how could I have known…” Mercy, unsure of how to finish her sentence, knew her friend recognized her innocence in that matter. She put an arm around Meg. “Come inside, now. It’s freezing out here.”

Chapter 35

Elizabeth

January 1778

The winter of 1777-78 was one of the harshest Elizabeth could remember. Robert was unable to return to Oyster Bay in time for Christmas, and Elizabeth invited him to spend the holiday with her and the children. He bought them a wooden rocking horse, to the delight of all three. They exhausted themselves playing with it, and, as Abby put them down to bed, someone knocked at the front door.

It was Caleb Brewster, along with Benjamin Tallmadge who had returned to New York City. The ice that had crusted over the harbor still had not melted and they had been forced to delay the plan to rescue Selah Strong.

“The ice may actually help us in our task,” Tallmadge said as he seated himself at the kitchen table.

“How so?” Robert asked.

“Well, one of your hindrances was getting a large boat to rescue as many prisoners as possible. What if instead of rowing them across the Bay, they could walk?”

Brewster nodded enthusiastically. “As of right now, the ice is thick enough, which means we have to put a plan in place as quickly as possible. But how can we communicate with Selah if we can’t bring in a supply boat?”

The group fell silent. Part of the contingency was that they would use the boat as an excuse to contact Selah. Elizabeth was struck by inspiration. “What about a sleigh? Is the ice thick enough to accommodate a sleigh?”

Tallmadge raised his eyebrows at Brewster. “Caleb?”

He tilted his head. “In parts. If the sun is bright enough, I should be able to see which parts are too thin to carry the sled.”

“So we choose a sunny day,” Tallmadge said. Elizabeth got up to fetch him an inkwell and paper. He began to make notes. “What else?”

“We will need to conceal the laudanum and get that information to Selah somehow,” Robert said.

“What if we prepare a package for Selah, saying it is from his wife?” Elizabeth asked. “We put the laudanum in a bottle of rum.”

“The guards would confiscate the rum,” Tallmadge added. “And drink it themselves.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Brilliant, Mrs. Burgin.”

Robert rubbed the back of his neck. “But Selah won’t know any of this.”

“Selah’s not a stranger to espionage,” Brewster said, lifting his eyes to Tallmadge.

“Indeed.” Tallmadge leaned forward. “We write a letter.”

Robert asked, “In sympathetic stain?” When he caught sight of Elizabeth’s frown, Robert turned to her. “Dr. Jay in France supposedly had developed an ink that only becomes visible when you wash a reagent over it.”

“Even if we had access to the ink, we couldn’t get Selah the reagent without the guards becoming suspicious,” Tallmadge replied. “The easiest way is to write a normal letter in a woman’s handwriting, supposedly signed by his wife, Anna. We leave out key words and in their place reference certain lines in a book that contains the words you’ve omitted.”

“We need a book that the guards would have no interest in,” Robert added.

“Common Sense?” Elizabeth suggested.

Brewster shook his head. “They’d throw it overboard.”

Tallmadge rose and walked to Elizabeth’s bookcase, returning with a small leather book. Brewster picked it up and started thumbing through it. “Entick’s Dictionary?”

“Why not?” Tallmadge asked. “It’s innocuous enough. And it is guaranteed to contain the words we need. Hopefully Selah will decipher it in time to put the mutiny in place.”

“He will,” Brewster replied confidently.

“And after the prisoners are freed? Where will they go?” Elizabeth inquired.

Caleb thought for a moment before he said, “My crew will be out there every night, lying in wait by the shores. We’ll get them across the Sound to Connecticut and then on to Valley Forge.”

“I think Higday’s got some connections up North,” Robert added.  

Brewster gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Higday’s a fool. We keep him around because he stands well with the guards. He will need to know of the sleigh run, but we shan’t worry his pretty head about any of the rest.”

Robert nodded in acquiescence. “Shall we begin, then?”

Tallmadge pulled a blank piece of paper toward him and began drafting the letter while Robert looked up the page numbers of words they wanted to disguise, such as “guard” and “bottle.” Brewster left to let Higday know of the pending run and to procure some rum from one of his smugglers.

Robert noticed Elizabeth yawning. “Why don’t you go get some sleep?” He nodded at Tallmadge. “We will probably be at this for a while.”

“Yes,” Tallmadge agreed. “We will need you to copy the end product in your handwriting, but you can do so tomorrow morning. If the day is clear, you might be able to make the trip to the hulks. You should get as much rest as you can tonight.”

Elizabeth rose. “Then I will bid you all goodnight.”

Elizabeth was awakened the next morning by Abby shaking her. “Miss Elizabeth, there are men in the apartment!”

Elizabeth was momentarily startled until she remembered the planning session from the night before. “It’s only Mr. Tallmadge and Mr. Townsend.”

“But why are they here?”

Elizabeth rose from the bed and went to dress. “I must accompany them again today.”

Abby tilted her head and searched her mistress’s face. “Are you in any danger?”

“No.” Elizabeth paused, the ribbons at the bodice of her chemise in either hand. “But, Abby, if something were to happen to me, you must take the children to the Underhills. They will know what to do.”

Abby nodded. “Do not worry about the children, missus. They are in good hands.”

Elizabeth resumed getting dressed.

When she emerged from the bedroom, Robert and Tallmadge were already seated at the kitchen table. “Your maid,” Tallmadge inquired. “Is she trustworthy?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. She headed to the fire to warm up some bread. Brewster arrived and Abby showed him in as Robert declared, “Always in time for a meal, isn’t that right, Cal?”

“Indeed!”

After Abby left to dress the children, Brewster pulled a bottle of rum from his satchel. He popped the cork and then took a swig. “What?” he asked the others as they peered at him. “Have to have room for the laudanum.” Elizabeth retrieved the vial and handed it to him. He poured it in before replacing the cork and then used candle wax to reseal the bottle.

Tallmadge grabbed a blank piece of paper and ink from the kitchen desk before pulling the draft out of his breast pocket. He straightened it on the table. “The most important thing is to make sure the numbers are subtle enough that a cursory glance wouldn’t pick up on them.” He grabbed the pen and, using the draft, showed Elizabeth. “Do you see how the numbers are part of the flourish on the last letter of this word? Page number first, then line number.” Elizabeth practiced a few times before she started writing on the blank page. “That’s good,” Tallmadge stood over her and nodded his approval. “It’s fine to make a mistake or misspell words. It’s not like the guards would know Anna’s an educated woman like yourself.”

When Elizabeth finished the letter, Brewster picked it up and crumpled it in his hand explaining, “It’s got to look like it’s traveled all the way from Setauket.” He tucked the letter into a bag along with the rum, the dictionary, and a blanket and then sauntered to the window to peer outside. The day had dawned bright and clear. “Shall we commence?” he asked.

Tallmadge nodded. “I’ll send word to our sentinels in Connecticut to expect a horde of escaped Americans. We’ll get them shelter and warmth.”

Elizabeth knew that would be a lot to ask for, given the conditions in Valley Forge that had been reported. Still, she wagered the prisoners would rather freeze to death in Pennsylvania among their exalted general than be starved by enemy guards aboard the Jersey.  

It took much longer to get out to the ship. Although Brewster was confident the ice would hold the weight of the sled itself, he hesitated to use horses and insisted that he and Higday pull it, with Elizabeth pushing from the back. The going was much slower than Brewster’s rowing, but they finally made it to the hull of the ship. Sure enough, it was stuck fast in the ice. The deck seemed especially empty—presumably the prisoners were all huddled down below. Elizabeth thought she could hear them coughing from the stale, infected air.

“What is this?” one of the Redcoats shouted down at them. Elizabeth was grateful to note that he was one of the more amicable guards. “You are making runs in the dead of winter now?”

“Yessir,” Brewster replied. “We figured the prisoners could use the extra blankets.”

The Redcoat shrugged before gesturing toward another sentinel, who walked to the side of the accommodation platform. It made a wrenching squeal that cut through the winter silence and Elizabeth had the frightening thought that the platform was frozen in place, but she was relieved to see it finally descend upon them.

As Higday began to load it, Brewster stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“Yes?” The first guard leaned over the side.

Brewster held up the bag. “This one is for Selah Strong.”

“Strong? Don’t know him.” Elizabeth’s heart once again caught in the throat as he conferred with his comrade. What if Selah had already died? “All right. We can get it to him, but not before searching it, of course.”

“Of course.” Brewster nodded and then the guards raised the platform. There was another anxious moment as the trio below waited for the soldiers to examine Selah’s package. Finally, the first one leaned over and shouted, “Thanks for the rebel rum! We guards will have a good night tonight.”

Brewster tipped his hat sheepishly. “It was worth a try. In exchange for the rum, then, will you make sure Strong gets that letter? It’s from his wife.”

The friendlier guard—his comrade had disappeared from view—bent over to retrieve the letter from the bag. He tore open the seal and scanned it quickly before waving it at them. “Least I can do.”

Brewster could barely contain his grin as he tipped his hat again. “G-day, gentlemen.”

The guard saluted them before returning to his post at the bow.

Elizabeth and Brewster exchanged a quick, gleeful look before they resumed their positions to push the now empty sled back to Manhattan.

Elizabeth was awakened in the middle of the night by a frantic knocking at the door. After checking that Abby and the children were still sleeping, she pulled a robe around her and went into the vestibule.

Benjamin Tallmadge stood there, accompanied by a strange man. Elizabeth ushered them into the kitchen before asking in a shaking voice, “Did something go awry?”

“No ma’am,” Tallmadge said, removing his hat. “In fact, everything went fairly according to plan. Selah led an attack on the few guards who hadn’t passed out from the rum. Most of the prisoners came down on the accommodation platform while some tied the blankets you gave them in knots and used that as a makeshift ladder.”

“How many in all?”

Tallmadge glanced at the man next to him before replying, “I would venture to say some two hundred. Any man that was in good enough health was made aware of the plan.”

Elizabeth sat down, blinking back tears. That was two hundred men—and their families—who were spared Jonathan’s fate. “And the consequences for the rest?”

The unfamiliar man spoke up. “The guards don’t venture down below: they are too afraid of catching a disease. They also don’t keep good records as to who is aboard—or who has perished, for that matter.”

Tallmadge added, “We are hoping they are too embarrassed that a bunch of sick men got the better of them to report it to their superiors. The rest of the prisoners might suffer a bit, but they are already at death’s door.”

“A small sacrifice to make for the liberation of good, strong Americans,” the man said. He bowed deeply. “I was one of the prisoners, only recently aboard, but very grateful to end my stay, thanks to you.”

Townsend gestured toward the man. “Mrs. Burgin, I would like you to meet Mr. Leonard Van Buren.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “How do you do, Mr. Van Buren.”

He bowed in response. “Much better now than I was a few hours ago.”

Tallmadge turned to Elizabeth. “Mr. Van Buren is a former deputy commissary from Albany. It is my intention to arrange safe passage for him to return, but I need a few days. I was hoping he could remain here.”

“Of course,” she replied.

Van Buren reached out to grasp her hand. “You are too kind to me, Mrs. Burgin.”

Van Buren was a gentleman and amiable to Abby and the children. He stayed in the apartment the whole time he was a guest at Elizabeth’s. He did not dare venture outdoors because due to his activity before he enlisted, he wasn’t “to be had in this Tory island.” He told her of the framed copy of the Gazette in his possession back home. Rivington had written in glee of his capture, stating that Van Buren “was well known for persecuting the Loyalists in this city.”

One day after Abby had taken the children to play in the park, Elizabeth implored Van Buren to tell her more of life on the Jersey.

“Major Tallmadge told me of your husband’s fate. I’m not sure you want to know the details,” he replied.

“I would,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And please do not feel the need to skim over some of it because I’m a lady.”

Van Buren chuckled. “Tallmadge also told me you were a headstrong woman. I am quite inclined to agree with him.”

Elizabeth brought him a cup of tea and then seated herself opposite of him at the kitchen table.

Van Buren took a sip of tea and stated, “The day would begin with an officer shouting down the hatch, ‘Bring out your dead!’”

Elizabeth’s stomach immediately curled like spoiled milk, but she forced herself to listen as Van Buren described the circumstances.

“Every morning I was there, we lost anywhere from one to six men during the night. I only had to endure the winter, but I’m told the summer was insufferable. Men would strip down naked to stay cool and would then get so scorched by the sun they would get blisters.” Van Buren looked over to see her reaction.

Elizabeth had propped one elbow on the table and put the other hand on her mouth. She took it away to implore Van Buren to continue.

“I was told there was a period this past summer when the air was so toxic below that candles would not light and men lay dead for multiple days before anyone discovered them.”

Elizabeth clasped both hands together underneath the table, remembering what Brewster had told her once. “Did they get thrown overboard?”

“Supposedly the exceedingly rancid bodies did, but I never witnessed that myself. Their custom was to sew the bodies into blankets and take them ashore to bury them. The able-bodied men would clamor to be chosen for grave-digging duty. I never was chosen.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly, wondering if that shore was Jonathan’s final resting place.

“The food was rotten, along with the water. They dumped all of the waste in the bay, and this is the water that was hauled up for drinking.”

Elizabeth had enough description. “Tell me one last thing, Mr. Van Buren. The supplies that were delivered the day of your escape. Were they conveyed to the prisoners?”

Van Buren’s eyes, which had dropped to his lap, brightened as he looked up. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burgin, they were indeed. I was quite happy just to receive an extra blanket before Selah approached me later that night.”

“Thank God in heaven,” Elizabeth said aloud, thinking of the poor souls who were left behind.

“I cannot thank you enough for all you have done, and hope to repay you someday. If there is anything you might need, please let me know.”

“I will,” Elizabeth said as she rose from the table.

Chapter 36

Meg

May 1778

Life took a turn for the worst when Mercy married Dr. McKnight. She moved out of the Queen Street townhouse about the same time that Meg’s husband returned from Philadelphia. The time that had passed only served to make Coghlan more of a brute. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that Meg did not become pregnant and continued his nightly assaults of her. Occasionally Meg would fight back, but that only made him angrier. Most of the time he was careful to only hit her where it would not show under her clothing, but one night he grabbed her roughly by the wrist and left purple marks where his fingers had clutched her skin.

In the daytime, he reported to his unit, and in the nighttime, after he had his fill of Meg, he would go carousing about the city. Captain Moncrieffe had been called away, so the only people who knew what was happening behind the closed door of the bedroom were the servants, who would never say anything. Meg entreated her father to help her, in much the same way she’d written to him when she left Elizabethtown to house with Mrs. De Hart. Back then he had come to her rescue by arranging for her to stay with General Putnam. But this time he wrote back that it was her wifely duty to lay with Coghlan. Captain Moncrieffe concluded by saying Meg now belonged to Coghlan and, as her father, he could offer no more assistance.

After a fortnight of this treatment, Meg decided she could not carry on this way. Deep in thought in the parlor one morning, she was startled to hear the doorbell ring.

“Mrs. Coghlan,” Noah appeared in the sitting room. “There is a British soldier who came to call on Mrs. Litchfield. I explained that she no longer resides here and he then asked to see you.”

Meg rose from her spot on the loveseat. “I will come to the door.”

She recognized the Redcoat as the sandy haired soldier from General Howe’s command. She joined him on the portico, shutting the door behind her.

“Mrs. Coghlan,” he bowed with a flourish and then stamped his boots to attention. “I am not sure if you remember me, but I am Major John André.”

“I do remember,” Meg replied after her curtsy. His manner now reminded her even more of Aaron Burr. For a moment she thought maybe her father had changed her mind and sent another handsome soldier to rescue her. But, Meg chided herself, originally André asked to see Mercy. “What is it that brings you here?”

He gestured toward the street and then turned back to flash her a dashing smile. Meg noted that, despite his light hair, he had a swarthy complexion that was not quite English nor American. “I’ve come to return Mrs. Litchfield’s carriage.”

Meg opened her eyes wide. “Oh,” she said, emphasizing the pucker of her lips on the syllable. She gave André her most coquettish expression. “Mrs. Litchfield is no longer living at this residence. She was married this past month, to a rebel doctor. Can you imagine?”

André shifted so that his legs were shoulder width apart and put his arms behind his back. Meg thought briefly that such polished mannerisms gave him an older air that contrasted with those boyish good-looks. “Indeed, I cannot imagine Mrs. Litchfield cavorting with a rebel. At any rate, shall you give me her address so I can drop off her carriage?”

Meg folded her hands in front of her stomacher. “She has left the city with the army. I am not sure where she has gone.”

André seemed in no hurry to leave. “Well, then, I guess we should lodge it in your coach house until such time when you have more information on her whereabouts.”

“Indeed.” Meg, too, was anxious to find an excuse for André to stay. “Would you like to come into the living room for tea?”

André looked uncertainly at the sentry standing next to the carriage and then shrugged. “I would never pass up the chance to have tea with such a lovely lady.”

Meg led him into the living room and then rang the bell for Noah. After she’d directed him to prepare the tea, Meg sat in the loveseat while André settled into a nearby chair.

“What brings you back to New York City?” Meg asked him. “I hear you were recently stationed in Philadelphia.”

“Indeed. But General Clinton has taken over command. One of General Howe’s last acts was to order the evacuation of Philadelphia, as it did not help our position as much as he would have liked.”

Meg tilted her head as she recalled something Mercy had told her about André. “And you threw General Howe the most marvelous going-away party. What was it called? The Meson-something?”

“Meschianza.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Mercy had been derogatory, saying how awful it was for the British to be throwing such elaborate parties while the Americans were starving at Valley Forge. The extravaganza required the ladies to dress as Turkish mistresses (as though in a harem, Mercy had related) and even included a mock joust, portrayed by the soldiers themselves, who wore knight costumes. While the Redcoats and Tory ladies of the city danced the night away, the Marquis de Lafayette led his men to Barren Hill, just a few miles outside of Philadelphia. What was it Mercy had said? It was like Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

“Mrs. Coghlan,” André lifted his teacup to his mouth with impeccable English elegance. “There actually is something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes, Major André?” Meg asked, batting her eyelashes.

André set his cup down and leaned forward “It is about your husband.”

Meg could not keep a scowl from forming.

André nodded, as if the expression on her face had answered an unasked question. “I spent some time with him in Philadelphia.” He took her arm to examine the purple bruises. His hands were soft and Meg felt a tingle from his touch. It was a pleasant experience to be handled so gently by a handsome soldier once again. “Normally I would not dare ask such an intimate question of a lady and her affairs.” He frowned as he released her arm. “But, I feel that it is my duty as a gentleman and a soldier, considering your husband seemed a bit—how shall I say this? Unhinged.” He glanced over at Meg and saw her grimace deepen. “I am well to assume the marriage is not a happy one?”

Meg nodded. Most men would shun asking a woman about the state of her marriage, but she had quickly ascertained that John André was not like most men, American or British. The idea flashed in her mind that he could be her savior. Since they had already gone beyond the breeches of etiquette, she was going to be as frank with him as she could. “I consider it more along the lines of—dare I say—honorable prostitution?”

If Major André were shocked to hear the vulgar words come out of Meg’s mouth, he hid it well. He drew up a booted leg and set it atop his other knee. “And your father? Does he know he hurts you?”

“My father was the one who forced me into this arrangement. It is more important for him to not admit he is wrong than to annul the marriage.” It was her turn to lean forward. “My only hope is that Coghlan will die in battle.”

This time André did not camouflage his surprise. He crossed himself before saying, “Mrs. Coghlan, one does not wish a soldier to perish in combat.” He lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “No matter how hated the man,” he finished as Meg began to cry softly.

She reached again for his hands. “Major André, is there no way for you to help me? He will be returning tonight, and every night thereafter to mistreat me.”

He squeezed her hand and then pulled away to sit for a moment, deep in thought.

“Major André?” Meg asked after a minute of silence.

He stood, looking a bit perplexed. “I’ve never left a damsel in distress and I do not intend on doing it now. However, this might require some maneuvering on my part.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small flask. “Slip some of this into your husband’s drink tonight. I will return at dusk with a solution.”

It was not easy for Meg to follow André’s directive. She had to invent an excuse to the servants as to why she was in the kitchen in the first place. She told them she wanted to check the supply of silver for a party she was planning. Noah did not question her. She’d concealed the vial in the ruffles of her gown, and then, after the wine was poured, convinced Noah that she’d heard the doorbell. Meg waited until Athena was not looking and then emptied the contents of the flask into Coghlan’s glass.

He fell asleep at the table, face down into a plate of ham. Meg told Athena that he’d had too much wine, which seemed to soothe the servant’s startled demeanor.

André, true to his word as Meg knew he would be, arrived soon after. After Noah had led him to the dining room, André glanced from Coghlan’s immobile form to Meg. He bowed. “Mrs. Coghlan, I’ve made arrangements for you to stay at General Clinton’s residence.”

Meg nodded.

“If you don’t mind, we must make haste.” His gaze settled again on Coghlan. “Gather what you need for immediate use and I will send for the remainder.”

It did not take long. She took a few fine dresses and jewelry and then left instructions for Noah to arrange the packing of the rest.

“Are you leaving us, Madame?” Noah asked as Meg headed back downstairs.

“For a little while.” She did not tell him where she was going, not that she knew exactly where Clinton was quartered. The less information Noah knew, the less Coghlan could demand of him.

In the hallway, Noah handed Meg’s things to André. He managed all of it while still being able to hold out the crook of his arm, which Meg took as he escorted her to the carriage.

“It’s Mrs. Litchfield’s,” André said, pausing at the curb before he loaded her bags in the back with the help of the Redcoated driver. “I didn’t think she would mind.”

André came around to offer Meg his aid in climbing into the coach. As they began to move forward, he cleared his throat. “There is one thing you must know.”

“Yes?” Meg asked, moving the curtain aside so she could see out the window.

“In order to convince the general your need to stay, I had to tell him a small fib.” André attempted a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“And that is?”

“I told him you were my mistress.”

Meg let out an uncomfortable giggle. “Why, Major André—”

He put a hand on her knee before withdrawing it quickly. “I’m sorry if that embarrasses you.”

She gave a lilting laugh. “It is of no consequence.” Meg was well aware that many British officers took on mistresses while overseas. At this point she had not given thought to whether she wanted the fib to turn fact or not. She was just glad to once again be away from Coghlan’s grasp. Still, Meg thought, glancing at the soldier across from her, André was a mighty handsome fellow.

The carriage came to a halt. All Meg could see out the window was an iron balustrade that looked vaguely familiar. “Is this…” she began to ask as André, already on the ground, held out his hand.

“One Broadway,” he said proudly as Meg emerged from the carriage. “The erstwhile Kennedy mansion.”

“Oh,” Meg replied as she once again looked up at her former—now present again—residence. The Union Jack still flew as haughtily in front as it had during General Howe’s stay; not much else had changed. Her heart began to beat in trepidation as she recalled all that had happened there: sewing with Mrs. Putnam and the girls in the parlor, flirting with Aaron on the rooftop, learning military secrets in Old Put’s office.

André showed her to her old room. “This is where Mrs. Loring stayed while General Howe was here,” he told her. Meg nodded, too overwhelmed with emotion to be disdainful of Mrs. Loring’s relationship with the general. After André had taken his leave, Meg walked over to the desk where she’d once drawn images of the Yankee’s fortifications of the city. Ironically, now that she was being housed at British headquarters, she was in the best position possible to spy for the Patriots. But I’m done, she reminded herself. I will be the cause of no one else’s pain or death. Not even her husband’s.

Chapter 37

Elizabeth

August 1778

Robert seemed somewhat fearful after the prison ship escape and begged Elizabeth to end her runs to the Jersey, to which she finally consented. Robert informed Higday that he too must lie low but declined to tell him the reason why. Higday was understandably upset as the price increases of food that summer were unbearable. The inflation was mostly due to the presence of the blockade by the French fleet at Sandy Hook, as well as the population swell in Manhattan resulting from the mass exodus of Loyalists from Philadelphia. Bread was scarce in the city; the British were feeding their men rice and oatmeal instead of flour products. Somehow Elizabeth’s family, the Underhills, and Robert Townsend were never in want of these products, thanks presumably to Caleb Brewster and his whaleboats in the Devil’s Belt.

But Higday was not so lucky and insisted that he needed some way of earning income for the family. He entreated Elizabeth with his request, who promised to pass it on to Robert when he returned. Robert managed to get him a job at the coffee shop. He told Elizabeth that Higday complained endlessly when he was out of earshot, but was polite enough to the faces of the British officers that frequented there.

Elizabeth no longer frowned when Robert mentioned his Tory contacts. She was not exactly sure what Robert did, but his disappearances from the store increased in both frequency and duration until he ceased to come in every day. As she was convinced that his loyalties matched hers, she did not question his absence. Plus, Elizabeth now felt more than capable of managing the store by herself.

Robert took on the task of educating little Johnny, now seven. He would come over in the evenings, brandishing books in Latin and Greek. It was not long before Robert noticed that Abby often crept into the kitchen as well. Abby could read enough to get by, but she had always considered herself “unlettered.” When Robert learned this, he brought Abby paper and ink and gave her daily assignments to practice her handwriting.

Elizabeth set about teaching Catherine to embroider. They would sit in the living room as Robert, Johnny, and Abby occupied the kitchen table. True to form, Elizabeth never called out her daughter when she seemed distracted by the instruction in the next room. Both would be silent, intently listening as Robert’s voice, rich with enthusiasm, expounded on the classics.

Elizabeth taught Catherine her letters and numbers, which the little girl then stitched onto her sampler. Catherine was particularly adept at sewing and Elizabeth, who was not, soon ran out of stitching patterns to instruct.

She paid a visit to the Underhill’s to inquire if Mary had any of interest.

“Indeed,” Mary replied. She had been manning the tavern, but her husband, Amos, had arrived shortly after Elizabeth. “It’s upstairs in the attic bedroom. My brother Abraham has been staying there.”

“I do believe Abraham has been out and about on business,” Amos interjected.

Mary gestured for Elizabeth to follow her up the staircase. “Abraham is a farmer and comes into the city to sell his goods.”

“He must find a good market with them now, considering the French blockade,” Elizabeth commented.

Mary was out of breath by the time they reached the attic. “It’s just in here,” she said, opening the door.

Elizabeth started as she heard a shout followed by a loud crash. Peering into the room, she caught sight of a man standing next to an overturned desk. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at something. Although an inkwell was lying on its side, Elizabeth did not see the telltale spreading stain of spilled ink.

Mary rushed to the desk to help. “I’m sorry, Abraham, I did not realize you were in here.”

“Yes, well, considering the hazards of my occupation, you would do well to knock first.” The man’s voice seemed shaky; it was obvious he’d been quite spooked at his sister’s sudden entrance. He stacked up a few scattered papers and then held them close to his chest.

Elizabeth, standing in the doorway, thought that an odd reply for a farmer. And why was he so protective of that pile of blank papers?

As Mary moved past him to her trunk, Abraham grabbed a utensil off of an empty plate and squatted to spoon clear liquid from a puddle into the inkwell.

“Can I help?” Elizabeth asked from her post.

Abraham obviously hadn’t spotted her previously. He jumped to his feet and glared at Mary. “Who is this woman and why is she here?”

Mary looked up from her forage in the trunk. “Abraham, I’m sorry, this is Mrs. Burgin. She is a friend of Robert Townsend’s.”

Upon hearing the name, Abraham seemed to relax. “Forgive me, Mrs. Burgin, but you both gave me quite a fright.” He resumed his prior task of rescuing the liquid.

Mary located the sampler and straightened up. “We will leave you, then, Abraham.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy.

Abraham gave them a listless wave before Mary shut the door.

“I’m sorry for that, Elizabeth,” Mary said, beginning to descend the stairs. “Abraham tends to be a bit… jumpy sometimes.”

“Is he also a friend of Robert’s?”

“Indeed. As you know, Long Island is a tight-knit community. Abraham and Robert had quite a few mutual friends so it was only natural they would make acquaintances of each other.”

Elizabeth, reflecting on Abraham’s absurd behavior, had a feeling that those mutual friends might be named Benjamin Tallmadge and Caleb Brewster.

As Abby was putting the children to bed after their nightly tutoring session, Elizabeth made tea as usual, but that night’s topic of conversation between her and Robert would be unexpected, at least on Elizabeth’s part. “Who is Abraham Woodhull and why was he using the sympathetic stain you had mentioned to Benjamin Tallmadge?”

Robert, taken aback, glanced quickly around the room. “How do you know—”

“I saw it with my own eyes. Do not try to placate me, Robert. You know I am a trustworthy individual and loyal to the cause. Is Abraham a spy? Are you?”

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. It was the most visible sign of emotion she had ever seen come from him. “Yes.”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to be momentarily stunned. She had long suspected that he was indeed, but never thought he would admit to it.

“Both Abraham and I operate under code names, which I will not divulge for your safety.”

“And Brewster and Tallmadge?”

“Caleb is our courier. He delivers the message to Ben, who then, I’m told, gives them to Washington himself.”

“You correspond with the Commander-in-Chief?”

“Yes, but again, he only knows me by my code name. I’ve received direct instructions from him, though, to mix among the officers and Loyalist refugees. As I’ve told you, my work at the paper allows me to travel about the city without question.”

Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. “Are you in danger?”

Robert gave a wry smile. “Of the noose? Yes. But we take great precaution so as not to strike suspicion in anyone.”

“Such as using codes?” Elizabeth asked, remembering the ease of which both he and Tallmadge had written the cipher to Selah Strong.

“Yes, often, for the stain is expensive and hard to come by.”

That explains why Woodhull was so concerned about saving the spilled ink, Elizabeth thought.

“Ben, Abraham, General Washington, and I are the only ones who have the cipher,” Robert continued. “We also employ covert ways in which we pass on the information. I do not want to go into too much detail, for if you were ever questioned, you could honestly say that you do not know.”

“I will worry about you,” she said quietly.

Robert reached out and put his hand on hers. This time he did not remove it. They sat that way for a few minutes, both in awe of the other’s sacrifice for their country. Finally, Robert got up to leave.

“Will you stay?” Elizabeth asked. “In the guest room?” She had a sudden fear that he would be harmed in the street.

Robert hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I will.”

Chapter 38

Meg

September 1778

Meg’s new life at her former residence was even more gay and pleasant than it had been the first time. Dinners given for the high-ranking British officers and their mistresses began at four and lasted well into the night. She attended concerts, balls, and card games on the arm of André, who proved to be a most deferential companion, even if Meg was not his true mistress.

Ironically, many of the attendees were the same people Meg met during her spying days. But now she forced herself to stay away from Robert Townsend and Hercules Mulligan, try as they might to pull her into a corner. She clung to the illusion that she was the same ardent Loyalist she was at the beginning of the war.

As André was aide-de-camp to the new commander, Sir Henry Clinton, he always seemed to be buried in paperwork. To keep up appearances, André would visit Meg’s room, where they would sit by the fire and simply talk, as he was ever the true gentleman he gave the impression of being. One night he told her about the woman he had once planned to marry back home in England. He pulled a small trinket from his breast pocket and handed it to Meg. It was of a young girl, painted in meticulous hand, on ivory.

“Her name was Honora Sneyd. You look not just a little like her, actually,” André said.

Meg took a closer investigation of the painting. The girl had blond hair and blue eyes, true, but there was an innocence about her that Meg never quite associated with.

“She was one of the most intellectual women I’ve ever met. We were engaged to be married,” André added.

“What happened?” Meg asked, handing him back the ivory piece.

He took another affectionate glance at it before tucking it back into his waistcoat. “Although we were betrothed, her father did not think I had enough finances to support her. He pressured her to end the engagement, which she did. I recently heard she wed a man who I’d met a few times while he was still married. The ceremony took place only a fortnight after his first wife died in childbirth.”

“Scandalous,” Meg replied, noting the slump in André’s shoulders. “Is that why you joined the army?”

He nodded. “What about you? Did you love anyone before you married that brute?”

It was Meg’s turn to become melancholy. “A rebel in every sense of the word.” She briefly described their relationship.

“What was his name?”

“Aaron Burr.”

André repeated the name. “If you want, I can use my contacts to find his whereabouts.”

Meg reached out to grab his sleeve. “If you could, please.” She knew it was too late for them as a couple, but it would give her a great peace of mind to know that he was still alive, out there existing in the world with his dapper charm and ambitious heart.

André rose and grabbed his sword off a nearby chair. “I will take my leave of you now. There are many promotions and leave of absence requests awaiting my signature in the morning.”

“Sounds titillating.” She sat up, gathering her skirts. She felt that she was on good enough terms with André to ask him something that had been bothering her for quite a while “What know you of the pillaging done by your regiments?”

André set his sword back down. “Pillaging? I’m not aware of such behavior by our troops—it would go against the notion of a gentleman’s war.”

Meg snorted. “Gentleman’s war? Clearly you are unaware, then, of the plundering committed by the Loyalist and Hessian troops. Mayhap you should find the occasion to step out of the office and into the field.” She was careful to say that last part gently, for she respected André as a man, even if she held the rest of the British army in contempt.

André frowned and Meg immediately regretted the harshness of her words. He moved toward his sword as he replied, “I will look into it, as well as inquire of Aaron Burr. It will lend a bit more interest to my day.”

“Thank you, Major André.”

He turned to her and bowed. “Goodnight, Mrs. Coghlan.”

It was less than a fortnight later when André returned to Meg’s room brandishing a folded paper. He placed it on her desk and told her she probably wanted to get into a comfortable position before she read it.

It was a report on Aaron Burr. Meg scanned it, her heart pounding. She was not surprised to hear of his military exploits, a few he had been victorious in. There was also mention of Aaron’s bad health—which seemed to originate from heat stroke during a battle in August—of which Meg was sorry to read. At the bottom was a report on his personal affairs. It seemed André’s source had gathered mostly local gossip, but it focused on Aaron’s frequent visits to the house of a married woman in New Jersey. The missive included a quote that called this woman, Theodosia Prevost, “the object of Burr’s affections.”

“She’s the wife of a British officer!” Meg exclaimed as the letter fluttered to the floor.

“And a good ten years older than him, with two offspring by that officer, to boot.”

“Is she pretty?”

In lieu of replying, André picked up the report and walked over to the fireplace. “Do you object?” he asked as he held it near the fire. When Meg shook her head, he tossed it in. Both of them watched in silence as the paper was consumed by flames.

“So that is what has become of the honorable Aaron Burr.” Meg smoothed the lace on her skirt. Then again, had Aaron commissioned a report on her, he might read of her disastrous marriage and then of her being taken up as André’s supposed mistress. “Life certainly does take its turns, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does.” André sat down next to the fire and patted the spot beside him. “I looked into the alleged pillaging, as you called it, by our army,” he said as Meg joined him. “I was quite shocked at what I found. Goods have been taken from houses of the infirm, destitute, widowed, even from our own Loyalists. Such acts can only bring on acrimony, which in turn can lead to revolts. I prepared a full report and handed it to Sir Henry today. I also urged the formation of a board of inquiry with the intent of distributing reparation to the victims.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “That was very noble of you.”

“Perhaps a bit foolhardy as well, as I think there are many among the general’s personages that will be most displeased by my revelations.”

“I would assume these would be the officers who allowed such behavior to occur.”

André stretched out a booted leg and rotated his foot.

“Do you have much pain?”

He flashed her a quick smile. “Sometimes. It is the burden of a soldier.” He seemed to be studying her. “There was something else I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes?” Meg’s heart started to flutter. Did he somehow uncover information about her previous wartime activities, or was it something of a more passionate nature? And if it was indeed a romantic proposal, would she accept?

“Have you ever acted?”

She let out a peal of laughter that disguised the relief washing over her. “Every day of my life.”

His smile broadened. “I mean, on stage.”

“I did a bit while at boarding school. Mostly skits: I was one of the witches in Macbeth.”

“Perfect. We are in need of females at the Theatre Royal. A few like-minded officers and I have formed a company.”

“And they don’t play female parts?”

“Well, we do have some junior officers with high voices.” He batted his eyelashes at her. “I think I myself might make a beautiful lady.”

Meg took in his thick, curling hair and wide brown eyes. “You would indeed.”

“We placed an ad in the Gazette, but I thought you might be inclined to the stage.”

“For all that you have done for me, Major André, I would be glad to assist.”

Chapter 39

Sally

November 1778

With the campaign season steering to a close, Sally’s family prepared to billet yet another officer for the winter. William was frequently absent and spent most of his time in New York City. Robert, busy with his store, coffee shop, and writing for The Gazette, was seldom ever home. With Audrey now married to Captain Farley and Solomon still in France, the large house was even more subdued than it had been previously.

It was a clear autumn morning when Sally awoke to the sound of horses trotting. She peered out the window. The blue sky was unmarred by clouds, and some of the trees still held the vestiges of burnt orange leaves. Below them a troop of mounted men in green coats paused. Sally watched as Papa approached them. The man in charge—all Sally could discern was a bulky figure and a powdered wig—dismounted and pointed at the house. Sally’s hand tightened on the curtain as she could clearly see her father’s face fall. She rushed downstairs, still in her chemise.

“Papa?” she asked as he walked in.

“Sally.” He was too weary to notice that she was not dressed. He gestured toward the front gate where a muscular man was tethering a horse. “That’s Colonel Simcoe. He will be quartering with us this winter.”

“Samuel?” Sally’s mother appeared from the back of the house. Spying her daughter, she shouted, “Sally! Get some clothes on!” She then commanded Phoebe to put the kettle on. The Townsends were about to receive yet another British houseguest.

Sally dressed quickly, throwing on the same pale blue dress she wore the day before, and then watched her parents greet Colonel Simcoe from her post at the top of the stairs.

He stood at attention, his black boots gleaming in the sunlight filtering in through the windows. “I assume I will have a room to myself?” he asked impatiently.

Sally’s chest swelled with indignation. How dare he be so rude! she thought. As if he could hear her thoughts, Simcoe shifted his eyes toward the steps, but Sally ducked out of view just in time.

She heard Papa murmuring something, just catching her name before he called up to her. “Sally? Will you please show Colonel Simcoe to his room?”

Sally counted a few beats before she started down the stairs. She knew it was important to maintain a peaceful atmosphere, for both her father’s safety and for the chance, however small, to glean information that would be of use to Robert. Consequently, she kept her eyes downcast, afraid that Simcoe would be able to see how much she hated being forced to house the enemy.

After introductions were made, Sally led Simcoe to Robert’s old room downstairs. It was a modest room, done in Quaker style, but furnished with touches such as a Turkish carpet and homemade quilt. Both Major Green and Lieutenant Wurmb had roomed here without any complaints, but now Simcoe, after gazing around the room, asked since there was no fireplace, may he have another quilt?

Sally frowned. Inwardly she was thinking that it was just like an Englishman to not be satisfied with what he had, but outwardly she told him that she would fetch him one shortly.

Simcoe went to the bookcase and pulled out Robert’s copy of Common Sense. Holding it between his two fingers and making a face, he asked Sally, “Might this be removed straight away?”

She came forward and grabbed it from him, clutching it tightly to her chest.

Simcoe went to his bag and extracted a few of his own belongings to put on the shelf. Sally stepped closer in order to read the titles of the books Simcoe thought appropriate. A few Shakespearean works were mixed in among the treatises on military strategy. Sally set Common Sense down to retrieve Romeo and Juliet and flipped through it.

Simcoe had stopped his unpacking to peer at her. “One of his finest,” he said, nodding at the book in her hands.

Sally, refusing to get pulled into a conversation with him, slid the book back into its spot and picked up Common Sense. “I will go see about that quilt,” she said, giving him the slightest curtsey before leaving the room.

Papa told Sally and Phoebe to set the dining room table for dinner, thereby ending the cozy kitchen meal times. After he joined them, Simcoe informed the Townsends that he commanded the Queen’s Rangers, another troop composed of mostly American Loyalists. Sally had heard of them. They were formerly under the direction of Robert Rogers, a man who supposedly assisted in the capture of Nathan Hale.

Sally watched her parents’ eyes meet over the meal and knew what they were thinking: another tyrannical Tory unit, like that of De Lancey’s, had come to Oyster Bay.

Phoebe politely inquired why Simcoe wore a green uniform.

He turned to Phoebe. “I’m glad you asked. General Clinton recently asked the same thing.” He addressed his next statement to the table as a whole. “The Queen’s Rangers under my command are not just like any infantry. It is my belief that they should be able to remain concealed until such times when the situation causes them to charge or evade the enemy.”

You mean the chicken-hearted “hit and run,” strategy, Sally thought. “Green coats are fine to hide in the spring, but what about autumn?” Sally gestured toward the window, where those leaves that remained on the trees had turned bright colors.

“Much like the brilliant spring fades, or the amber leaves of autumn, a coat—when worn constantly through downpours and the blazing sun—will fade as well.” Simcoe bestowed a disarming smile onto Sally.

“Or how a lady’s beauty fades with time,” she added.

“I could not imagine your beauty ever fading.” Simcoe gestured toward Phoebe. “Or that of your sister’s.”

A wave of jealousy unexpectedly passed over Sally. She shook it off. Simcoe was an arrogant louse, although… Sally studied him as he speared a piece of meat with his fork. His sturdy shoulders and bronze coloring gave off a strong, competent aura. He looked up suddenly and caught Sally staring at him. She focused her eyes on her own meal and did not glance up again.

At breakfast the next day, Simcoe was already ruddy and sweaty. He’d obviously been up early.

Sally sat awkwardly across from him. They were the only ones at the table as Mother was busy in the kitchen and Papa rarely rose in time for the morning meal nowadays. Sally gave an inward sigh of relief when Phoebe joined them.

“Tell me, Miss Townsend,” Simcoe was, once again, directing his attention to Sally. “What sort of delights are to be found in Oyster Bay?”

“Oysters, of course!” Phoebe replied.

“Do you shuck them yourselves?”

“No,” Sally said. “We do a lot of things in the kitchen, but Caesar’s always been the one to shuck them. It’s dangerous: you could cut yourself badly if you are unskilled.”

Simcoe nodded sincerely, as if this piece of information was of great importance. He wiped his mouth with his napkin before he said, “I must apologize if you thought me rude yesterday. I was feeling a bit tired from the journey.”

Sally looked up at this unexpected apology.

“Oh, no, Colonel, we did not think you rude at all,” her sister replied.

He nodded at Phoebe’s comment, but his eyes were on Sally.

She stood up and grabbed her plate, stacking it on the counter before starting for the hallway.

“Miss Townsend?” Simcoe called.

She stopped, an apology on her lips, albeit a much more insincere one than his. She’d hoped to avoid having to acknowledge Simcoe’s atonement, but apparently he would command her as he did his Rangers. She would have no choice but to obey. But when she turned, he asked, “I was hoping you could point me in the direction of the fortification Lieutenant Wurmb had begun. Part of my orders this winter is to complete it.”

Sally’s stomach, full from breakfast, turned over. Was he actually asking her to accompany him to observe his troops construct battlements? A wide smile formed as she realized how fortuitous that could be for her mission to provide Robert with information. Simcoe seemed pleased by her reaction as he echoed her beam.

“Can I come as well?” Phoebe asked.

Sally narrowed her eyes, but her sister did not seem to notice as Simcoe stated, “Why, of course. The more lovely Townsend ladies that accompany me, the better. Wasn’t there a third sister?”

“Audrey,” Phoebe told him. “But she married as close to her twenty-first birthday as she could.”

He turned to Sally standing in the doorway. “And how old are you?”

Phoebe answered for her. “Twenty, and I’m nearly eighteen now.”

“Quite nearing marrying age, then.” Simcoe said before he stood. “I will meet you two presently, if you don’t mind. I like to accomplish much of my work in the morning.”

Phoebe pushed her plate back. “I shall go tell Caesar to get the horses ready.”

Sally had two riding habits. She chose the red one, not necessarily for the color but because it was more close-fitting than the other. Both she and Phoebe spent extra time arranging their hair, Sally twirling ringlets to dangle under her felt hat. It was not often they had admiring male eyes to impress.

When they emerged from the room, Simcoe was waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase. “Such enchanting sisters,” he commented before leading them outside.  

Wurmb’s men had begun reinforcing a small hill across from Main Street near the Townsend home. After they arrived at the prospective stronghold, Simcoe dismounted to get a closer look. As he walked around the bottom, he nodded and muttered to himself. Sally and Phoebe exchanged bewildered looks. The hill was only about 60 feet high and had been there as long as Sally could remember. Wurmb’s troops did not do much besides add a small number of vertical wood planks to the base of the slope. When Simcoe finished his survey, he told the ladies that it indeed offered a good view of the waterfront. “We shall erect a fortification that would help protect the town from attacks by rebel whaleboat men.”

Sally grinned to herself as she pictured Caleb Brewster harassing Tory sympathizers. She was not afraid of the whaleboaters that terrorized the Devil’s Belt. Indeed, the greatest threat to Sally’s family was Simcoe himself. If Sally’s befriending the British officer kept her father out of danger, then so be it.

When Simcoe’s Rangers were not working on the breastworks of the Main Street hill, they drilled endlessly in the fields nearby. Sally often rode Gem out in the mornings to watch, thinking that any knowledge of the Rangers would be useful to Robert. Simcoe, for his part, seemed pleased that Sally was taking an interest in his work. He always greeted her graciously and would then explain the purpose of the formations he directed his men into or how the redoubt would look upon completion. Simcoe reiterated that his goal for the Rangers was for them to be agile and quick. During these encounters, Simcoe was all business, but at family meals, he would often seat himself next to Sally and engage her in conversation.

One night, a week after Simcoe’s arrival, Sally had trouble sleeping.

“Sally?” Phoebe’s voice, coming from the opposite bed, sounded slightly muffled. “Are you still awake?”

“Yes.”

“What is going on between you and Colonel Simcoe?”

Sally propped herself up on her elbow to peer across the room, but Phoebe’s form was ensconced in shadow. “What do you mean?”

She could hear a rustle, and, as Phoebe’s voice increased slightly in volume, Sally surmised that her sister had turned toward her. “It’s obvious that he is quite taken with you.”

“Obvious how?”

“Sally, don’t you notice how his eyes light up when you walk into the room? That he only talks to you at dinner?”

“That means nothing. We are friends.”

“You might think that is all it is, but I’m not certain Simcoe would agree.” Sally heard Phoebe turn back over and realized that was the extent of the conversation.

The next day Simcoe informed Sally and Phoebe that he’d secured a carriage so that the sisters might accompany him on a scouting tour around the island. Simcoe was still convinced that Oyster Bay was in danger of being attacked from rebel-held Connecticut, which was only seven miles north of Long Island. On these trips, the Townsend ladies learned much about Simcoe’s early life, including his stints at Eton College.

“Do you have many siblings?” Phoebe asked him.

“No,” Simcoe replied, his eyes, as they often were, on Sally. “I had three siblings that died in childhood. I have no idea what it must be like to have such a big, boisterous family as yours must have been growing up.”

Sally smiled wistfully, remembering fishing and riding with her brothers and the crowded but affectionate family meals. She had to admit that Simcoe’s presence had livened up the empty house a bit.

When he was not sharing stories from his childhood, Simcoe would enlighten them on his designs for barricading the island. Occasionally he would ask the driver to pause the horses and he would get out, lifting a spyglass in each direction. Upon climbing back into the carriage, he would make a mark in his notebook, telling the ladies that it would make a logical landing spot for the rebels. As they continued their trips, Sally noticed that British sentinels would be placed in these areas Simcoe had pointed out.

Since Sally was usually seated beside Simcoe, she would watch what he recorded and, when they returned home, would go to the desk in her room and write down—and sometimes even sketch—what she had seen. She kept these papers hidden in the bottom of a broken clock, knowing that her hope chest—where she stored old birthday cards and her quilt tops—would be too obvious a spot should anyone become suspicious.

Even as they formed a tenuous friendship, Sally was ever the more wary of Simcoe, especially when he revealed during one of their rides that another of his purposes was to expose any instances of suspected spying activities.

“Do you believe there are spies in Oyster Bay?” Sally asked, trying to emulate Robert’s neutral tone.

Simcoe shrugged. “According to John André, the head of British intelligence, there is information being passed from New York City to the front, and it is believed to be routed through Long Island.”

“Do you know Major André?” Phoebe inquired. Every girl in the state of New York knew of André’s reputation of being a rogue with the ladies.

“He is a good friend of mine,” Simcoe answered. But Sally was no longer listening, realizing that Simcoe’s presence at the house was now more of a threat to Robert—and her for that matter—than her father.

Still, she was determined to do what she could to help the cause, stopping short of searching Simcoe’s documents. She could think of no reasonable excuse for her to go through his personal belongings, and, besides, she also knew how methodical he was. If she left any paper or inkwell in the wrong place, he would know immediately that something was amiss in the Townsend house.

Chapter 40

Sally

December 1778

In mid-December, as was custom, the Townsends decided to host a celebration both in honor of the upcoming holiday and for Simcoe and his Rangers. The day of the party, Sally was dawdling over her breakfast when Phoebe rushed in, breathless. “The apple orchard!” she managed to gasp.

Sally started at the sight of her normally composed sister. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a frantic air about her. When she finally caught her breath, Phoebe told Sally that the Rangers were chopping down Papa’s prized apple orchard.

“What?” Sally stood. Now it was her turn to run, rushing toward the orchard located on the west side of the property.

Just as Phoebe had said, most of Papa’s trees had already been felled. A pair of green-coated soldiers were carrying a trunk in the direction of the redoubt while other Rangers were bent over at the waist, sawing at the bases of the few trees that remained. Sally approached the closest soldier. “What do you think you are doing?”

He stood up. “Miss Townsend?” Despite the cool winter air, a line of sweat dripped from below his felt hat.

Sally looked up to see her parents peering down at the scene from their bedroom window. “I demand you cease this destruction at once,” she told the soldier.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I cannot. I have orders from Colonel Simcoe himself.”

“Colonel Simcoe?” Sally gathered up her skirts and headed toward the redoubt. As she approached, she could see the soldiers sharpening the newly razed trunks into sharp points. It was clear that Simcoe was to use the trees as a rampart around his hill.

When he spotted Sally, Simcoe gave her a casual wave, which only served to heighten her anger. “How dare you do this?” Sally cried. “Just when I was beginning to think you were a decent human being, even if you are British.” She was too upset to realize that last line could be construed as Whiggish.

Simcoe held up his hand as he walked toward her. “I am a decent human being.”

Sally kicked at a bevel lying near her boot. “You are not. You are deliberately destroying my family’s property, after all we have done for you.” She noticed that the soldiers around her had paused in their work to observe the scene.

Simcoe waved at his men, but none of them moved. “Miss Townsend, you must understand—”

“Understand what? That you think you are entitled to take whatever you need? You are just the same as all of them: Tories, Loyalists, Redcoats, thinking that the townspeople owe you. You pretend to have honor, but you, sir, are just a heartless brute.”

Simcoe reddened. Sally took a deep breath and prepared for another tirade, but Simcoe said, “Enough!” in a voice that was just a shade lower than a shout. “I am sorry for the destruction of your father’s trees, but, as military commander, I have the authority to confiscate them at will. Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Townsend, I have work to see to.”

Sally, her mouth hanging open, was speechless as she watched him saunter away. She tried to rein in her fury for Papa’s sake but found it was not easy to do. At any rate, she would have no more qualms about feeding Robert the information about Simcoe’s fortifications. In fact, she walked around the barricade to observe the work in progress, under the guise that she was making sure the trees were being put to good use. The entire orchard had been destroyed and there was nothing she could do about it, other than make sure the rebels knew of Simcoe’s plans for Oyster Bay.

The party was to take place that evening. Sally wanted to follow her father’s lead and retire to her room, but she forced herself to get ready. Papa depended on her to keep the peace, even if he himself was unable to bring himself to act as the gracious host for Simcoe and his regiment.

She plastered a smile onto her face as she walked downstairs with Phoebe. Mother had borrowed a few slaves from the Buchanans to help prepare food and run it back and forth from the kitchen. All the chairs of the house had been gathered in the parlor. The small table the Townsends brought out on such occasions was placed in front of the built-in cupboard and already stacked with sweet meats and bread. Colonel Simcoe was standing in the living room, conversing with another fellow whom Sally recognized as an officer with the Rangers. Upon catching sight of the ladies, he requested them to come be presented to his companion, Captain McGill.

“You are so lucky, sir, to be billeted in the house with the most beautiful sisters in all of Long Island,” McGill said after the introductions were made.

“I completely agree with you,” Simcoe replied.

Sally had to concentrate to keep from frowning as she felt her heart ice over.

“Do you still hold me in low regard?” Simcoe asked as Phoebe and McGill fell into conversation.

Sally said nothing as she walked to the refreshment table. She pretended to be busy wiping down a spotless pewter plate with a rag she had grabbed from the corner cupboard.

“Miss Townsend.” The contrite tone in Simcoe’s voice caused Sally to finally look at him. His eyes, normally so commanding, looked sorrowful. “I’d like to explain my earlier actions, if you don’t mind.” He seated himself in a nearby chair.

Sally remained standing. “I believe you’ve made yourself quite clear. You think you have the right to confiscate other people’s property, and we can do nothing but watch.”

“Yes. There is that. And also, Lieutenant-General Erskine, who commands our forces on Long Island, told me only the day before that the Rangers would be moved to Jericho. I thought that an unwise move—Jericho is too far away from the shore to provide adequate protection from raiding parties. The only way for me to fully assure him of Oyster Bay’s potential was to fortify the redoubt. Your father’s trees were too convenient for that purpose to pass up.”

She wanted to reply that she would have preferred them all to be relocated to Jericho and out of her town, but she held her tongue. The trees were gone and nothing she could say would change that.

“I do want to say,” Simcoe continued, “that I have much cherished your presence on my daily excursions and would have missed them greatly had I been commanded to depart Oyster Bay.”

The words did little to melt the ice around Sally’s heart but she forced a conciliatory smile anyway. “I accept your explanation, Colonel Simcoe.” She adapted the same supercilious tone he had used that morning at the redoubt to add, “If you will now excuse me, I have more things to see to before our guests arrive.”

In the absence of Papa, who claimed to be sick and stayed in bed, Sally, Phoebe, and Mother greeted their non-military guests and introduced them to the newest British officers to occupy their town. Sally was apprehensive that the Loyalists might still be uncertain of Papa’s allegiances, especially given his nonattendance. Consequently, she went out of her way to appease them, turning on the charm by batting her eyelashes and over-serving their Madeira.

As the evening wore on, the guests—Tories, Whigs, and officers alike—dropped their guard and chatted over innocuous topics like the weather and if it would be a good harvest this year.

“Sarah,” McGill whispered to Sally as she rearranged some of the baked goods on the table.

She looked at him in surprise. “Are we addressing each other by first names now? If so, then you should probably know most people call me Sally.”

McGill’s eyes, slightly bloodshot now that he was deep in his cups, widened. “I’m sorry. Your mother mentioned something about her daughter, Sarah.” He bowed. “And I am John.”

“Mother usually only calls me by my real name when she is upset with me. She is the original Sarah Townsend.” Sally glanced about the room for Mother, but only caught sight of Simcoe, who was watching them from across the room.

“Sally, then.” McGill leaned in closer to her. “Are you close with your brother Robert?”

Sally nodded, fear washing over her.

“Do you think you could get him to print an article on my behalf?”

Sally let out a quiet breath. “You mean in the Gazette?”

“Yes,” McGill replied as another officer, obviously overhearing their conversation, sauntered over.

“Of course, Robert Townsend of New York City. I did not make the connection until now.” The man bowed toward Sally. “I am Captain Wilson. I’ve met Robert several times at Rivington’s coffee shop. In fact,” he took a small diamond ring off of his finger. “I won this from Rivington himself in a poker game.”

Sally took the proffered ring and held it up to the light. “It’s quite pretty.” She handed it over to McGill, who also admired it.

“Do you know what is unique about diamonds?” McGill asked. Both Wilson and Sally shook their heads. “They can cut through anything.”

“Anything?” Sally demanded. “Even glass?”

“Of course. I can prove it, if you’d like.” McGill headed over to the bay windows in the middle of the parlor. He held the diamond up to the window and began to etch. Phoebe and Sally Coles also came over to watch. McGill made a show of his movements, stepping back once he’d finished.

“The Adorable Miss Sally Townsend.” Phoebe read aloud. “But of course, you must sign your handiwork.”

McGill assumed his position, this time signing “J. McGill,” at the bottom with a flourish before turning to grin at Sally. He put an X through the word “Sally,” and wrote “Sarah” right above it.

“Write something about me,” Phoebe commanded. She’d obviously had a glass or two of Madeira herself and did not seem to mind that McGill was writing on her family’s windows. Sally, for her part, was stunned by the phrasing McGill had used. Did an almost stranger really find her adorable? McGill now scratched the words, “Miss P.T., the most accomplished young lady in Oyster Bay.”

Phoebe beamed as McGill glanced over at the remaining girl and wrote, “Sally Coles,” before pausing in thought.

“Captain McGill,” a gruff voice spoke out. Simcoe had joined them. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”

“Just having some fun with the ladies, here.” Remembering his place, McGill clicked his boot heels together, adding, “Sir,” before handing the ring back to Wilson.

Simcoe reached out to rub at the beginning words on Sally Cole’s window, to no avail. “These will never come out,” he said, dropping his hand. “You dare to deface our kind hosts’ property?”

Sally furrowed her brow at Simcoe. How could he carry on so? A few scratches on the window were nothing compared to the destruction of an entire orchard.

“I’m sorry, sir.” McGill addressed Sally. “Please accept my sincerest apologies, Sarah.” He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading as Sally relaxed her face. “I mean, Miss Townsend.”

Sally had not truly believed that the diamond etchings would be permanent, and, as she had imbibed in the wine as well, returned the smile. She would worry over Papa’s reaction to the windows in the morning. For now it was nice to have a handsome officer describe her as “adorable.”

Simcoe turned to Sally. “While I agree with Captain McGill’s sentiments, I must declare that it is time for my men to return to their post. Thank you for the party.” He bowed at Phoebe and then Sally Coles before glaring at McGill as the young captain followed suit.

“Maybe next time you could finish recording your thought,” Sally Coles giggled as McGill took his leave of her, kissing her on the hand. As the officers walked away to say their goodbyes, she said to the sisters, “That McGill is something else.”

“Indeed,” Phoebe agreed. “But all the while, his lieutenant was practically shooting daggers out of his eyes at him. I have a feeling that, with Simcoe in charge, McGill’s life in the regiment will not be easy going from now on.”

Chapter 41

Meg

December 1778

That holiday season, the Theatre Royale performed Shakespeare’s tragedy Julius Caesar. Meg took on the role of Calpurnia, the wife of Caesar—played by André—who tried to warn him before he is assassinated that she dreamt of his death, to no avail.

Shortly before the dress rehearsal, Meg was astonished to see the set designs, which included the Parthenon and beautiful Roman countryside. “Who painted these?” she asked, slowly rotating on the stage to take it all in.

“I did,” André said, entering in his toga.

“You speak German, French, and English, draw, paint, act, and have the finest military mind this side of the Atlantic.” Meg took an appreciative glance of his form before asking, “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I cannot juggle.”

Meg smiled. “But mayhap you will learn someday.”

“Mayhap.”

The rehearsal went well, and André, heady from both his spotless performance and the Madeira the cast had to celebrate afterward, was especially talkative at the fireplace in Meg’s room that night.

He confided in Meg his other reason to celebrate: “Clinton has just made me his chief intelligence officer!”

“Congratulations!” Meg lifted her glass to his.

“Yes. I do not believe that the Yankees take much stock in their newly formed alliance with France and now, with their currency practically worthless, they shan’t hold out much longer. One more decisive victory in our favor and I think the war will be over.”

Meg plastered a fake smile on her face and clinked his glass again. She hadn’t realized that the tides had turned that much. If her husband ended up on the winning side, she supposed they would return to England. Whereas she once fervently hoped for that outcome—albeit with a different beau—now she was not so sure she wanted to leave America.

“Of course,” André lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip. “There is the problem of intelligence slipping out of Manhattan.”

Meg practically choked on her wine. “Pardon?”

He didn’t seem to notice her disconcertion. “We’ve intercepted a letter intended for Washington mentioning a man named Samuel Culper Junior who has access to information on our troop sizes and the comings and goings of our warships. Apparently there exists a Samuel Culper Senior who also provides such intelligence. My men are on the lookout for a father/son spy team.”

“The Culpers?” Meg’s astonishment was not false. “I’ve never heard of them.”

André let out a giggle, followed by a hiccough. “It didn’t occur to me that you would have.”

She covered her confusion the best way she knew how. She tucked a stray ringlet behind her ear and slid closer to André. “Do you have any suspicions as to who these spies might be?”

“No.” He stood up. “But as chief intelligence officer, it is my job to find them.”

Meg’s lips formed a pout. “Are you leaving so soon?”

He shot her one of his easy grins. “I have to. I need to get up early tomorrow and continue my search.”

Meg barely noticed him leave, she was so concerned about the danger to her friends. Mercy was out of the city, but could Hercules Mulligan be one of their suspects? As far as she knew, his father had passed on and his sons were too young. But the Culpers could merely just be a code name. And with that, one of André’s lines from the play popped into her head:

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.

He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

Closing her eyes, she could see an image of Robert Townsend’s lean, dark-haired figure. Whomever these Culpers were, Meg had an intuition that Townsend was somehow involved. But instead of being afraid for him and his contacts, Meg felt a rush of fear for André. Shaking it off as Caesar did, she turned down her bed in preparation for sleep.

Chapter 42

Sally

January 1779

Sally had been avoiding Simcoe as best she could and no longer joined him on scouting missions. Simcoe had been absent for most of the family meals, choosing to bestow his presence at the tables of prominent Oyster Bay Loyalists. He celebrated the Christmas holiday with his regiment, leaving Papa, Mother, Sally, Phoebe, and William to dine in the kitchen.

The ice that formed over the harbor meant that Robert was unable to come home until after the New Year. The night he arrived, Sally was setting the table for five—as William had left for the city again—when Simcoe entered. He approached Robert, who was sitting near the fire, to introduce himself. “You must be the famed Robert I’ve heard so much about.”

Sally looked up from her chore, hoping that her brother would not think she was gossiping about him to Simcoe. But Robert remained as outwardly at ease as ever as he shook Simcoe’s hand. “And I’ve also heard much about you and your Rangers.”

“Colonel Simcoe, will you be joining us for dinner?” Sally asked. She wanted to show her brother that she could still be gracious to their houseguest.

Simcoe glanced at her, obviously surprised at Sally’s change of heart. “Yes I will, if you don’t mind.” He walked off in the direction of his room before pausing in the doorway. “Mr. Townsend, I do believe I am occupying your room.”

Robert held up his hand. “I am fine on the couch in the parlor. And, please call me Robert.”

At dinner, Robert sat beside Sally, with Simcoe seated next to Phoebe.

“Tell me, Colonel Simcoe. What do you do for leisure?” Robert inquired as their servant brought out the first course.

“Not that I have too much time for leisure, but I do enjoy reading. Shakespeare, to be more specific.”

Robert nodded. “I particularly enjoyed Julius Caesar.”

“I would be inclined to agree with you. My friend, John André, played him last month at the Theatre Royale,” Simcoe replied.

“Actually, I attended one of the performances,” Robert said, digging his fork into his venison. “He did quite well.”

“Yes, André is a real artiste.” Simcoe took a bite of food, and after a sip of wine, addressed Papa, “I must ask something I have been curious about. Are you of the Raynham Hall Townsends from Norwich?”

Papa chewed thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe my ancestors came from that area. But the Townsends have been in the colonies since before 1640,” he added proudly.

Simcoe nodded. “Charles Townshend, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was of Raynham Hall.”

Sally’s fork clattered to the plate. Charles Townshend was also the designer of the detestable Townshend Acts, the Parliament bill which proposed to tax the colonies for such necessities as paper and tea. The bill had induced riots among the outraged colonists and resulted in the Boston Massacre of 1770.

Papa held a tight smile. “I believe that Charles Townshend was a cousin.”

A proud American all of her life, Sally usually gave little thought to her family’s origins. She now thought it ironic that one of her relatives was responsible for the act that had so stirred the emotions of her countrymen. She glanced at Simcoe, wondering what his purpose had been for mentioning the fact. Was he indeed that curious or did he want to remind Papa that he had Loyalist blood? But Simcoe’s eyes were steadily focused on his plate.

After dinner, the female Townsends commenced sewing near the fire in the parlor. Sally waited until both Papa and Simcoe retired before asking Robert to accompany her to her bedroom upstairs.

Once there, Sally went to the broken clock and pulled out the documents she had collected.

Robert sat in her desk chair to flip through the papers, peering at Sally’s drawings of the redoubt and estimated troop numbers. “How did you come across this information?”

“I accompanied Simcoe on some of his excursions,” Sally said, keeping her eyes down as she felt Robert studying her. “But I forfeited going with him after the apple orchard incident.” She related what had happened to Papa’s trees.

Robert sat back. “I figured as much when I saw the cuttings. The British believe they can have access to whatever they need, whenever they need it,” he continued bitterly. “But,” he folded up Sally’s papers and put them in the pocket of his waistcoat. “We must keep those thoughts to ourselves. This information will be of great value to my contacts.”

“Who—” Sally began, but Robert held up his hand. “It is best if you don’t know. I recommend pursuing your friendship with Simcoe.”

“But I despise that man!”

He gave her a meaningful look. “I said friendship, and nothing more. You can try, can’t you, Sal? In order to help the cause?”

She sat on the bed. “I suppose so.”

He gestured toward the broken clock in the corner. “That’s a good spot for hiding. In fact,” he picked up a quill and dipped it into the inkwell on her desk. “I’m going to leave this piece of paper with you. It will allow you to disguise anything you might say that would be of interest to our enemies. If you feel it necessary to contact me, you can deliver the message to Daniel Youngs.”

“Youngs? He is a staunch Loyalist.”

“It would appear so, wouldn’t it? But Sal, make sure to conceal the papers in the horse’s saddle bag, not on your person. Do not make the mistake of putting important documents in your shoe. That would be the first place they search, not that they would have cause to search a woman. And this code will prevent an immediate recognition of intelligence.”

Sally nodded bravely.  

Robert rose to leave. “And Sal? Be careful. Simcoe is a crafty man. You must make sure he never knows your true purpose, or you will be putting us all in danger.”

Sally drew herself to her full height. “Of course.”

Chapter 43

Elizabeth

January 1779

One night in January, Robert did not show for the nightly tutoring session. Elizabeth’s puzzlement increased to genuine worry as the hour grew late. What if he had been discovered? Finally there was a knock on the door. After Abby answered it and led Robert into the kitchen, she gathered all three children and started to lead them into their bedroom.

“Mr. Townsend,” Johnny cried in anguish. “Are we not to learn tonight?”

Robert went over and ruffled the child’s hair. “Not tonight, Johnny, m’boy. Tomorrow.”

Catherine escaped Abby’s clutch to hug Robert’s legs. Abby managed to free her and bid him and Elizabeth goodnight. Robert kept his eyes on the door for seconds after Abby shut it.

“Robert?” Elizabeth asked. “What is it?”

“Abraham Woodhull’s father was accosted at his farmhouse a few nights ago. I have only just now heard.”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. “How do they—”

His next words made her blood run cold. “It was a raid led by Colonel Simcoe, the man who is billeted in my family’s home.”

“Oh, Robert.” She went to hug him, but his form remained stiff in her arms.

“Only a fortnight ago I told Sally to befriend him in order to get information.”

“Is Sally in danger?” Elizabeth broke her embrace to look him in the face. “Are you?”

He sank into a nearby chair. “As far as Brewster knows, it was a smuggler who had the misfortune to be captured by the British. He gave up Woodhull’s name to save his own hide. Luckily Woodhull was in the city, staying with the Underhills, and had no papers in Setauket to be found, but that did not spare his father.”

“How goes Abraham’s father?”

“He is badly beaten but he will survive.”

Elizabeth sat down across the table from Robert. “And this smuggler… how did he get Abraham’s name?”

Robert shook his head and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.”

She reached out to clasp his hand. “You must stay here tonight, just to be safe.”

“No.” His voice was adamant. “I have caused my loved ones much danger.” He dropped her hand. “For your own safety, we must no longer associate.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat to keep her next words from getting caught. “That will be very difficult for me to do, considering that I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Robert’s face crumpled briefly before the stoic mask reappeared. “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

“Robert—”

“Think of the children. They need their mother. They don’t need a spy in their midst, threatening their very foundation.” He stood up, his long legs striding toward the door.

Elizabeth struggled to keep up with him. “Robert,” she tried again in the hallway, but he held up his hand. He unlocked the door and opened it before turning back to her. “I do feel it is necessary to state that I love you too.” And with that, he walked down the stairs and out of Elizabeth’s life.

Chapter 44

Sally

February 1779

At Robert’s urging, Sally resumed her friendship with Simcoe. As they drilled, she estimated the number of the soldiers in the way Robert taught her: to count only the greencoats in one section of grass and then multiply that by the number of sections. It was not easy, but it was less confusing than counting each individual soldier as they marched by in their varying formations.

Simcoe took his eyes off his troop in order to watch Sally. She realized she’d been unconsciously pointing with her finger as she counted.

“About 450,” Simcoe told her. “One hundred on horseback.”

“So many!” Sally cried out, trying to distract him if he was at all suspicious of her true purpose. She next tried flattery. “And all under your command.”

“Indeed.” Simcoe’s chest puffed out like a pigeon. “They would die for me with no qualms.”

“How… nice,” Sally said, for lack of anything else.

Simcoe captured her hand in his. “I would die for you, as well.”

Sally refrained herself from snatching her hand back. “I do not require that of you.” She turned her head back to the troops, feeling Simcoe’s eyes on her.

That night at dinner, Simcoe informed the Townsends that he would be expecting a houseguest in the next few days. “My friend, John André. He recently was appointed Adjutant General of the army, and it seems his new duties have gotten to his psyche. General Clinton suggested he take some time away, and what better place to recuperate than the fine town of Oyster Bay?”

Papa merely nodded his acquiescence. Ever since the apple orchard incident, he had grown ever the more reticent around Simcoe.

Phoebe had the opposite reaction. “Major André is coming here?” She looked at Sally excitedly, who shrugged in return. Phoebe turned to Simcoe. “How are you acquainted with him?”

“We met when we were stationed in Philadelphia,” Simcoe replied smoothly.

“Where will he stay?” Mother asked. “We have a small attic room where William and Robert sleep occasionally, but it is cold up there.”

Simcoe held up his hand. “He will stay in the extra bed in my room. I would not want to put your family out more than I have already.”

“I will make sure he has the best blankets and coverings that we have,” Phoebe stated, almost to herself.

Simcoe laughed. “I’m certain he will appreciate that.”

Phoebe held her hand to her lips. “Oh, Colonel Simcoe, I did not mean…”

“It’s fine.” He wiped his mouth and stood from the table. “I, too, must prepare for André.”

Phoebe sat back with satisfaction. Sally knew she had watched with envy as first Hannah and then Audrey got married and started new lives with their husbands. With most of the boys they had grown up with now off fighting on either side of the war, Sally knew Phoebe worried that she was approaching prime marrying age. None of them wanted to end up like Lydia Jones, their distant cousin and neighbor who, at 30, was considered too old to marry. A spinster, she had been dependent on her father to house her and take care of her expenses, but when he died, she was forced to take a position as a maid to earn her own keep. Sally knew that Phoebe had hoped the Jäger Lieutenant Ochse would have proposed to her, but he left without much of a goodbye when his troop was called away. Sally, too, feared the fate of becoming a spinster, but not as much as being forced into a marriage with the enemy.

The next morning the elegant Major André appeared at the Townsends’ door. Phoebe had risen early and put on her best chintz morning gown and curled her hair. Sally had rolled out of bed in her usual manner and thrown on whatever dress was handy. Both girls positioned themselves in the hallway, eager to lay their eyes on the celebrated André for different reasons. Simcoe led André into the living room. As the companions stood opposite to shake hands, Sally could not help but compare the two. Where Simcoe was broad, André was slim; Simcoe had frizzy hair that often escaped his unadorned queue, André’s hair was styled with two curls at each temple and the rest tied back neatly with a ribbon; Simcoe had a wide face whereas André’s was narrow, with evenly sculpted features. Indeed, André was as handsome as the rumors implied.

Simcoe, on catching sight of the sisters, gestured for them to enter.

“Major André, may I present two of the famed Townsend women, Phoebe and Sally.” After they curtsied, André kissed their hands in turn. Was it Sally’s imagination or did André’s lips linger for just a few seconds longer on her? She dropped her eyes to the floor and then raised them back up the way she’d often seen Audrey do. André returned her glance, his brown eyes reminding Sally of a doe facing down the barrel of a rifle: wide and almost sorrowful. The image disappeared as André’s perfectly shaped lips expanded into a grin. Sally’s face heated as she realized she was still holding her hand up. She dropped it to her side as André chuckled.

“Shall I make you gentlemen some tea?” Phoebe asked.

Simcoe, who had been watching Sally as always, frowned. “No, I think we will head to the back bedroom to discuss a few military matters.”

“But I do look forward to seeing you both at dinner,” André said with a bow. His gait, quickened to catch up with the striding Simcoe, had a jauntiness that belied the major’s confidence.

“I do not believe I have ever met a man like Major André,” Phoebe said when the two men had retreated down the hall.

“This time I quite agree with you, sister.” Sally said, watching as Simcoe led André into the room. André tipped his hat at her before walking in and closing the door.

At dinner that night, André and Simcoe chatted amicably. Occasionally André would ask Papa questions on neutral topics—naturally avoiding the subject of war—but Papa would only return one-word answers. When André inquired as to what he thought of the newest fashions coming from the French court, Papa replied that he paid no such mind to fashion. Sally exchanged a worried glance with Phoebe. A year ago he would have been eager to discuss the wardrobe of the French king.

Mother sought to put André at ease. “Shall we plan an afternoon tea for your men this Wednesday?” she asked Simcoe.

Simcoe nodded before wiping his mouth. “I would be much obliged, thank you, Mrs. Townsend.”

“I’ll make my famous tea cakes,” Phoebe said.

“I cannot wait to taste them,” André replied. Phoebe simpered and Sally recalled her sister’s victory, although short lived, with Leutnant Ochse’s affections. But then André turned to Sally and asked, “And what is your specialty?”

Sally, whose knowledge of baking was quite limited, murmured something about olykoeks, a round treat of fried dough.

“Ah, yes,” André’s smile seemed to brighten the dim room. “My mother, being from France, used to call them ‘crispies.’ I will very much look forward to tasting them.” He winked at Phoebe. “And of course, your sweet cakes.”

Phoebe raised her shoulders and looked smug while Sally refrained from rolling her eyes.

Phoebe spent the next day baking and preparing the table for the following afternoon’s tea. She retrieved her mother’s best china from the cupboard in the parlor and then set about polishing the silver teaspoons until they gleamed as if brand new. She looked up at Sally, who stood empty-handed near the door to the hallway. “I’m finished in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, but I’m just going to make the olykoeks tomorrow.”

“Won’t they need time to cool?” Phoebe held up a spoon to the light, frowned, and then rubbed at it again with her cloth.

“They’ll be fine as long as I start on them in the morning. I was going to see if André and Simcoe wanted to go for a ride this afternoon.”

Phoebe’s face turned downward. “That’s just like you to be out gallivanting instead of cooking or sewing. You will make a poor wife someday.” Her voice rose on the last part as Major André walked into the room.

“Any man would be beyond pleased to have Sally as his wife,” André stated. “I’d much rather have a riding companion.”

Sally’s heart expanded in her chest as Phoebe frowned. “Are you up for a ride now?” Sally asked.

“Of course,” he said, winking at Phoebe before he linked his arm through Sally’s.

“Who will cook and clean for you if your wife is always on her horse?” Phoebe called as the pair began to saunter off.

“Isn’t that what maids are for?” Sally tossed the words over her shoulder as André chuckled.

“I am going to change into my riding habit,” Sally told André when they reached the hallway. She found that she was reluctant to have her arm back.

“And I will extend the invitation to Colonel Simcoe.”

“Surely,” Sally said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Although it would be considered improper to go riding alone with a near stranger, she would have liked for their chaperone to not be Simcoe. Still, she thought, climbing the steps, at least he did not ask Phoebe.

Simcoe, desiring to show off his work at the redoubt to André, led the way for the ride. André rode beside Sally.

“You know something, Miss Townsend?” Sally glanced over to see Major André staring intently at her. “Your profile is quite breathtaking.”

Sally felt her face heat up underneath her bonnet as she focused on the path in front of her.

“I dabble a bit in silhouettes. Would you mind if I did a cut-out of you sometime?”

She looked over at him again. André rode confidently, holding the reins with only one hand. “I’d be delighted.”

That evening, when Sally came to dinner, she was surprised to spot a folded paper at her plate. Upon opening it, she gasped to see it was a drawing of her in her riding habit and signed by John André.

André entered the room and caught her studying it. “I’m afraid it does not do you justice.”

“Oh, it is beautiful. Thank you, Major André.”

“A beautiful picture for a beautiful girl.”

He does flatter so. “Tell me, Major André, a man of your demeanor must have all the New York City girls fawning over you. Have you one in particular?”

André paused for a brief moment. “I have become quite taken with Mrs. Coghlan, actually.” He said the words so matter-of-factly that Sally could not imagine there was much passion between them.

“How wonderful for Mrs. Coghlan,” Sally replied, giving no recognition that she recognized the name. Inwardly she was curious as to what Meg was up to.

“But my heart still has room for more affections,” he said with a wink.

“Phoebe will be glad to hear of it.”

“And are you?”

Sally peered at him. The question seemed to come out of sincerity and she wondered if he knew that Simcoe might have designs on her as well. “Mayhap,” Sally said in a neutral tone as she set off to place the drawing in a prominent position in her room.

The next morning Sally rose early to prepare the olykoeks. She rolled the dough—a mixture of eggs, yeast, and raisins—into little balls before putting them into a lard-filled iron cask. After a few minutes over the fire, the dough balls turned a delectable brown. She then sprinkled them with sugar before setting them on the kitchen table to cool.

Sally—thinking again of Major André’s brown eyes, as she had been all morning—spent extra time on her hair and dress, choosing a lavender lutestring with a cream underskirt. When she went back downstairs, Phoebe had arranged the sweet cakes she made in the middle of the dining room table. She pointed to an empty charger off to one side. “I would have put the olykoeks there, but I could not locate them.”

“They are on the table,” Sally said as she passed by her sister. But when she got into the kitchen, she did not see them. “Did you move them, Phoebe?” she called.

“No.”

That is odd, Sally thought as she began opening cabinets. When she did not find them, she asked her mother, but she had not seen them either. After one more search, Sally walked back into the dining room where Phoebe was fussing over the placement of the cake plate, moving it an inch to the side before moving it back.

Sally put her hands on her hips. “I know you took them,” she said accusingly.

“I did not.” Phoebe did not look up.

“Yes you did,” Sally’s voice rose.

“Sally,” Phoebe turned to her sister, the picture of innocence. “I did not.”

“What is all of this?” André asked as he and Simcoe entered the dining room, each dressed in their respective uniforms: André’s coat in red and Simcoe’s a moss green. Both of the men glanced appreciatively at the table.

Sally did not want to burden the gentlemen with their domestic dispute, but Phoebe pointed at her and said, “Sally somehow misplaced the olykoeks and now she is blaming me.”

André tipped his head back and roared. “Oh Sally, how could you? Have you checked everywhere?”

“I did.”

He walked over to the built-in cabinet. “Even in,” he opened the two bottom doors with a flourish, “here?” And there, placed directly in the center of the shelf, were the olykoeks.

“You hid them!” Sally said with a laugh as she came over to stand beside André. After retrieving them, she set them next on the charger. “There appears to be some missing.”

André patted his vest. “And they were delicious.”

Simcoe watched the exchange, his face growing darker and his frown deepening. He walked over to the plate and grabbed an olykoek. He popped it into his mouth and declared it “excellent” before casting his eyes at his friend.

André, obviously unaware of the showdown developing between him and Simcoe, asked Phoebe if he could be of any service.

“No, of course not. I have it all handled,” she said, with an emphasis on the “I”.

A heavy knock sounded on the door. “I will get it,” Sally said. She led Captain McGill and another soldier into the dining room and Simcoe introduced them to Major André.

After a few more Rangers arrived, Phoebe invited the men to sit at the table. André, presumably unknowingly, took Simcoe’s usual place next to Sally. Phoebe, seating herself at the head, seemed dismayed by this until McGill, at her right hand, complimented her on her pink dress.

“Thank you, Captain McGill. I am also responsible for the table settings,” Phoebe said as she leaned over him to pour tea into his cup.

“Clearly you have exquisite taste,” McGill replied.

“Did I mention that I have met your brother on several occasions?” André asked Sally.

The blood in her veins momentarily chilled. “Oh?” she asked.

“Yes, at Rivington’s coffee shop. I’ve also had a few poems published in the Gazette.”

“Ah,” Sally said, reaching for an olykoek. Phoebe gave her a dirty look, probably for lunging across the table.

“He’s quite a reticent man,” André continued. Sally gave him a tiny smile, wondering if the chief of British intelligence had more than a passing interest in her brother or if he was just making casual conversation. “Ah, Bohea.” André took a sip of tea before setting his cup down. “My favorite,” he said, bestowing a grin on Sally and then Phoebe.

When the pleasant exchanges at the tea table turned to military matters, Sally and Phoebe fell silent and pretended not to listen. The way the soldiers spoke about a visit they paid to a gentleman in Setauket, Sally gathered that it was not an amiable social call.

“Woodhull was not there, but I think we made our message clear by our treatment of the old rebel,” Simcoe stated.

To Sally, it seemed as though Simcoe had ordered, or even participated in, the harming of a helpless elder and yet showed no remorse. But there was something else he said that perked Sally’s ears. The words, “Abraham Woodhull?” came involuntarily out of her mouth as the men at the table exchanged glances. Why did I say that? Sally asked herself. “I’ve met him,” she added, careful not to mention that Robert introduced them. She realized that Woodhull must have come under their suspicion, so Sally sought a way to affirm his innocence. “He’s as loyal to the Crown as they come,” she continued, an affected hint of dissent in her voice.

“You speak of that like it is distasteful,” McGill commented from the end of the table.

“Why, Captain McGill,” Sally replied. “That would imply I knew anything about politics.”

“You don’t?” André asked.

She batted her eyes at him. “I don’t bother to fill my pretty little head with such trifles,” she said, pleased when, after the men’s laughter died down, the talk turned back to more nonpartisan topics, including the impending Valentine’s Day.

“I shall pin bay leaves to my pillow this year now that I am nearing a marrying age,” Phoebe said.

“Bay leaves?” McGill inquired.

“If you have bay leaves on your pillow and you dream of your sweetheart, you shall be married,” Sally told him.

“And what happens if you don’t dream of him?” André asked.

Sally shrugged.

“Such a strange tradition,” André stated. “Last night I dreamt of my horse. Does that mean I shall marry him?”

“Only if you had bay leaves on your pillow and only if it is the night before Valentine’s Day,” Phoebe replied.

“Have you performed this ritual before?” Simcoe inquired of Sally.

“I never had a beau to dream of,” she said softly.

“And this year?” McGill asked.

Sally, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on her, looked down at her hands before nodding.

After she finished helping Phoebe clear the table, Sally put on her wool-lined cloak and went outside. Her favorite place to think had always been the apple orchard, so she sat down on a stump to contemplate all that she heard at tea. Simcoe was clearly a dangerous man and she hoped her comments on Woodhull would afford him some protection. She recalled the kindness of Mary Underhill, Woodhull’s sister, and could not imagine how awful it must have been to hear of the ill treatment toward her father. Her resolution to keep Simcoe in good company was ever the more important now, both for Papa and Robert’s safety.

That night when Sally headed up to her room to retire, she noticed a small card had been slipped under the door. It was her silhouette, cut by Major André and accompanied by a note: “If you put this under the pillow strewn with leaves, mayhap you should dream of me.” The dreams she had that night did include the major, but instead of Sally and him riding off into the sunset, Sally saw him and Robert dueling with swords. She woke up in a cold sweat, unsure of the outcome she would have wished for.

Simcoe sought her out after breakfast. “I wrote this for you, Miss Townsend,” he said, handing her a neatly folded piece of paper.

“What is it?” she asked as he led her into the living room. He motioned for her to sit on the couch and then boldly sat beside her. “Open it.”

As Sally unfolded it, she saw that it was a sketch in Simcoe’s own hand of two hearts, one with the initials S.T. and the other J.G.S., spliced by an arrow. Underneath was a poem.

“Read it aloud,” Simcoe commanded.

Sally began, her words stumbling over the beginning:

Fairest Maid where all are fair,

Beauty’s pride and Nature’s care;

To you my heart I must resign’

O choose me for your Valentine!

The poem went on to declare Simcoe’s “pure, unchanging” love for Sally, comparing her eyes to lightning fire and invoking images of fields strewn with roses and lilies.

“Sally,” Simcoe took the valentine and put it on the table before he placed his hand over hers. Sally balked at both the use of her proper name and the physical contact. “I am to be called away for the summer, but hope to return in the fall.” Her heart swelled at the ability to drop the facade of her possessing affection for Simcoe, even if it were to only be a temporary reprieve. “If our relationship continues, and if you would permit me, I would then ask your father for your hand in marriage.”

Sally gasped aloud as she put her other hand to her chest. At that moment, Major André passed by in the hall. Sally looked up to see him stop his stride and then switch his course to the living room. “What is all of this?” he asked as he walked in, glancing at Simcoe’s improper proximity to Sally and then dropping his gaze to the valentine on the table.

Simcoe seemed to have taken Sally’s reaction for acquiescence. He patted her hand before rising. “I have just declared my love for Miss Townsend and asked to marry her.”

“And she accepted?” André gave Sally a puzzled look.

She decided to cover her confusion with a giggle. “I have not yet consented, but will promise to give it much thought these months that you will be gone.”

“Deployment?” André asked Simcoe.

He nodded.

“Actually, I came to tell you that I too must leave Oyster Bay and return to the city.” André said loftily, as if he had not been heading outside before he spotted the two of them.

Sally felt like a chicken caught between two foxes. Agreeing to marry Simcoe meant protection for her family, but she was not sure she could stomach the thought of being his wife. On the other hand, there was the dashing Major André, who had gone out of his way with all of those affectionate gifts. If she could manage to cast her loyalty aside and begin a relationship with André, it would only serve to anger Simcoe more. And there was the major’s reputation as a hopeless flirt and that mention of Meg Coghlan, to boot. She decided to take the path of neutrality.

“I shall mourn both of your absences,” she said, rising from the couch and venturing toward the hallway.

“Miss Townsend?” Simcoe had reverted back from calling her by her Christian name.

“Yes?” she asked, turning around.

“Do not forget your valentine,” he said, holding it aloft.

She curtsied before walking to retrieve it. “Thank you.”

André left the next day, but not before gifting Sally yet another representation of his artistic accomplishments. He had boldly placed a poem, entitled “The Frantick Lover,” under her pillow. Upon discovering it, Sally quickly scanned through it, a few lines leaping off the page and into her heart.

The star of the evening now bids thee retire;

Accurs’d be its Orb and extinguish’d its fire!

For it shows me my rival, prepared to invade

Those charms which at once I admired and obey’d.

My insolent rival, more proud of his right,

Contemns the sweet office, that soul of delight.

Less tender, he seizes thy lips as his prey,

And all thy dear limbs the rough summons obey.

Sally clutched the missive to her chest, realizing that she was not just another of André’s paramours and that his feelings, much like hers, ran very deep. The rival he referred to was undoubtedly Simcoe. If only she could convey that she did not want to obey his “rough summons,” but doing so might put her family in danger of Simcoe’s wrath.

Chapter 45

Elizabeth

March 1779

Robert had not returned to the store for more than a month. Elizabeth had to come up with an excuse for Robert’s neglect to her saddened children, saying that he had gone away on business.

One afternoon in late March, she was surprised to see James Rivington enter the shop. “Mrs. Burgin,” he called, an unmistakable urgency in his voice. “You must come now!”

“Come?” Elizabeth asked as she came out from behind the counter. “What do you mean?”

Rivington’s head swiveled at a customer in the corner before he grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her into the stockroom. “You are in grave danger. Higday has given your name to the British, and they are searching for you as we speak. We must fetch your children and I am to take your family to the Underhills.’”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. “How do you know this?”

“Robert contacted me. He is arranging someplace for you to stay on Long Island. More can be explained later—we do not have much time now.”

“Right.” Elizabeth hurried upstairs, shouting for Abby. The two women grabbed what little clothes they could fit into a small valise before rushing back downstairs, Abby holding the hands of the bewildered older children and Elizabeth with the baby in her arms. Rivington had gotten rid of the customer and stood waiting next to the door. He shouldered the valise and explained that everyone needed to be calm and act as though nothing was amiss.

“What about our dog?” Johnny asked as Rivington opened the door and began to usher the children outside.

Rivington cast his eyes to Elizabeth.

“My husband’s since before the war.” She found her voice was shaky.

“I will take care of it,” he said. The gruff words seemed to satisfy Johnny and he went out into the sunshine.

Elizabeth found that remaining calm was difficult once she saw all of the Redcoats in the Underhills’ tavern. Rivington set the valise down next to the counter before he went to greet the British officers. Elizabeth walked to the desk, her bonnet pulled over her face. “I’d like a room, please,” she told Mary, pretending as though she didn’t know her.

“Certainly,” Mary glanced at Rivington before glancing down at the ledger. “For you, the maid, and the children?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth looked down at Catherine, who seemed stuck to her side. Johnny stood next to her, uncharacteristically holding his sister’s hand. “One night only. We will be leaving very early in the morning.”

Mary nodded as she handed her a key. “We only have the top room available. Shall I show you up?” She came around to fetch the valise.

“That is most kind of you,” Elizabeth said.

Abby went to pick up Georgie, who had toddled toward a table of Redcoats, their mugs of ale nearly empty. “Come along, children.”

Once they were safely behind the closed door of Abraham Woodhull’s former room, Mary sat the valise on the bed. “What is going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Elizabeth replied. “I was of the mind that you would know more.”

Mary shook her head, eying the children, who, under Abby’s supervision, were wandering the small room in investigation. “Robert rushed over here to let me know that you would be arriving and that it would be best to act as though you were a regular guest.”

“It was something about Higday.”

“Do they know about the prisoners?”

“I don’t know.” Elizabeth was unaware that Mary herself knew about the mutiny on the Jersey. “Mary, I am afraid,” she stated in a low voice.

Mary gave her a brief embrace. “Robert will take care of it.” They both looked down as little Georgie pulled on his mother’s skirt and announced that he was hungry.

“It’s best not to let on that you are afraid,” Mary said, bending down to tell the boy that she would bring them a snack. “I’d better get back downstairs. If anyone was watching, it should not take me too much time to show you up here.”

Elizabeth nodded.

As soon as she left, Abby asked to know what Mary meant about the prisoners. “Are they upset with you for bringing them blankets?”

“I am not sure.” Elizabeth affected a lofty air. “We will have to wait and see.” She pulled a book out of her valise and then sat on the floor to read to the children.

An hour later, Elizabeth and Abby were trying in vain to get the children to nap when there was a knock on the door. Elizabeth answered it, expecting to see Mary back with refreshments. But it was Robert who strode into the room.

The children shouted, “Mr. Townsend!” and ran to embrace his legs.

“Shh,” he said, bending down to greet them each by name. “I have a present for you,” he said, brandishing a small spinning top. Johnny took it from him and rotated it on the floor. Robert nodded a greeting at Abby. “Children, make sure you take turns and be sure to keep the noise down. I’ve got to speak with your mother.”

They retreated to the farthest corner of the little room as Abby bent down to oversee the children’s playing.

“What is going on?” Elizabeth was anxious and not a little upset that she had not seen Robert for weeks and now they were to meet under these circumstances.

“Near as I can tell, some time ago the British intercepted a letter from Washington intended for Ben. The general must not have had the code book available when he wrote it because he mentioned Higday by name as a person that could be of use to the ring.”

“And how do the British know of me?”

“They arrested Higday. His wife, in an attempt to lessen his punishment, gave up your name as helping Higday assist the prison ships. That is all they know currently. I don’t believe Higday has knowledge of the escape, but we cannot be sure. I’ve arranged for William to accompany you to Oyster Bay. You will stay there for a fortnight or so while I locate a more permanent residence for you, some place far away from here.”

“No,” Elizabeth stated resolutely. “I did not leave during the siege and I will not remove my children from their home.”

“Elizabeth.” Robert met her gaze. His face looked anguished, even more pale and gaunt than the last time she’d seen him. He reached up as though to touch her hair and then reconsidered, his hand falling back to his side. “I’m sorry, but to do that is to put you and the children in grave danger. You must leave the city as soon as possible. William will meet you at the wharf tomorrow to bring you to my friend Daniel Youngs’ house.”

“I will not depend on the pity of others,” Elizabeth replied, this time a bit more weakly as she took a sidelong glance at her children.

“Youngs will be well compensated for the additional mouths to feed, and William has volunteered. The sentries at the ferry are familiar with his comings and goings, and, as he will claim you as a cousin, it should not arouse suspicion.” Robert, too, cast his eyes to the group playing on the floor. “I wish I could accompany you to Oyster Bay myself, but there are stirrings amongst my contacts that lead me to believe the British might be making a large move in the future.”

Elizabeth nodded. “The cause must come first.” She sighed. “I will go to Oyster Bay with the understanding that this might be a storm that blows over as quickly as it came in.”

Robert set his lips in a firm line. “Thank you.” He let out a breath. “With that, I must be going.”

Elizabeth could not help throwing herself into his arms. This time his hand entangled itself in her hair.

“Why are you crying, Mama?” Catherine asked. She had grown bored with the top and now stood next to them.

“It is all fine, little Kitty,” Robert said, ruffling her curls. “You are going to take a vacation in my hometown.” The smile he bestowed on her did not extend past his mouth.

Elizabeth ran her fingers under her eyes and then wiped them on her apron. “Children, come say goodbye to Mr. Townsend.”

Chapter 46

Meg

April 1779

In early April, Meg and André met for an afternoon tea and found themselves alone in the room. General Clinton and many of his officers and hangers-on had taken advantage of the weather and had gone quail hunting in the countryside. André had declined, wanting to get some rest. As the maid poured their tea, Meg asked how his new position as head of intelligence was going.

“Well,” he replied, “We managed to intercept some papers addressed to Benjamin Tallmadge, and written by Washington himself. We found one of the spies he mentioned. A man by the name of George Higday.”

Meg spooned sugar into her tea. Her heartbeat had sped up when he said the word, “spies,” but she was unfamiliar with anyone named Higday.

“We had him in Bridewell prison for over a week, but he refused to give us any more information. His wife, however, on hearing of his arrest, gave up another name. A woman who supposedly was the mastermind of a prison ship coup. Can you imagine? They keep such poor records aboard the ship that no one knew that so many men had disappeared.”

“What was the woman’s name?” Meg managed to ask, even though her throat seemed suddenly obstructed and her chest tight.

André rolled his eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember. “Bergen. Eliza Bergen.” Meg refrained from correcting André as he continued, “We visited her place of residence, but it looks as though she might have fled, probably for the countryside. Clinton is offering a reward of 200 pounds if she can be apprehended. He has it in his head that she can lead us to the Culpers, though I personally don’t think a woman could be involved with Washington’s main ring.”

Meg set her spoon down. Pushing her tea setting aside, she searched desperately for a reason to leave. She would have given anything to shed decorum and run from the room, but doing so would only invite André’s inquiry, and possibly end his ability to talk so freely with her about the Culpers.

André, unaware of his companion’s anxiousness, mentioned that a Loyalist acquaintance he had in Philadelphia had recently married General Arnold, the American hero of Saratoga.

“Oh?” Meg asked, pretending to be absorbed in the conversation. “What sort of acquaintance?”

André smiled his golden grin. “Not that kind. Peggy Shippen was well educated, like you and Honora. However, I wish she would have put some of that knowledge to learning rather than social climbing.” He raised one eyebrow as he glanced at Meg.

“Another woman falling in love with a man of the enemy’s army,” Meg murmured, momentarily forgetting her plight. “Do you know if her family approved?”

“Well, they were quite strict.” André took a sip of tea before delicately setting the cup in the saucer. “Peggy could not even go to the Meschianza ball because a few Quakers pleaded with her father that it was too indecent.” His voice reflected the bitterness he must have felt of that declaration. “But even if they are strict Loyalists, becoming the wife of the military commander of Philadelphia has its own perks.”

“Are his fortunes still secure even after that court martial?” Many British officers had derided the fact that the Continental army was accusing one of their own generals of stealing from them and the matter had been fodder for gossip at One Broadway for weeks.

“Fortunes?” André roared. “Arnold claims the army owes him that in back pay. He barely has a penny to his name.” André set his teacup down. “I wonder…” He rose from the table so abruptly that his chair fell over.

“Major André?” Meg called at his retreating back, thankful for the end of their conversation, though a bit perplexed by André’s sudden exit. As soon as she heard a door slam down the hallway, she left the tea table and hastened to her room. Despite Mercy’s assurances, Elizabeth’s husband died in part due to Meg’s treason. She was determined to help her any way she could, even if it meant sacrificing her own safety.

The maid was still clearing the tea cups when Meg came back downstairs. “If anyone asks, please tell them that I’ve just stepped out to run an errand,” Meg commanded her. The maid nodded demurely.

Once on the street, Meg realized that she had no way of getting to the other side of the city besides walk. She recalled the heady days before the occupation when she and Aaron would ride out together. Now he’s traipsing about with a married woman! Meg thought. Her heart caught in her throat as she thought of Aaron’s dark eyes. I hope they’re happy, she thought before she turned toward Queen Street.

She was used to riding about town on horseback or in a carriage; the view from the ground was very different. Most of the beautiful trees that once shaded the avenues had been cut down for firewood last winter, and the April sun heated her bonnet and the back of her neck. Meg wrinkled her nose as the wind blew, bringing with it an overwhelming smell of decay, likely from the Sugar House and Bridewell prisons only a few blocks north. Mercy had once told her that the prisons were so crowded with Americans that there was not enough space for all of them to sleep and they had to take turns lying down. Still, Meg thought as she crossed Smith Street, it must be better to be detained in a land jail than on those hulks in Wallabout Bay. She recalled what André had said about Elizabeth. She knew Elizabeth’s husband had died aboard the Jersey and Mercy had once mentioned that Elizabeth brought blankets and food to the prisoners. Meg did not have much more information than that, but she knew where to go to find more.

“Robert Townsend,” Meg gasped as she finally made it to Hercules Mulligan’s shop. She put a hand to her side. “I must speak to Townsend.”

“Meg?” Hercules came from around the counter. “Look at you. You’re covered in sweat,” he added distastefully.

“I had to walk.”

“From where? Your sanctuary with André?”

Meg straightened her posture. “Do not start with me, Hercules. You know what my husband is like.”

He cast a quick look around and then said in a low voice, “Yes, but m’dear, you are now in the perfect position to resume your old work.”

“No,” Meg said vehemently. “I need to find Townsend.”

Hercules shook his head. “He has become quite the scarce man these days. You might try over at the Underhills.’ It’s only a few blocks that way,” he said, extending his thumb north. “Why are you so interested in finding Townsend?”

“I need to tell him something. It’s extremely important.” She quickly filled him in on what André had told her at tea.

Hercules nodded. “C’mon. I’ll take you there.”

They soon arrived at a simple brownstone and Hercules led her inside. There was only one man sitting in the tavern area. A middle-aged woman with a round face was behind the counter. “Hercules!” she exclaimed upon spying him. “What brings you here?”

“We’re looking for Townsend,” he said in a low voice.

Mary Underhill frowned. “I have not seen him lately.” She nodded to the man in the tavern. “Perhaps my brother Abraham can help. He’s known Robert since they spent some time in Culpepper County, Virginia.”

Meg gasped when she realized that by Culpepper, she must have meant Culper.

Hercules raised his chin in recognition. “Not here, though.”

“That’s right, I do have a room available for a few hours,” she said loudly. “Abraham, I cannot leave my desk right now. Can you show this kind couple up to the attic room?”

Abraham got up slowly. With his sallow complexion and untidy hair, Meg would not expect him to be in the line of work he followed. At any rate, she supposed, he was of the type that could be easily overlooked. “Abraham Woodhull,” he said when they reached the attic. He bowed briefly and shut the door behind them. “I take it you have some business?”

“I was originally looking for Robert Townsend,” Meg said, “but your sister said you could help. It concerns Elizabeth Burgin.”

Woodhull gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Go on.”

“She is in grave danger. Clinton has a price on her head!” Meg’s voice rose in panic as she thought of the peril Elizabeth might be facing.

Woodhull’s eyebrows knit together. “Are you aware of anything else that might be of importance?”

Meg drew in a deep breath. “André mentioned that she might be of assistance in uncovering who the Culpers are.”

This finally caused a real reaction in Woodhull. His face fell as he staggered into a nearby desk chair.

“Do you know where she is?” Meg cried.

“For now, she is in a safe place, but now we must convey her out of the city as soon as possible.”

“She should go to West Point,” Hercules interjected.

Abraham put his chin in his hand. “The military garrison?”

“That way there will be no Loyalists to give her away,” Hercules said as Meg searched her head for where she had heard those words before. She scrunched her face before her eyes widened. Of course! In her last letter, Mercy had mentioned that Dr. McKnight had been recently stationed at West Point to manage an inoculation clinic. “I have a friend there,” she said.

Woodhull reached into the desk and pulled out a piece of paper and a vial. “I will get this to Robert as soon as I can.” With that, he turned his back and began scribbling. Meg noticed that his pen must have run dry because no ink was showing up on the paper. Before she could point this out to him, Hercules pushed her out of the room.

Chapter 47

Elizabeth

April 1779

There had been no time to pack. Someone had knocked roughly on the Youngs’ door in the middle of the night. Elizabeth, awakened by the noise, went out to the hallway and listened as a gruff voice asked for her by name. She did not want to cause the Youngs any more danger and hurriedly threw on some clothes, prepared to accept her fate if the unexpected visitor was a Redcoat. But it was Caleb Brewster who stood in the doorframe. Both he and Daniel turned as she hastened downstairs.

“We must go now, tonight,” Brewster said. He was, as usual, dressed all in black, but now his look was complete with a floppy black hat and mud darkening the features of his face not covered by his heavy beard.

“Just let me wake the children and Abby,” Elizabeth replied.

“No,” Brewster said firmly. “My instructions are to bring you only.”

“I’ve already arranged with Caleb that they can stay here as long as necessary,” Daniel told her kindly.

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “I cannot leave them!”

“You can send for them as soon as the scandal dies down.”

“Scandal?” Elizabeth’s throat closed and she struggled to get the next words out. “Has my name appeared in the Gazette?”

“Not the Gazette,” Brewster said, placing an arm on her shoulder to urge her out the door. “But pretty much every other paper in the city. One of our contacts told us Clinton offered two hundred pounds for your seizure.” He nodded at Youngs, who wished Elizabeth good luck before he shut the door. The sound of the lock echoed through the outside darkness. “If I didn’t like ye so much, I’d as like to turn ye in as well. It’s good money, thar.” The Irish brogue was back, which meant Brewster was more nervous than he was letting on.

“Where are we going?” Elizabeth asked in a loud whisper as Brewster held up the lamp to find the path.

“Eventually, West Point.”

Elizabeth stumbled on a rock. “Across the Sound? In the middle of the night?”

“Aye. Luckily it’s cloudy.” He again took hold of her arm to lead her to the water where his whaleboat was docked. “I was in Setauket earlier today. Anna got the message straightaway and Woodhull came as soon as he heard.” He steadied the boat and Elizabeth climbed in.

“Anna?”

He followed her in and grabbed the oars. “Anna Strong, Selah’s wife. She hangs a black petticoat on the line along with a certain number of handkerchiefs. That’s how Abraham knows which cove I’m in. There are six of them, and I dock in a different one each time. Hence why the British haven’t caught me yet. Shh!” Brewster said suddenly, as if she were the one talking and not him. “Get down!” he commanded, and Elizabeth ducked as low as she could after catching sight of another boat entering the waterway a few yards down. “Damned Oyster Bay and its exposed waters. That’s why I don’t come this way much.” He paused and Elizabeth lifted her head to see him peering down at her. “Don’t ye worry, I can outrun ‘em.”

After several nerve-wracking minutes, Brewster told Elizabeth she could raise her head.

“Why West Point?” she whispered after she had sat up again.

“Dr. McKnight is there, not to mention that it’s probably the safest place to be in America right now, besides in General Washington’s own tent.”

Elizabeth nodded. She was trying to keep her mind off the three sweet, innocent heads sleeping the night away in the Youngs’ guest bedroom. If anything happened to them because of me, I’d never forgive myself. But the British could not be that cruel, could they? Elizabeth tried to banish all of the horrible rumors she’d heard of the Hessian troops murdering women and children in their beds.

A splash erupted in the quiet darkness. Brewster’s oars halted above the water before he motioned for her to duck down again. This time she could hear men shouting from the other boat, followed by a noise so loud it felt like Elizabeth’s teeth shook in their gums. A gunshot!

Brewster paused to haul his rifle up onto his lap before he somehow found the strength to increase the rhythm of his rowing and the voices soon faded. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, imagining herself in the middle of a gunfight. Home, she thought, keeping her eyes closed. She pictured her apartment that, while spare of furnishings, was filled with love. Behind her eyelids, she saw an image of Robert instructing Johnny and Abby while Catherine curled up to read a book on Elizabeth’s lap, and the baby slept in the corner. Suddenly, she felt the boat slow down. She raised her head, expecting to see a boat full of Redcoats beside them, but, instead, Elizabeth saw only mud and grass. They were ashore.

Brewster let out a wolf whistle. In a moment, a responding whistle sounded from a nearby tree.

“Bolton?” Brewster called.

“Here!” the voice was closer now. Elizabeth could discern a tall figure making his way through the undergrowth. As he approached their vicinity, Elizabeth recognized him. “Major Tallmadge?” she asked, the confusion obvious in her voice.

“Bolton’s his code name,” Brewster said. “In case anyone is listening.”

“Are we in danger?” she asked.

“Not presently,” Tallmadge said. He held out his arm and Elizabeth clutched it and climbed out. She turned to Brewster and noticed he was still sitting in the boat. He tipped his hat at her. “This is where I leave you, Mrs. Burgin.” Brewster, having safely delivered his cargo, was back to his American accent.

“Thank you, Mr. Brewster.”

Tallmadge stepped toward the boat. “Any reports?”

“No,” Brewster replied. “But Culper Junior says something big must be going on in the city. The rank and file seem restless.”

Tallmadge nodded. “Keep us informed.”

Brewster touched his hat once more before he set his oars back in the water.

Elizabeth wondered who Culper was but didn’t say anything as Tallmadge led her to where two horses were tied.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Burgin,” he told her wryly. “The army doesn’t own a sidesaddle or pillion, so you will have to ride in a gentlemen’s way.”

“It’s fine, Major Tallmadge,” she told him before she mounted. She may have grown up a city-girl, but her father had taught her to ride when she was little.

They traveled for an hour or so before stopping at an inn. Elizabeth was doubly thankful for the soft beds they provided, although the feeling of still riding a horse and the threat of nightmares made it somewhat difficult to sleep.

They set off early the next morning, traveling north along the Hudson River. Because of its proximity to New York City, with routes to almost all of the New England states, Elizabeth knew that West Point was important strategically to the Continental army. Tallmadge seemed well familiar with the area and knew where to stop to water their horses or rest. The countryside was quite pretty, with columbine and wild geraniums blooming, but Elizabeth was too worried over the fate of her children to notice much. They finally arrived at a fine mansion situated between two large hills.

“The Robinson House,” Tallmadge stated before dismounting.

Elizabeth followed suit and felt the familiar ache in her legs from a long day of riding.

Dr. McKnight greeted her warmly and, after Elizabeth had some food, took her on a tour, filling her in on the history of the mansion. He’d been stationed there for a few months; Mercy had recently had a baby and was currently with her family in New Jersey until the time the baby was old enough to travel. The Robinson House, or “Beverly,” as Dr. McKnight called it, was a few miles south of the military stronghold and was once a summer house belonging to Beverly Robinson, now a colonel with the British army. Like many other fine Loyalist houses, the mansion had been confiscated when the Robinson family fled for the city. “Oddly enough,” McKnight told her, “Robinson is at this minute on the British-man-of-war the Vulture, stationed down the Hudson a little ways,” He inclined his head toward the north. “An early commander of West Point, General Putnam, resided in this house, and General Washington occasionally stayed here, but now it, along with the multiple outbuildings scattered around it, houses sick and wounded officers.”

“Smallpox?” Elizabeth asked as Dr. McKnight showed her to the room in which she would be staying.

“No,” he replied. “I have the ones suffering with the disease isolated in the lazaretto barracks at the base. I’ve turned one of the huts into an inoculation room.” He nodded at her. “I might reassign you there soon, since you are no longer in danger of catching it.”

“I’d be happy to help.” Anything to keep her mind off of missing the children. The room was simple, with whitewashed walls, and only a desk and chair and the bed for furniture. She went to the window, espying some of the outbuildings Dr. McKnight had mentioned. “How does it that I get my own room?”

“There aren’t that many women at West Point other than the camp followers and the ‘girls of the night’ out of Fishkill. Since you’ll be working with me, it was decided that you would get the Robinson’s maid’s room instead of housing in the barracks. Besides,” he continued with a wink, “General Robert Howe, West Point’s commander, had a soldier in his troop that was rescued from the Jersey.”

Elizabeth had trouble getting to sleep that night. She was not used to the noises of the country—it seemed a cicada was garrisoned right outside the tiny window—and her mind kept straying to her family. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Georgie’s smile, Catherine’s dimples, the way Johnny’s eyes would light up when Robert… No. Mustn’t think these thoughts. She knew that there must be laudanum stored in the medicine closet Dr. McKnight showed her earlier but she did not want to deprive a soldier in pain. She settled with counting in her head, getting to over five hundred before she finally fell into a restless sleep.

Nursing was difficult work, but the seemingly ceaseless tasks of purging chamber pots, administering laudanum, cleaning the airless rooms, and making sure the patients were adhering to Dr. McKnight’s prescribed diets soothed Elizabeth. She would often fall into her bed at night so exhausted she would go right to sleep. She often dreamt of the children and Robert, waking with an aching need to be with all of them. She would then throw herself into more monotonous duties, and the pattern would repeat again.

She received only a fraction of what Dr. McKnight made as the resident surgeon, but that and the rations she received for her duties allowed her to gain a bit of dignity. Because of her situation, she was unable to send the money to Oyster Bay, but she stockpiled it in an old shoe to one day pay back Youngs for his kindness.

Chapter 48

Meg

July 1779

Although Meg had washed her hands of military matters—the rescuing of her Elizabeth notwithstanding—it seemed like information drops were happening daily right in front of her. With General Clinton back in New York, the opulent dinners resumed at One Broadway. Clinton’s mistress, Mary Baddeley, often joined them. The other officers’ wives had gossiped to Meg that Mrs. Baddeley had been John Hancock’s maid in Philadelphia. When Clinton confiscated the Hancock house, he confiscated the maid as well. Her complacent husband had been promoted up the ranks in the British army and was now a captain in Colonel Beverly Robinson’s regiment.

The dinner included ham, duck, and pigeon as well as potatoes, other vegetables, and fresh bread. After the requisite toasts to His Majesty and General Clinton, and an ambiguous toast from the other end of the table to “the Hudson River,” small talk commenced while their dinner companions—more than fifty by Meg’s count—indulged in the food and drink.

“Are you all set for your trip, André?” one of the officers across from her asked.

“Indeed,” André said after a sip of wine.

“Trip?” Meg asked, turning to the major.

“Ah, the lady did not know!” the man—De Lancey was his name, Meg remembered—exclaimed.

“I’ll be vacationing in Oyster Bay with Colonel Simcoe for a few days and then I’ll be heading north after that.”

Meg nodded. She knew that he stayed before with Simcoe at the Townsend House and found it not a tad ironic that the chief intelligence officer was billeted with an enemy spy’s family. The first time André returned from Oyster Bay, he seemed pensive for a few days, as if something bothered him. When Meg inquired as to his mood, he insisted that it was nothing and recovered soon after.

De Lancey shot André a winning grin. “André’s got something cooking up there that could end the war in a matter of weeks.”

“That new contact that you mentioned?” Another man in epaulettes from down the table asked. The wine, it seemed, was functioning to loosen the officers’ tongues. General Clinton, from the head of the table to André’s left, listened silently, his lips in a tight line.

“Soon enough we will be referring to you as ‘Sir André,’” De Lancey said.

“Is it risky, this business of yours up north?” Meg asked.

“Risky, maybe, but well worth it,” André replied. Meg was of the mind that nothing in this pointless war was worth risking a life for, especially not the possibility of being knighted by a redundant King, but she affected a sympathetic shake of her head.

André’s manner in the days before he left belied his nervousness. He showed up late for tea, forgetting his usual impeccable mannerisms and lifting his tea cup with shaking fingers. He and General Clinton often met behind closed doors until long into the night, candlelight showing under the door frame after everyone else had gone to sleep. Had Meg been of her former passion, she would have immediately reported such goings-on to Hercules Mulligan, but doing so, she was painfully aware, might put André in danger. Whatever his task was, she hoped that it would not result in André’s capture—or worse. Although she did not relish a British victory, she realized a swift end to the war could bring a stop to this madness.

Chapter 49

Sally

August 1779

“Colonel Simcoe has returned!” Phoebe exclaimed one day in August upon coming into the room.

Sally clamped shut the book she had been reading and sat up. “He is here?”

“Yes, and his first question to me was regarding your whereabouts.”

She had been restless all summer. She had not heard from Major André—or Colonel Simcoe, for that matter—since they left Oyster Bay last spring. Even Susannah Youngs was unavailable for visits as she was taking care of a convalescent relative. At least Simcoe’s presence would liven up this dull summer. Sally sighed and went downstairs without checking her appearance in the looking glass.

Simcoe had lost a great deal of weight, and his green uniform hung loosely on his now gaunt frame.

“Colonel Simcoe?” Sally inquired, pausing on the middle stair.

“Ah, Sally,” he said in a weak voice. “How I have missed seeing your beautiful face. Did you worry much over my captivity?”

“Captivity?”

Simcoe frowned. “I was taken hostage by the rebels after my horse was shot out from underneath me. I’ve only recently been released.”

Sally proceeded the rest of the way down the stairs and stood in front of him. His shoulders slumped forward and he did not meet her eyes. Some of his overconfidence had given way to defeat, giving him the ego of a normal man.

“Come,” she told him. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

After André had left last spring, Sally pestered Simcoe with questions as to where he might be deployed for the summer. He took it as concern for his safety and would simply reply that wherever he went, he would return for her. He asked one more time for permission to speak to Papa about marriage, but Sally insisted that they should wait until the war was over.

As he now broke apart a piece of bread, hardened from the time that had passed since breakfast, he told her that the end of the war might be in the near future.

“How do you know that?” Sally inquired, but of course, Simcoe was enigmatic, only saying there had been recent developments that would result in Britain’s favor. His lips turned upward. “And then we could marry.”

Sally contrived a smile as inscrutable as Simcoe’s own.

There was no way Sally could ever marry Simcoe. She never once believed that Britain would actually win, meaning that Simcoe would be forced to return to his native country in disgrace, and, if she were his wife, her fate would be the same. She would have to leave her beloved home for an alien country she had grown to despise. But telling Simcoe she had no interest in becoming his wife would be the final blow to his ego and most likely culminate in him lashing out in hurt and anger. So she kept up the charade, keeping him at arm’s distance without ever discouraging him. She began accompanying him again to the redoubt, which had been untouched in his troop’s absence. A few days after he himself returned, Simcoe informed Sally that André was expected in Oyster Bay the next day.

“Major André?” her heart sped up in the pleasure of speaking his name. While she looked forward to flirting with the handsome soldier, she also knew that his presence greatly complicated the tactics she employed to keep Simcoe clueless of her true feelings. “Why is he coming here?”

“He is traveling from Gardiner’s Bay on his way north, and asked to speak with me about something.”

“Does this something have to do with the end of the war you mentioned?”

Again that ambiguous smirk appeared on Simcoe’s face, the one that Sally was quickly beginning to hate.

André’s demeanor had also changed. Instead of being the mischievous rogue who had once hid Sally’s olykoeks, he too had taken on a more serious mind. As soon as André had arrived, he greeted her loftily and then he disappeared with Simcoe into Robert’s room, where they spent the entire afternoon.

Dinner that evening was a quiet, dreary affair. Mother was warm enough to Major André, and of course, Phoebe tried her best to engage him in conversation, but after the small talk ended, silence ensued. As soon as her parents left, Sally rose from the table. “Enough!” she shouted. “Why do you two insist on ignoring me?”

Phoebe shot her an incredulous look that quickly turned smug. She was evidently pleased that her sister’s once adoring suitors had cast her aside to continuously discuss whatever it was that brought André to Oyster Bay in the first place.

Sally threw her hands up in dismay and began to stomp, most unladylike, out of the room.

Simcoe grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend. It’s just that Major André is only here for a short time and needs my opinion on some military strategies he is thinking of employing.”

She cast a dark look at Major André, who gave her a subtle wink before turning back to Simcoe. “What military strategies?”

He dropped her arm. “Oh, just some troop formations. It’s all very boring and tedious.”

She knew that whatever it was that was prompting their cryptic behavior, it was much more than discussing humdrum troop formations, but was she also aware that neither man would reveal their actual topic of discussion.

Simcoe continued, “Major André will be leaving the day after tomorrow and then I will have more time to spend with you.”

Phoebe, obviously cognizant of the undercurrents flowing in the room, looked at Major André to get his reaction, as did Sally. André took a long sip of wine and gave Simcoe a tight smile. “But not too much time,” he reminded his friend. “I will be requiring the presence of the Rangers on my mission as well.”

“Will you be gone long?” Phoebe asked André.

“Hopefully not,” he replied. “This should be a quick one,” he said, glancing at Simcoe, who nodded.

“Well, then, we must give you a proper sendoff,” Phoebe stated. “Sally, we don’t have much time to prepare.”

“Are you going to bestow your olykoeks upon us, then?” André looked at Sally, his eyebrows raised and a miscreant glint in his eyes.

She returned his smile. “Only if you promise not to hide them.”

Phoebe rushed out with the intent to plan another fete, leaving Simcoe to shift his eyes back and forth between his intended and the major, his frown deepening.

It was not long before the men excused themselves and, once again, disappeared behind the closed door of Robert’s old room. This time Sally could not help herself and paused outside to listen. She carried an extra blanket—in case anyone should catch sight of her, she could claim that she wanted to make sure Major André was comfortable. She was able to pick up a few snatches of phrases here and there, such as “’tis settled then,” and “fall to the Empire.” What would fall? Her heart fell into her satin slippers as she realized the importance of their discussion. She crept even closer, putting her ear on the door. Simcoe’s voice had grown louder with excitement. This time she distinctly heard the words “West Point,” and “Hudson River.” André’s voice, murmuring something in agreement, sounded as though he was near the door. Sally pulled the blanket to her chest and hastened as quickly away as she could without resorting to running. She slowed to a walk as she crept up the stairs, casting a worried look down upon the empty hallway before heading to her room.

Sally knew that West Point, with its key position on the Hudson River, was the most important American military base and stored vast amounts of equipment for the army. She quickly surmised that André’s mission had something to do with the fort. Sally got up to light a candle and then fetched a paper and a quill. Her intention was to dash off a quick missive to Robert about the possibility of a British attack on West Point, but then she remembered his warning to code any future information. She retrieved the slip of paper he’d left her in the bottom of her clock and then sat down, putting Robert’s sheet as close to the candle as possible. On one side was a list of numbers and opposite, their meaning. The word “careful” was represented by the number 87 and “advise” by 234, and so on. On the other side was a cipher to disguise other important words that were not given a number.

She began by addressing the letter to “723,” the way Robert had told her. She wrote the body of the letter haltingly, occasionally pausing to consult the sheet and add a number instead of a word. She frowned when she got to the most important part. New York was coded by 727, and Long Island was 728, but there was no number for West Point. She flipped to the cipher and then scrawled the letters that corresponded: Yiuv Rqcpv, before underlining them twice with her quill. It was all a bit disconcerting to Sally, but Robert had told her this was the customary way of conveying intelligence within his circle. When she had finished, she wrote the number “355” as instructed at the bottom of the message instead of signing her name. She had just returned everything to her clock when Phoebe entered.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Phoebe told her pointedly. “I’ve decided, with Mother’s permission, that we will throw Major André a going-away party.”

There goes Phoebe again, planning parties when the fate of the Continental army is at stake. Sally bestowed a fake smile upon her sister. “I will go with whatever you desire.”

“Just make your olykoeks again,” Phoebe told her in a voice that implied that she had no other party-planning skills, which suited Sally just fine. She had to find a way to get this message to Robert, and quickly.

The house was quiet the next morning. Papa left to meet with a customer and Mother and Phoebe had gone to extend invitations to their neighbors for the party. Simcoe and André had already departed by the time Sally started baking her cakes in the kitchen.

The surety of her missive last night had begun to give way to doubt. If she indeed found a way to deliver the message to Robert, she now feared that it might have dangerous repercussions for André. While she knew her dedication was ultimately to the American objective, she had affectionate feelings for the major and the last thing she wished was to cause him harm. She wavered back and forth, reminding herself that André might not come to personal injury, but if West Point fell, that could result in the swift end of the war that Simcoe had hinted at.

By the time the olykoeks were cooling on the table, Sally had once again convinced herself to ride out to the Youngs’ place to secure the message to Robert. She went upstairs to retrieve her letter and was about to start down again when she thought she heard the front door open. She maneuvered out of sight of the doorway and tucked the note into her bodice. She peered downstairs, expecting to hear the chatter of her mother and Phoebe, or even the masculine voices of Simcoe and André, but there was only silence. The man she spied from her view at the top of the stairs was dressed in dirty homespun and wore a hat that covered most of his face. Sally angled her head and edged down the stairs, watching as the man skulked into the parlor. She moved yet another step down when she realized she could see the man’s reflection in the parlor mirror. He walked toward the built-in cabinet where André had once hidden her olykoeks. The thought occurred to Sally that he too was going to hide her baking endeavor, as if André had hired a stranger to commit this newest prank. Instead, the man took a slim piece of paper out from the pocket of his waistcoat and, opening the bottom doors of the cabinet, stashed it inside. He made to close the cabinet, but then thought better of it and shoved the paper deeper inside the cupboard before shutting the doors and replacing the latch. Sally hoisted herself back onto the landing as the man looked around the room again, obviously preparing to leave. She stayed out of sight until she heard the front door click shut.

She sat at the top of the stairs for a minute, breathing heavily to catch up for the moments she’d held her breath. What was that stranger doing in her house? He was not a soldier, or if he was, he’d dressed as a commoner for this occasion. Sally made up her mind to retrieve the letter under the guise that she needed a charger plate for this afternoon’s tea. She crept downstairs and into the parlor in the same manner as the man who had just left. She kept her eyes on the front door as she moved the latch and opened the cupboard before groping around its insides. Half-expecting nothing to be there, indicating that she had been imagining the whole thing, her fingers finally closed upon the paper. She pulled it out, still breathing hard. The envelope was addressed to “John Anderson,” and sealed with wax. With a sigh, Sally replaced it, knowing that she could not undo the seal without arousing the suspicion of the intended recipient. She hazarded a guess that it was meant for the major—John Anderson must be a code name for John André.

Her suspicions were confirmed when, soon after André returned, her olykoeks disappeared once again. André entered the kitchen directly after her, waiting for her reaction. She stood before the empty plate and put her hands on her hips as André laughed. Sally pretended to storm out and marched straight to the parlor cupboard. She pulled open the doors with shaking hands. While the olykoeks were in there, the envelope was not. André followed her, and she masked her surprise at the quick disappearance of the letter. As Simcoe was still occupied at the redoubt, André was obviously the one who had retrieved the missive.

She excused herself, saying that she needed to change out of her apron. She was about to start upstairs when André called out, “Sally?”

She turned to face him. His brown eyes looked sorrowful. “Are you truly planning on marrying Simcoe once the war is over?”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, which were folded over the soiled apron in front of her. She was not sure how to answer. Was he asking for Simcoe’s benefit or did he have a different motive? If she answered truthfully, that she did not want to marry Simcoe, it might open the door for André to ask himself. But then again, the same dilemma of her moving to England would confront her, notwithstanding that spending her life with André was a much more inviting prospect. She would never willingly leave her family or her country but to tell him the truth would reveal the patriotism that ran through her veins. “My heart does not know what it wants,” she called out before rushing upstairs.

She was absolutely certain now that, in trying to save West Point, she was endangering André and his mission. But Sally shut out whatever feelings she might have for the handsome soldier as she added a postscript with the name “John Anderson,”—“Dqbp Ephiluqp” written with the cipher—and the mysterious circumstances of the letter to the bottom of her message. She quickly scrawled a separate note to her brother, asking him to procure some Bohea, Major André’s favorite tea, as soon as possible as he would be leaving Oyster Bay shortly. She also wrote that she was enclosing the packet of paper he had requested. It made no sense for Sally to be sending her brother stationary since his store sold the exact same brand, but this was how Robert instructed her to convey her intelligence should she ever find the need. She dug the packet out of her hope chest and carefully opened it. Robert told her to put the paper after the 21st sheet, in honor of her own birthday in May. She counted the pages and then tucked in the coded message before resealing the packet as best she could. She placed the innocuous note regarding the tea on top and then wrapped the entire package in brown parcel paper, also supplied by Robert.

Simcoe had still not reappeared when Sally headed back downstairs. She went out to the stable and saddled Gem by herself, mercifully not encountering André again. She rode Gem to the Youngs as Robert had instructed. Sally did not fully understand how Daniel Youngs, the Loyalist militia captain, factored into Robert’s affairs, but she trusted her brother implicitly.

There were a few militiamen roaming about the Youngs’ farm, as well as three small children playing with chickens in the side yard. Although Sally had never seen them before, the little girl reminded her of someone, but she could not place who it was. A woman in a loosely laced stomacher watched them with a forlorn look on her face.

“Sally!” She turned to see Daniel walking out from the house.

Sally dismounted and took the package from Gem’s saddlebag. “I have a rather urgent message for Robert,” she stammered, proffering the bundle to Daniel.

“What is it?”

“Oh, a request for tea for Major André. He is quitting Oyster Bay very soon.”

“Ah,” Daniel replied, turning the parcel over in his hands. “That sounds quite important.” He motioned for one of the Loyalist soldiers and Sally’s face heated up. She was sure she was caught, but then Daniel handed him her package and told him to rush it to Robert straightaway. “We would not want Major André without his tea, would we?” he asked, winking at Sally.

As the man moved out, Daniel tied Gem to a tree and offered Sally some lemonade. “Are you sure?” Sally asked. “Susannah mentioned that you had a sick relative.”

“Oh,” Daniel said, glancing at the young woman near the chicken coop. “She is not contagious, so I would not worry too much.”

After a brief interlude with Susannah, in which Sally invited her to the party, and Susannah asked a few questions about the impending departures of André and Simcoe, Sally headed back home.

The major was sitting on the steps of the back porch, and Sally’s heart caught yet again in her throat. André seemed out of sorts as he fanned himself with a piece of paper. He stood as she approached. “I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?”

She readjusted her bonnet, pulling it over her heated face. “We are out of Bohea,” she told him as smoothly as she could. “I wanted to make sure we had a supply for your party, and requested Robert to send us some.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes and Sally felt the familiar hammering in her chest. Did he know what she had actually been up to?

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Sally, but I have to leave for my appointment as soon as possible.”

“Now? But what about your party?”

He hesitated before saying, “We will have another when I get back.” He handed her the paper he’d been fanning himself with. “One last gift for my beautiful host.”

As Sally took the paper, Simcoe rode up. “Ready, Major André?” he asked. André nodded and then headed for the stables. Sally did not meet Simcoe’s eyes as she strode into the house.

When she got to her room, she unfolded the paper, wondering if it had anything to do with the letter in the cabinet. But there was no seal and no address on the front. It was another poem, written in André’s handwriting.

If at the close of war and strife

My destiny once more

Should in the varied paths of life

Conduct me to this shore;

Should British banners guard the land,

And factions be restrained,

And Clivedon’s mansion peaceful stand,

No more with blood be stained,

Say! Wilt thou then receive again,

And welcome to thy sight,

The youth who bids with stifled pain

His sad farewell tonight?

Sally refolded it and tucked it into her hope chest, praying that she would indeed be able to welcome Major André into her sight, but only after an American victory.

Chapter 50

Elizabeth

August 1779

In mid-August, Elizabeth was informed that General Benedict Arnold would be taking over command at West Point. As he would soon be joined by his wife—the former debutante of Philadelphia, Peggy Shippen—and his young son, the hospital was relocated to the fort. Elizabeth’s temporary quarters were moved to one of the outbuildings on the grounds of Beverly, which suited her fine, as she had heard that Mrs. Arnold could sometimes be difficult to get along with. Dr. McKnight told her that he would send for her when the nurses’ huts were completed.

Now without a job, Elizabeth spent her days wandering the countryside around Beverly. A beautiful cliff was located nearby, and, after scaling the rocks, she could observe the military garrisons and barracks of West Point. The first time Elizabeth had seen the fort, there were men—appearing to her vantage point as dots in colorful uniforms—constantly marching, as if they were ants swarming a hill. Now that General Arnold had taken command, the bevy of soldiers had scattered amongst the woods near the stronghold, presumably cutting firewood or foraging for horse fodder.

One afternoon soon after Elizabeth had relocated to the cabin, she was summoned by a sentinel at her door. “Major Tallmadge is here to see you. He is awaiting your presence in the apple orchard.”

Elizabeth nodded and rushed outside.

Tallmadge was in full uniform, his horse tied to a nearby tree and munching on forage from the forest floor. Upon seeing Elizabeth approach, he removed his feather-topped helmet and affected a polite smile. “Mrs. Burgin, I bring a message for your eyes only.”

Elizabeth took the sealed letter. “Who is it from?”

“Your maid, Abigail.”

Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat. “Is something wrong with my children?”

“I do not believe it is your children that are of concern.”

Puzzled, Elizabeth frowned, but just then both of them spotted a heavyset man walking out of the great house, supported by an ivory topped cane.

“General Arnold.” Tallmadge saluted.

Elizabeth curtsied obligingly before tilting her head to study the military hero. He was a large man and she thought that his cane would have been necessary even before he was shot in the leg, as that barrel chest seemed too broad for his tiny legs to sustain.  

“Major Tallmadge,” he returned in a gruff voice. “I need to speak with you briefly.” He stopped short a few paces of Elizabeth, who took the hint and found a shaded spot in the trees, ostensibly to read her letter. Tallmadge walked forward to converse with the general. Whatever it was they were discussing displeased Tallmadge, Elizabeth noted, as she saw the major repeatedly shake his head. Finally he said in a loud voice, “I will not inform any person on earth of their names,” before stalking toward Elizabeth. Arnold watched him, but did not say anything else. After a moment of contemplation, he clumped back to the house.

“I never trusted that man,” Tallmadge stated. “And you should not either, Mrs. Burgin. Do not ever tell him of the Jersey. He claimed that as commander of West Point, he should be informed of my contacts’ names.”

Elizabeth knitted her brow. “Why would he need to know their names?”

“He doesn’t,” Tallmadge said, moving to untie his horse. As he led his horse away, Elizabeth unsealed the envelope, pleased that Abby could write a letter on her own. Her pleasure quickly turned to shock as she read the first sentence: “Missus, I regret to inform you that I am of a womanly way.” The note went on to say that the child was William Townsend’s, although he claimed that it wasn’t. I always knew there was something foul hidden behind that beautiful face, Elizabeth thought to herself. However, Abby went on to write, Robert had somehow found out about his brother’s indiscretion and promised that he would help her and the unborn child in any way that he could. At the bottom, Abby went on to assure her that the children would be fine, and that Robert wanted her to know he was working out a way to reunite Elizabeth with her family.

Elizabeth sat the letter in her lap, reflecting over its contents. She was disappointed in Abby for sure, but knew that the sins of pleasure were often hard to ignore, especially for someone like Abby, who had a harlot’s blood in her. Perhaps Robert could persuade his brother to do the honorable thing and marry his mistress. At any rate, her hope of seeing her children, Abby now notwithstanding, had been renewed as she had complete trust in Robert.

Chapter 51

Elizabeth

September 1779

The inhabitants of Beverly were in an uproar at the end of September. Servants rushed by Elizabeth in a hurry, and supplies arrived by the wagonful. The kitchen chimney seemed to smoke all day and night. It couldn’t be in preparation for the arrival of General Arnold’s family, as they had been living there for a month already, though Elizabeth only occasionally caught a glimpse of the beautiful Mrs. Arnold and her infant son.

“What is the cause for your haste?” Elizabeth asked a serving wench as she scurried by her with a bucket of water.

“The general arrives this morning!” she shouted as she tossed the contents of the bucket at the base of an apple tree.

“General Arnold?” This was puzzling as Elizabeth knew Arnold left Beverly every morning, traveling in his barge upriver to the fort, and then returned the same way every evening.

“No,” the girl gave Elizabeth a curious look. “General Washington himself. He is to break his fast with General Arnold and his family.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth.

The girl tossed her a wry smile over her shoulder as she headed back inside. “And now you know the reason for my rush.”

Elizabeth withdrew back to her little cottage, pulling up a chair to the window. She desired a glimpse of the great man, but the heat of the morning made sitting outside uncomfortable. After half an hour of waiting, Elizabeth stood and moved the curtain back when she saw horses approach. Puzzled, she watched two men dismount in front of the house, neither of them the famous general. She reasoned that the arrival of the Commander-in-Chief would require guards by the tenfold, not two men. She recognized one of them from the papers as the general’s aide, Alexander Hamilton, but was unsure of the identity of the other. They tied their horses to posts and then went into the great house. Not long after, another man with the urgent speed of an express arrived. He clumsily tied his horse next to the others and then, after presumably delivering his message, the express galloped away as quickly as he came.

Another half an hour ticked by. Elizabeth grabbed her copy of Common Sense and began to read. Not too much more time passed before she heard a commotion, but this time it was coming from the back of Beverly. She hastened to the bedroom window where she caught sight of General Arnold exiting the house through the parlor. He shouted something to Hamilton—who had come outside to the little portico—before mounting his horse and riding away. Not a minute later, Elizabeth heard the thunderous sound of many horses. She ran outside to see Washington’s concierge riding up from the opposite direction in which Arnold had disappeared. Elizabeth watched as Colonel Hamilton approached Washington.

This was all rather unexpected, Elizabeth thought to herself. Why did General Arnold gallop off like that if he was awaiting his commander? It must have had to do with the express—maybe West Point was in danger? But if so, then General Washington must not have thought much about it because he and his entourage of a dozen men—including one in a French uniform that could only be the Marquis de Lafayette—disappeared into Beverly. Again the servants began going in and out of the house, and Elizabeth figured the breakfast was taking place—without General Arnold.

Yet another express arrived. Goodness, Elizabeth thought, Beverly is quite the busy place! This express did not soon reappear, and Elizabeth settled back down with her book, hoping to get another glimpse of the heroes of the Continental army before they left.

A knock sounded on Elizabeth’s door in mid-afternoon. Hastening to open it, she was puzzled to see Dr. McKnight there. “Hurry, Mrs. Burgin,” he told her. “Mrs. Arnold is in a state of advanced fright and I need a woman’s help.”

Elizabeth joined him outside, shutting the door behind her. Dr. McKnight led the way to the main house and then up the stairs to the master bedroom. Startled, Elizabeth took in the scene. Mrs. Arnold lay on the fine bed in a flimsy shift. Although she had been rumored to be one of the most beautiful women in America, her hair was currently in disarray and her eyes were held wide, giving her an unblinking, wild look. The fireplace was lit, and the over furnished room felt hot and stuffy. Colonel Hamilton, standing next to the bed, cast a bewildered look at Dr. McKnight. “She keeps repeating that I’ve been ordered to kill her child.”

Dr. McKnight rushed to the bed. “No one is going to hurt Neddy, Mrs. Arnold. General Arnold will soon be returning from West Point and everything will be back to normal.”

This seemed to soothe Mrs. Arnold. She closed her eyes and began to breathe heavily, as though she had fallen asleep.

“Actually, Doctor…” Hamilton tilted his head at Mrs. Arnold and then gestured for him to come near the fireplace. Elizabeth followed, feeling sweat pinprick her face.

Hamilton threw out his hands. “General Arnold has gone over to the British.”

“What?” Dr. McKnight’s mouth dropped open in surprise as Elizabeth put her hand over her own gaping jaw.

“He has betrayed General Washington and our country,” Hamilton said mournfully before taking a deep breath. “Apparently a British spy named John Anderson was caught in the neutral territory of the lower Hudson carrying sketches and notes of West Point’s fortifications—in Arnold’s handwriting!”

“Dear God,” Dr. McKnight said. He pinched his lips between his fingers, as if to forcibly keep them closed, and furrowed his eyebrows.

Elizabeth was too stunned to speak. General Arnold had been a well-respected leader of the Continental army and he had nearly given up West Point. His betrayal could have ended the war and guaranteed a British victory. Elizabeth said a silent prayer of thanks that West Point was still in American hands.

The doctor removed his hand to ask, “Where is Arnold now?”

Hamilton shook his head. “We were eating breakfast this morning, waiting for Washington’s arrival, when an express came with a message. Arnold read it and then ran upstairs before he quitted the house, saying that something at the fort required his immediate attention. He left both his wife and child here to deal with his treachery. No wonder she has been behaving so peculiar,” he added, glancing at the form on the bed.

At this, Mrs. Arnold opened her eyes and commenced shouting “Benedict, Benedict!” over and over.

The three of them rushed back to her bedside. Elizabeth’s hands were shaking—she’d never seen anyone in such a state of shock. She supposed Mrs. Arnold’s behavior was well founded, considering her husband had betrayed his family as well as his country, but all the same, the ear-piercing screams were beginning to strain Elizabeth’s ears. She found a washcloth and wet it in a basin of water before applying it to Mrs. Arnold’s forehead. Again Mrs. Arnold fell into a calm which only lasted a few seconds before she sat up in bed, causing the washcloth to fall into her lap, and pointed to the ceiling. “General Arnold is up there with hot irons on his head!”

“He will someday be in hell for his crimes, but we are not that fortunate yet,” Colonel Hamilton whispered under his breath.

As Mrs. Arnold’s head fell back into the pillow, Elizabeth replaced the cloth. Mrs. Arnold touched it. “And I too have hot irons on my head!” she shrieked. “Only General Washington could rid me of this torture.” She reached out to grasp Elizabeth’s arm, her nails cutting into Elizabeth’s skin. “I must see General Washington at once!”

Dr. McKnight and Colonel Hamilton exchanged a glance.

“General Washington!” Mrs. Arnold shouted.

Hamilton nodded. “I will fetch him. Maybe he can bring an end to this madness.”

But when the good general arrived in the room, Mrs. Arnold insisted that it was the Commander-in-Chief himself who had the intent to kill her child.

“Mrs. Arnold,” The general began as Elizabeth balked at the sight of the tall, graceful man bent over the frantic woman with the tear-stained face. “General Arnold has escaped. Have you any knowledge as to his destination?”

She pointed to the ceiling.

General Washington turned to Hamilton. “He fled to his barge, and then presumably to the Vulture, and where he will go from there, we are not sure.”

“What shall we do about her?” Hamilton asked, nodding at Mrs. Arnold.

“We will send her back to her family.” General Washington rose to his full height. Turning to Elizabeth, he continued, “Mrs. Burgin, will you accompany her to Philadelphia?”

Elizabeth could only nod her assent. She was amazed that the general knew her name, but, then, she quickly surmised, he was the head of the entire Continental army.

“I thank you for your duties to our prisoners,” the general continued. “I know Mr. Culper Junior was working on a more permanent spot for you in order for your children to join you. He has found a home by the way of a Mr. Thomas Franklin, our commissary of prisons in Philadelphia. We will secure a safe route for you and Mrs. Arnold.”

Elizabeth curtsied, keeping the multitude of questions that sprang into her head, including the identity of this Culper Junior to herself. “Thank you, your Excellency.”

Mrs. Arnold commenced screaming again, and Dr. McKnight rushed to her side. “Mrs. Arnold, take a sip of this.” He slipped the contents from a small vial into her water before handing it to her. She drank deeply, water dribbling down her chin, before dropping the glass on the floor. It shattered and Mrs. Arnold began shrieking that her child was dead.

“I gave her some laudanum,” Dr. McKnight said, his calm voice a welcome contrast to Mrs. Arnold’s hysterics. “It should take effect soon.”

“I will leave you to it, then,” General Washington said, moving to the door in a few long strides. “Again, Mrs. Burgin, thank you. Please let me know if you ever need assistance.” He nodded at Hamilton. “Now if you will excuse us, Colonel Hamilton and I must locate General Arnold and deal with this John Anderson character.”

Beverly was once again a flurry of activity the day following Arnold’s defection. Elizabeth was aware that Colonel Hamilton thoroughly investigated all of the servants, including Major Franks, General Arnold’s former aide-de-camp. Hamilton must have satisfied himself that Franks was innocent of helping General Arnold commit his crimes because he asked him to escort Mrs. Arnold, Elizabeth, and a few other servants to Philadelphia.

Franks cautioned Elizabeth before they left that it would be difficult to find lodging along the way. Most of America had become aware of Arnold’s flight, and despised him for it—the Whigs for nearly betraying the greatest American fort and the Loyalists for the plight of John Anderson, revealed to be John André himself, the brilliant adjutant to General Clinton. He was now being held prisoner by the Continental army.

The carriage ride was deathly quiet, save for the whimpering of the baby in Mrs. Arnold’s arms. No one had anything to say for fear Mrs. Arnold would become hysterical again. Elizabeth stared out the window at the countryside, knowing that each step of the horse brought her further away from New York and her children. Despite the crowded carriage, Elizabeth felt lonely, her heart as heavy as lead.

They stopped at dusk in Paramus, New Jersey to stay at Hermitage House, a large brick farmhouse owned by friends of the Shippen family. Elizabeth, her legs stiff from the journey, assisted the servants in getting Mrs. Arnold out of the carriage. As a maid carried the baby inside, Franks whispered to Elizabeth that the woman of the house, a Mrs. Theodosia Prevost, was married to a colonel in the British army currently stationed in Georgia, but frequently entertained American officers.

A handsome man in civilian clothes came out of the house and then wrapped his arm around Mrs. Arnold’s shoulder. He guided her toward the door as she, nearly collapsing in his arms, said, “Aaron, it’s horrible, so horrible.”

“I know, Peggy,” he replied.

Franks caught Elizabeth watching them walk inside. “That’s Mr. Aaron Burr,” he said. “Formerly Major Burr, but he quit army life to become a lawyer. He is often a houseguest of Mrs. Prevost.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said, quickly grasping his meaning.

From the interior of The Hermitage, Mrs. Arnold’s shrieking began again, so loud that it seemed as if she were outside.

“Here we go again,” Franks said with a sigh.

Elizabeth pulled out the vial of laudanum that Dr. McKnight had slipped into her bag before she left.

Franks nodded approvingly. “Anything that will allow the household to get some sleep. We are all exhausted.”

When Elizabeth and Major Franks entered the house, they could see that the table had been set for dinner. Mrs. Arnold was standing next to her place setting, her hands on her face, claiming that her food had been poisoned.

A woman who looked to be a few years older than Elizabeth, approached her. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. Aaron and I have both known Peggy since she was a girl. I’ve never seen her like this.”

“But it is somewhat understandable,” Aaron Burr appeared next to the woman Elizabeth inferred must be her hostess, Mrs. Prevost. “Given the circumstances.”

Mrs. Prevost extended her hand toward the table, and Burr went to the head. Franks lifted his eyebrows at Elizabeth before grabbing Mrs. Arnold’s goblet and bringing it to the side table. Elizabeth followed. Franks filled the glass halfway with wine, and then Elizabeth retrieved the vial from her bag and added a few drops. Franks put the goblet back at Peggy’s plate and poured the rest of the wine into the glasses.

“Please sit,” Mrs. Prevost said to her guests. “We are pleased that you are here.”

Burr lifted his glass for a toast, but then seemed at a loss for words. Normally Whigs drank to George Washington’s health while Loyalists exhorted the protection of His Royal Majesty. Due to the mixed company, Aaron Burr decided to go a safer route. “To Mrs. Prevost.”

“Here, here,” the other people, including Mrs. Arnold, agreed. One by one, each of them toasted another person at the table. Mrs. Arnold drank liberally while Elizabeth took tiny sips. She would have given anything to be back in New York amongst her friends and family, but here she was, in a different state, with this incongruous and awkward crowd.

A plate of duck was brought out. Elizabeth barely touched her food while Major Franks and Mrs. Arnold ate heartily. Burr and Mrs. Prevost exchanged frequent glances across the table. British husband notwithstanding, their love was clear to Elizabeth, and she had to stop herself from thinking about Robert.

In the middle of the next course, Mrs. Arnold held up her glass. “To John André,” she said. The other people at the table gazed at each other with wide eyes. Burr was the first to return the gesture. “Here,” he said.

“Here,” the rest of the company followed suit. No one quite knew what would become of the man who had been caught as a spy behind enemy lines.

“I knew,” Mrs. Arnold said quietly. All heads swiveled toward her. She set down her wine before she continued, “I was the one who encouraged Benedict to defect.” She gave a little laugh. “After all, John André and I were acquainted with each other. And you,” here she pointed to Franks, “treated my poor Benedict so badly.” She turned to her friend, Mrs. Prevost. “He was owed so much by the Continental army, and then they had the audacity to court martial him and accuse him of stealing money.” Although she singled out Franks again, Elizabeth caught on that Mrs. Arnold meant the entire army. “Of course he sold off supplies. He needed to compensate for the money Congress owed him. You know he paid his soldiers that fought with him in Quebec with his own inheritance.” She took another sip. “He’s a good man, my Benedict.”

Franks obviously thought she had gone too far. “Mrs. Arnold,” he said.

“Major Franks. He’s a good man too,” Mrs. Arnold turned to Burr. “He didn’t have anything to do with Benedict changing sides. I’m the one who told him too.”

“Peggy—” Mrs. Prevost started, but Mrs. Arnold waved her hand. “I’m tired of it, Theodosia. I’m tired of the deception. My throat hurts from screaming, but I had to do it, to give time for Benny to get away.”

“Enough, Peggy,” Burr said, rising from his chair. “We are all exhausted and I think you need to retire for the night.”

“I am not finished, Aaron,” Mrs. Arnold said. She had begun to sway from side to side.

Burr exchanged a brief glance with Mrs. Prevost before marching over to Mrs. Arnold. “Let’s get you to your room.”

“No.” Mrs. Arnold picked up her fork and knife, but Burr pulled them from her hands and set them down. He grabbed her shoulders and tried to lift her to her feet, but when that did not work, he commanded Franks to get on the other side of her. Together the two men managed to get Mrs. Arnold upstairs before she revealed any more secrets.

“I am sorry for that, Mrs. Burgin,” Mrs. Prevost said casually. “Peggy has always had a flair for theatrics.” She took a drink of wine before continuing, “Did you know that Peggy’s uncle, Dr. Shippen, raised Aaron and his sister after their parents died?”

“I did not.” Elizabeth took a bite of meat, going along with Mrs. Prevost’s charade that everything was perfectly normal, and that Mrs. Arnold did not just admit to a table of people that she played a part in General Arnold’s betrayal.

When Burr and Franks returned, they also resumed eating. Finally Burr spoke up. “As I said, we are all exhausted from the events of the last few days. Evidently Mrs. Arnold does not know what she speaks. If anyone was aware of what she has told us, it would make her life even more difficult than what she is about to face.”

The rest of the table nodded in unison. Burr’s meaning was clear: tell no one what they heard that night. Elizabeth knew he spoke the truth about her life becoming more burdensome and she did not envy the woman. Mrs. Arnold was practically a widow now, with a small baby on her hands. But instead of dying a hero’s death, Mrs. Arnold’s husband had become a traitor, hated on both sides. Whether or not Mrs. Arnold was a willing accomplice, she would have enough to deal with as it was. Elizabeth had her own worries and did not feel the need to make another person’s life harder.

Chapter 52

Sally

September 1779

The party in André’s honor was rescheduled and changed by Phoebe into a going-away feast for Simcoe. It was clear that something was afoot as Simcoe spent every waking hour drilling his troops, preparing them for the mysterious mission.

Sally fully suspected that he would be relocating to West Point. She had no idea whether Robert had received her message. She encountered quite a few sleepless nights, alternating worry over her letter arriving in time with her concern for Major André on his journey. Perhaps her information would indeed lead to an American victory. André would be a disgraced British soldier, but surely Robert, or even Papa, could find him work. In time, people would forget André’s former occupation and he and Sally could marry… she knew it was all just wishful thinking, but those happy thoughts allowed her to finally drift into a blissful sleep.

Simcoe had been acting edgy all week, constantly sending his men off with messages to and from New York City. Each time they returned carrying a small paper which Simcoe would unfold, his frown deepening as he read it.

The family was interrupted at dinner by one of these expresses a few days after André’s departure. The messenger walked in through the back door without bothering to knock and handed Simcoe a sealed letter. Simcoe opened it and scanned it quickly before rising. “I must leave immediately,” he told Papa. Sally thought she detected panic in his usually measured voice.

“But the party…” Phoebe protested. It was supposed to take place the next day.

Simcoe had already left the kitchen and did not return to say goodbye. After they heard the front door slam, Sally and Phoebe hastened to Robert’s old room. Simcoe’s books still stood on the bookshelf, but the wardrobe door had been flung open, exposing an empty interior. The sisters exchanged a bewildered look, wondering what could have been in the note that caused Simcoe to behave so oddly.

Phoebe decided to proceed with the celebration as planned, changing the theme to “An Autumn Harvest.” The day of the party dawned bright and clear and Phoebe had Caesar relocate the tables of food to the garden outside, on the other side of the house from the barren field that had once been Papa’s apple orchard. Simcoe had informed the family at breakfast a few days ago that he had paid for new saplings and he would have his men plant them when they returned. Both Mother and Papa seemed pleased, but Sally could only nod her thanks, thinking that he would not have had to go through the trouble to plant new trees had he not cut them down in the first place.

At midday, the guests began arriving: the Coles, the Greens, the Buchanans, and the Youngs. Daniel approached Sally and told her that her package had been delivered to Robert as requested. She nodded and thanked him again.

They had just sat down to eat when one of Youngs’ Loyalist militiamen rode up. Daniel rose and walked over to him. Sally watched as Daniel’s face fell after the soldier spoke. As an afterthought, the soldier pulled something out of his saddlebag and handed it to him.

Daniel approached the table. “Attention everyone, attention.” The guests paused midway through conversation to turn their eyes on Daniel. “I have just been informed that General Arnold has defected to the British.” A few cheers from the Loyalist guests went up and Sally had to stop herself from glaring at them.

“However, John André has been captured by the Americans and is undergoing a trial as we speak.”

“Captured?” This time Sally had no control over her emotions. “Is he going to be released soon?”

Papa looked forlornly at Daniel. “He was behind American lines?”

Daniel nodded.

Papa said, practically to himself, “He will suffer Nathan Hale’s fate, then.”

“No!” Sally stood up from the table. “He can’t. They cannot hang a man as fine as André.”

“That is up for General Washington to decide,” Papa told Sally before she ran into the house.

Sally trudged upstairs to her room, feeling as though her heart might break. The capture of André had been her fault and she was not sure she would ever be able to forgive herself for it. Sally had never been in love before, but she was quite sure she had loved John André, and now she would be the one to send him to the gallows.

As Sally’s storm of tears subsided into sobs, she heard the door creep open. She sat up in bed and looked over to see Papa standing in the threshold. “I’m sorry, Sally,” he said, setting something on her dresser before he walked over to the side of the bed with the help of his cane. “I know you cared a great deal for Major André. I think we all did.”

Sally’s tears began fresh again. Papa had no idea the depth of her feelings, let alone what she had done.

He held her until her tears ebbed once more, patting her before saying he needed to return to the few guests that remained. “As you can imagine, the party has taken quite a turn after the announcement was made.” He paused at her dresser. “I almost forgot. This was a package that Daniel’s messenger brought for you.” He set it on the bed before he left.

Sally peered at the package. Her name and address were printed neatly on top, in Robert’s handwriting. A sense of dread built in her chest as she undid the brown paper. It was exactly what she thought it was: a container of Bohea tea. Another tear slipped down Sally’s cheek as she realized that André would never drink the tea she procured for him.

Chapter 53

Meg

October 1779

At One Broadway, Meg anxiously awaited the fate of her supposed paramour. The myriad of officers that always came and went was at an even greater number now, but a few of them took pity on her and filled her in on the news as it came. André had been taken prisoner and was now in Tappan, New York, under the guard of Benjamin Tallmadge, a fair man by all reports. One morning Colonel De Lancey marched into the mansion, a deep frown on his face.

“Guilty,” was all he said when he passed by Meg.

Clinton had appealed for a prisoner exchange, but the only man Washington wanted in his place was Arnold. “Of course I cannot hand over that duplicitous traitor,” Clinton shouted so loud that all of Broadway could have heard him. “What would it say to the other duplicitous traitors thinking about betraying their supposed country in our favor?”

In the end, nothing could avail André and he was hanged as a spy in the beginning of October. One of his last acts was to pen a letter to his commander, which General Clinton graciously let Meg read. She took comfort in the words he wrote before he mentioned his mother and sisters:

I am perfectly and tranquil in mind and prepared for any Fate to which an honest Zeal for my King’s Service may have devoted me.

He was as noble and faithful to his King at the throes of death as he was in the crux of life.

The man who brought the letter to Clinton witnessed his death and filled the sorrowful guests in on André’s last moments at dinner that night. “He was brave to the last moment,” the officer said. “The only time I saw him falter was when he saw the gallows. He had begged Washington to be shot as an officer, but the villainous general insisted that he hang as a spy.”

The rest of the table murmured their agreement as to the man’s opinion on Washington.

“André’s last words were, ‘I pray you to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man.’” 

“Enough!” General Clinton roared from the head of the table, setting his wineglass down with such force that much of it spilled onto the white tablecloth. Meg was astonished to see the great general put his face in his hands. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up from the table and heading out of the room.

Meg decided then and there that she’d also had enough. The only tie she had to the British army had been Major André. And now he was gone. She spent the rest of the night packing her bags, refusing the aid of a servant. The next day she arranged for transport back to the Queen Street townhouse. Nothing remained for her at One Broadway, and the constant reminders of André, the closest friend she’d ever had, wreaked havoc on her fragile heart. Even being under the jurisdiction of her barbarian husband would be more welcome than the endless mourning over André.

Chapter 54

Sally

October 1779

Simcoe returned to Oyster Bay only long enough to arrange for the transport of his things. With his puffy eyes and somber demeanor, it was obvious that he too was heartbroken over the loss of André. To Sally’s relief, he made no more inquiries for her hand in marriage. After the Rangers quit Long Island, Sally never saw John Graves Simcoe again.

Robert came home to Oyster Bay after the news of Arnold’s defection had reached New York City. Sally waited until after dinner, when it was just her and him by the fireplace, to query why he came back.

Robert said simply, “We do not know what Arnold knew.”

“Are you in danger?”

“I’m not sure. Ben assured me that Arnold knew nothing about the ring, but at the same time, Hercules Mulligan was arrested.”

Sally’s grip on the chair tightened.

“Don’t worry,” Robert told her with a wry smile. “Mulligan’s been arrested before and somehow always manages to get released.” His smile faded as he continued, “I just could not face seeing that traitor Benedict Arnold walking around Manhattan in a British uniform.”

She wanted to inquire more about André, but wasn’t sure how to approach it. Instead she asked about Elizabeth.

Robert’s face fell. “She’s headed to Philadelphia now.”

“You must go to her, Robert.”

“I can’t. The war is not over yet, and my presence might put her in further danger.”

“I’m sorry.” Sally knew what it was like to not be able to be with the one you loved most in the world.

Robert turned to her. “You mustn’t blame yourself for André’s death, Sal.”

Just hearing his name caused her heart to feel as though it could explode. “Did you—”

“As soon as I got your message, I sent it through the proper channels. Ben had already heard of “John Anderson”—Arnold informed him that a man by that name would be coming through the lines with a pass from him. André was caught by a bunch of criminals in the neutral ground. One of them was wearing a Hessian coat he’d stolen, and André, assuming they were Loyalists, revealed himself as a British officer. The men searched him and found Arnold’s treasonous information in André’s shoe.” His lips curled into a sardonic grin and Sally remembered Robert’s warning not to hide papers on her person. “Ben told me he would have known the man they captured was an officer anyway, even if he did not get our message about André/Anderson. It was his walk that gave him away. Ben said that he watched him pace up and down the little room and soon knew that the man was no ordinary soldier.”

Sally, remembering that confident stride, felt her heart sink even lower when she realized that André would walk no more.

Robert paused for a moment and stared mournfully into the fire. “André was of a most amiable character,” he said finally. “But he made a lot of mistakes that became his own undoing. The only thing we can do is learn from them and move on.”

Sally nodded, tears once again filling her eyes. They had all been playing the same treacherous game, but André had lost.

“Sally,” Robert rose from his chair and walked over, bending down in front of her. “Just think of what could have happened if the British gained West Point.”

“They would have won the war.” Her words came out with a sob.

“Exactly,” Robert said, patting her leg before returning to his chair. “Years from now, when the pain has subsided and you reflect back on this time, don’t think about sacrificing the life of your friend John André. Think about how you saved America.”

* * *

Epilogue

The True Fates of the Characters in 355

The Women

Elizabeth Burgin was granted permission to return under a flag of truce to collect her children, and upon returning to New York, discovered that her clothes and apartment had been confiscated and given to Loyalists. After she arrived in Philadelphia, she found herself in an unfamiliar town with three children, no clothes or money, and no friends. As Elizabeth herself wrote, “Helping our poor prisoners brought me to want, which I don’t repent.” Leonard Van Buren, one of the men Elizabeth helped rescue, heard of Elizabeth’s plight and gifted her $500 as a thank-you. General Washington himself appealed on her behalf in early 1780, stating in a letter to the Continental Congress “From the testimony of different persons, and particularly many of our own Officers who have returned from captivity, it would appear that she has been indefatigable for the relief of the prisoners and in measures for facilitating their escape. For this conduct she incurred the suspicion of the British, and was forced to make her escape under disturbing circumstances.” Finding it still hard to get by a year later, Elizabeth petitioned Congress, altruistically asking to be paid for “cutting out the linen into shirts… for the army.” Instead of a seamstress job, Congress then awarded her a pension, making her one of the few women of the Revolutionary War to receive the annuity. Nothing more is known about her after 1786.

Margaret Moncrieffe Coghlan sailed to England where she later claimed she was subjected to “barbarous treatment” by her husband. After they docked, Coghlan abandoned her for two weeks. In typical fashion, she wrote to a former New York acquaintance, Thomas Clinton, to appeal for help. The two purportedly had an affair and Margaret was advised to flee to France. Two years afterward, she returned to England and was rumored to have begun yet another affair with a man named Charles James Fox. More affairs and liaisons with other men of means followed. Years later, while writing her memoirs in 1793, she had this to say about Aaron Burr: “With this Conqueror of my soul, how happy should I now have been! What storms and tempests should I have avoided (at least I am pleased to think so) if I had been allowed to follow the bent of my inclinations and happier; oh ten thousand times happier should I have been with him!” She died in 1795* (most likely date), at the age of 33.

Sarah Sally Townsend never married and lived out the rest of her life in her family’s house in Oyster Bay—later named Raynham Hall by her descendants—with her bachelor brother Robert. She kept Simcoe’s poem—which was purported to be the first Valentine written in the United States of America—as well as André’s silhouette of her until her death in 1842, at the age of 82. Both were heavily creased, as if she frequently opened them. The window addressed to “The adorable Miss Sally Sarah Townsend” can still be seen at the Raynham Hall museum in Oyster Bay.

Margaret Shippen Arnold was banned from Philadelphia soon after she arrived after fleeing West Point. She joined her husband in New York and, in 1781, they moved to England with their two sons. Five more children were born afterward, with three surviving past infancy. In 1789, she made a brief visit to her family in Philadelphia, where she was not given the warmest welcome: it was reported that old friends and acquaintances snubbed her while others jeered her on the streets. She died in 1804, at the age of 44, three years after her deeply in-debt husband left this world.

After her death, Aaron Burr came forward to state that he was at the Hermitage the night she stayed with Theodosia Prevost and heard her confess her own participation in her husband’s treason. Defenders of Peggy Arnold’s innocence have long claimed that Burr’s accusations came out of spite. They claim that Burr once made advances on Peggy only to be spurned by the beautiful debutante. In the 20th century, several letters in the Sir Henry Clinton collection came to light that make it clear Peggy knew of Arnold’s plotting and most likely encouraged and played a hand in it.

The Men

Aaron Burr married Theodosia Prevost and moved to New York City after the British evacuation to open a law practice. After losing the 1800 presidential election to Thomas Jefferson, Burr became the vice president of the United States. He blamed Alexander Hamilton for his lack of success in politics, and challenged him to a duel in 1804. After Burr famously shot and killed his rival, the resulting scandal ended Burr’s political career. Although he was later indicted for treason, he never went to trial for the murder of Hamilton. He died in 1836, penniless and partially paralyzed from an earlier stroke.

Caleb Brewster married Anne Lewis, the daughter of the wharf owner where he had made most of his landings, and moved to Fairfield, Connecticut, where he became a blacksmith and farmer. In 1793, he joined the predecessor to the U.S. Coast Guard and commanded the USRC Active during the War of 1812 before retiring to his farm in 1816. Unlike his fellow, more tight-lipped, members of the Culper Ring, he was known to boast about his involvement as a courier and sometimes intelligencer. He died in 1827 at the age of 79 and was survived by eight children.

Hercules Mulligan was able to talk his way out of jail as Benedict Arnold could present no evidence against him. He had breakfast with George Washington when the general returned upon the British evacuation of New York, thereby putting a halt to any plans the Whigs might have had to tar and feather the supposed Loyalist. Washington declared Mulligan a “true friend of liberty,” before he ordered a suit from him. A sign proclaiming that Mulligan was “Clothier to Genl. Washington,” hung outside his Queen Street shop until Mulligan’s death in 1825. He is buried at Trinity Church near his good friend Alexander Hamilton.

James Rivington was referred to as “726” in the Culper code book. Whether the notorious Tory printer participated in the Ring out of patriotic sympathy or to deepen his own pocket remains a mystery lost to time. Like Mulligan’s shop, Rivington’s printing press was spared of any looting when the Americans returned to New York City. His newspaper, however, could not find a following in the new nation and he was forced to serve time in a debtor’s prison. He died at the age of 78 in 1802—perhaps a tad ironically—on July 4th.

John Graves Simcoe returned to England shortly after André’s death. He married the heiress Elizabeth Posthuma Gwillim in 1782 and won a seat in Parliament, where he advocated for organizing more militia akin to the Queen’s Rangers. In 1792 he became the lieutenant governor of the mostly Loyalist Upper Canada, where he passed the Act Against Slavery, leading to a full abolition of slavery in that region by 1810. In 1806 he was named Commander-in-Chief of India, but fell ill on his journey there. He returned to Devonshire England, where he died at the age of 54.

Benjamin Tallmadge was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel in 1783. Shortly after, he married Mary Floyd, the daughter of the Declaration of Independence signer William Floyd, and fathered seven children. He became a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, representing Connecticut in the Federalist Party for eight terms. Although he wrote a book about his experiences during the Revolutionary War, he was notoriously vague regarding his intelligence sources. He died in 1835 at age 81.

Robert Townsend, like his sister Sally, also never married. Due to the reticence of most of the ring after the war, Robert Townsend’s role was lost to history until historian Morton Pennypacker uncovered it in the 1930s. Ironically, it was Townsend’s handwriting that gave him away as Culper Junior—in life, one of his biggest fears was that his secret identity would have been discovered due to his unique penmanship. At his death, Townsend left a considerable amount of money to a man named “Robert Townsend Junior,” It is unclear exactly who fathered him: Robert’s older brother Solomon, in a journal in the possession of the Raynham Hall Museum, speculated the boy actually belonged to William Townsend.

Afterword

A note on 355 by the author

Abraham Woodhull’s cryptic mention of a 355, translated from the Culper Code into “lady,” has puzzled historians for centuries. I first heard of her when I researched “forgotten women of history,” and was immediately hooked. There are a myriad of theories for the identity and personality of 355. In his book A Peculiar Service, published in 1956, Corey Ford wrote that he “liked to picture 355 as the opposite of the reserved and sober young Quaker (Robert Townsend): small, pert, vivacious, clever enough to outwit the enemy, but feminine enough to give Townsend a brief interlude of happiness that he would never know again.” According to Brian Kilmeade and Don Yaeger, authors of George Washington's Secret Six, 355 was the sixth member of the Culper Ring. All of this misinformation seems to stem from amateur historian Morton Pennypacker and his 1948 volume of the Culper Spy Ring legend. In it he cites 355 as being Robert Townsend’s paramour, who was imprisoned aboard the Jersey and later died. However, Pennypacker provided no proof for this wild tale—there is no record that women were ever even held aboard the prison ships let alone anyone who would fit 355’s description.

I chose Sally for my 355, as it was not unlikely that Abraham Woodhull was acquainted with Culper Junior’s sister and both Simcoe and André were guests of the Townsends shortly before Arnold’s treason. While we may never know to whom Woodhull referred, it is clear that the women of this book, and countless others, played a crucial role in the fight for America’s freedom, and I have dedicated this book to them for that reason.

Selected Bibliography

Berkin, Carol. Revolutionary Mothers: Women in the Struggle for America's Independence. Vintage Books, 2006.

Ford, Corey. A Peculiar Service. Little, Brown and Company, 1965.

Kilmeade, Brian, and Don Yaeger. George Washington's Secret Six: the Spy Ring That Saved the American Revolution. Sentinal, 2016.

McCollough, David. 1776. Simon and Schuster, 2005.

Misencik, Paul R. Sally Townsend, George Washington's Teenage Spy. McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2016.

McGee, Dorothy Horton. Sally Townsend, Patriot. Dodd, Mead, and Company, 1952.

Moncrieffe, Margaret. Memoirs of Mrs. Coghlan. New York Times, 1971.

Pennypacker, Morton. General Washington's Spies on Long Island and in New York. Scholar's Bookshelf, 2005.

Rose, Alexander. Washington's Spies: the Story of America's First Spy Ring. Random House Inc, 2014.

Schouler James. Americans of 1776. Corner House Historical Publications, 1999.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I’d like to thank folks at kboards.com and to all of the people who nominated this book during its Kindle Scout run.

A special thanks to my critique partners: Ute Carbone, Theresa Munroe, and Karen Cino, for their comments and suggestions. Once again, I am eternally grateful to Rhonda Sergeant for being the best proofreader in the world.

And as always, a special thank-you goes to my loving family, especially Tommy, Belle, and Thompson, for their love and support.

Underground

Traitors and Spies in the Civil War

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

Although this book is based on real events and features historical figures, it is a work of fiction. Most of the dialogue and incidents in the story are products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as historical fact. For more information on fact versus fiction in the Civil War, see the Epilogue at the end of this book

Copyright © 2018 Kit Sergeant

Published by Thompson Belle Press

All rights reserved.

This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the Civil War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women upon whom these characters are based.

Chapter 1

Hattie

February 1861

Baltimore’s men were up in arms. Even at the unseemly early hour of three in the morning, shouts from angry secessionists echoed through the slats of the depot, drowned only by the train whistles announcing each new arrival.

“It will be coming soon, boys,” a man in a straw hat and full beard announced. “Remember,” he told the men who gathered around him, “no damned abolitionist shall pass through this town alive.”

Hattie Lewis’s eyes shifted to her friend and supervisor, Kate Warne, who stood just to the right of the mob. Kate’s face held her usual inscrutable expression, but Hattie could tell from the way she gripped her handbag that she was as uncomfortable as Hattie. Most of the employees of the Pinkerton Detective Agency had arrived in Baltimore only a few days prior, but the depth of the anti-Union sentiment had greeted them almost as immediately as the concierge at the Barnum Hotel. Maryland was a swing state, and its Rebel proclivities had boiled over with the election of the anti-slavery Lincoln to the Presidency.

Hattie turned at the sound of horses approaching. A plain coach stopped near the tracks, the horses whinnying as the driver pulled them to a halt. She hurried toward them. As she entered the coach, snatches of Dixie followed behind her, ceasing mercifully when she shut the door.

“No doubt there will be a good time in Dixie, by and by,” a deep voice offered.

Hattie gave the man a tentative smile. The President Elect was dressed in a simple traveling suit, the shawl draped over his head taking the place of his stovepipe hat, which was placed beside him. She’d read multiple descriptions of Abraham Lincoln in the papers—most focused on the newly grown beard in response to the young lady Grace Bedell’s request for him to cover his sunken jaw—but none of them had properly described his dignified manner, nor the fact that the beard still grew sparse over his gaunt cheeks. His eyes held an amiable crinkle as they focused on Hattie. She regretted that the tight quarters of the coach offered no room to show Mr. Lincoln the proper obsequies. She introduced herself to Mr. Lincoln and then told him, “Miss Warne has arranged an empty sleeping car for our purpose.”

He nodded. “I am to be your brother, then,” he stated, addressing Hattie.

She cast a sidelong glance at the man sitting beside her, her employer, Mr. Allan Pinkerton. He leaned forward. “It is for your safety.” Even though he’d been in America for nearly two decades, his accent still resonated Scottish when he was anxious.

“I still think it is all nonsense.” Ward Hill Lamon, Lincoln’s personal bodyguard, sat back into the ripped velvet of the coach. “And ridiculous for our new President to be skulking about a city, unknown, in the middle of the night.”

“It would be even more ridiculous to have our new President not arrive at his inauguration alive,” Pinkerton replied evenly. He opened the door to the coach. With a swish of her satin skirts, Hattie scooted past him to retrieve the wheelchair the driver had unloaded. Lincoln looked down and sighed before climbing out of the coach and arranging himself into the chair. He made to replace his hat, but Hattie pulled the shawl up to obscure his face instead, knowing his customary hat would only serve to give him away.

“Brother, I believe our train has arrived.” Hattie’s hands tightened on the chair as she pushed forward toward the station. Lincoln was so tall he nearly reached Hattie’s height sitting down. She did not look up, even as she passed by Kate, who stood in line waiting to board a car near the front of the train.

“May I be of assistance?” Hattie was about to refuse the train operative who loomed in front of her until she recognized him as another Pinkerton employee, Timothy Webster.

Hattie affected a Southern accent. “We have reserved the back car. My brother here needs to be isolated.”

Timothy, with his usual capableness, bent down to hoist the front of the wheelchair up the steps to the car. Hattie, pushing forward, peeked at the man in the straw hat. He and his companions stood with their arms crossed, searching the crowd. According to the posted schedule, Lincoln’s train was not due to arrive for another several hours. After uncovering a potential assassination plot, Pinkerton had insisted on rescheduling and sending the President-elect in on an earlier train from Philadelphia. Hopefully the man in the straw hat would not realize he’d been outwitted until long after Mr. Lincoln arrived at the Capitol Building for his inauguration speech.

At last Mr. Lincoln was safely ensconced in the sleeping compartment. Webster locked the door behind him as he left, and Hattie allowed herself one sigh of relief before retrieving the small pistol hidden underneath the seat of the wheelchair. Lincoln had boarded the train, but that did not mean his life was no longer in danger.

Mr. Lincoln had to double up his legs to fit in the sleeping berth, a position that, when Hattie dared to cast her eyes at him, seemed too lowly for a man of his status.

She stretched her cold hands to the warmth of the stove as she heard the cargo door bang shut. She immediately cursed herself for leaving her gun out of reach. Amateur. But the intruder was only Allan Pinkerton, come to check on the precious cargo. As usual, the heavy smell of Cuban cigars clung to his clothing and beard. Hattie assumed he’d been chain smoking them on the bridge.

“How does he sleep like that?” Pinkerton wondered aloud as the train whistle blew.

“How does he sleep at all, knowing what he knows?” Hattie asked in reply. It was not just that his life was in danger, but he was about to take on a nearly impossible role. Seven states had already seceded from the Union in protest after his election. It was up to him to try to repair the conflict that was building between the North and the South and to solve the moral question of slavery as a whole. Hattie knew she and Pinkerton were of the same mind as Lincoln, but that the rest of the country would not come to an agreement so easily. “I am fairly sure I will not be able to get a wink in myself.”

Her boss smiled wryly. “The nature of the job. We Pinkertons never sleep.” He went to the window. A flash of light broke through the darkness. He tapped the window. “All’s well,” he said, turning back to Hattie. She knew Pinkerton had placed several operatives at train stations along the way. They were instructed to flash lanterns stating that no known evil forces were at work.

Hattie glanced again at Mr. Lincoln, visions of all the ways the plotters could still attack temporarily blinding her. They might be out of Baltimore, but henchmen could still burn bridges or derail the train. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

The train arrived in Washington, mercifully without incident. The Pinkerton detectives unloaded from different cars, avoiding each other’s eyes, but silently congratulating each other nonetheless. Hattie marveled that no one would ever know of the danger their new President had been in, and that the threat of murder could have been resolved not by apprehending the alleged criminals, but by a mere switching of the train time table.

And yet the guilty parties walk free, Hattie reminded herself as she scanned the people surrounding her. Mr. Lincoln was still wrapped in his shawl and the crowd seemed blissfully unaware that the potential savior of the Union was the man in the wheelchair.

A man dressed in a fitted frock coat walked rapidly toward Mr. Lincoln. Hattie fingered the pistol in her handbag. The man extended his hand and was about to give a salutation when Hattie stepped forward.

“Sir?” she asked quietly.

He looked Hattie up and down before turning back to Mr. Lincoln. “Mr. Presi—”

“My brother here is very tired,” Hattie declared, conscious of the lanky figure in the wheelchair attracting multiple pairs of eyes.

“This is Miss Lewis. She is a friend of the railroad company,” Mr. Lincoln told the man.

The man, obviously catching on to Mr. Lincoln’s double meaning, nodded. “Your carriage is waiting, sir.”

Pinkerton appeared next to the man. “Miss Lewis. You can ride in my car.”

Hattie relinquished her grip on the wheelchair as her boss and the man exchanged pleasantries.

Mr. Lincoln reached out to grasp Hattie’s hands in his. “I am aware that you put your life at risk for me last night. I truly thank you for your service,” he said in his quiet tone.

“Thank you for yours,” Hattie replied. She wanted to say more, that she knew he had a lot riding on his shoulders, although if anyone could save the Union, he could. But, knowing her place, she kept quiet.

Pinkerton had one final question for Lincoln. “Mr. President, shall we move forward with arresting the would-be assassins?”

Mr. Lincoln focused his solemn eyes on Pinkerton. “No. I do not wish to make martyrs out of cowards and madmen.”

Pinkerton bowed his head. “As you wish.”

They followed Lincoln’s carriage to the Willard Hotel off 14th Street and watched Lincoln exit, glancing up and down the street as he did. He was still in disguise and seemed curious as to why none of the passersby paid him any note. Lamon, his chief of security, came out of the hotel and hustled him inside. Pinkerton gave Hattie a wry smile before nodding his head at Pennsylvania Avenue just behind them. “Lincoln’s only steps away to the White House now,” he said with a wink.

Hattie sat back. “Thanks to you.”

“And you, Miss Lewis. You have proven yourself.”

She nodded, pleased. She’d been with the agency for nearly a year now, but the Lincoln plot had been her first major assignment, and one of national importance at that. Hopefully she had indeed finally shown her fellow agents what she was capable of.

The Pinkertons were off-duty for the inauguration, but Hattie could see many policemen spread far and wide over the city, watching for any sign of trouble. The day had dawned gray and rainy, but it was now bright and sunny. Just like our country: what began today in darkness as a fractured nation will now come together in light and jubilance under our new President. There were thousands of people spread on the grounds of the unfinished Capitol building: the vivid parasols of women sprinkled throughout the neutral suits of the men. When Mr. Lincoln appeared on the platform erected on the eastern portico of the building, the crowd greeted him with thunderous cheers. After the marine band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” Senator Baker introduced the new President. Mr. Lincoln walked to the front of the podium and bowed to the enthusiastic approbation. He put on his spectacles and rearranged the papers in front of him before beginning his speech. Lincoln’s booming voice had a musical lilt to it, and, despite her distance from his podium and the hordes of people in between them, Hattie could hear him clear as day. As she had predicted, Lincoln urged reconciliation and discouraged secession. He closed by saying:

We are not enemies but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

As he spoke, Hattie could not keep her eyes from shifting over to that fire-eating Texan, Senator Wigfall. If anyone was Lincoln’s enemy and not friend, it was he, who leaned against the Capitol building with his arms crossed over his chest. Hattie felt heat rise in her face. Texas was the most recent state to secede from the Union and, along with the rest of those deserters, had formed the Confederate States of America. Consequently, he should not have even been there. You have your own slave-holding, supposed president, Hattie thought. What do you want with ours? Wigfall made a sudden movement and Hattie pulled her bag, with the gun concealed within, closer. But Wigfall merely nodded to himself, as if he had made a silent decision.

Chapter 2

Belle

April 1861

“Belle! Belle Boyd!”

Belle looked up from the book in her hands. She’d been trying to read it for half an hour, but the delightful Baltimore spring day had proved much more interesting than perusing the treatise on femininity she’d been assigned. Her best friend at school, Virginia, was running toward her. Belle smiled, thinking what the author of the tome would say about a young woman running through the mud, skirts hiked up and showing more than a little ankle.

Virginia reached the tree Belle had been using for shade. She bent at the waist in an effort to catch her breath.

“What is it, Ginny?” Belle demanded.

“Shots have been fired.” Virginia gasped, still breathing heavily. “Fort Sumter. War has started.”

Belle waved her fist in a most unladylike manner. “Finally! Maybe now we can get that rail-splitter Lincoln out of office.”

Virginia straightened. “But what will become of us? We are in Northern territory here.” She crumpled a handkerchief in the palm of her hand. “And God hates the Yankees.”

“Yes, why don’t they just leave the South alone? They can let those darned abolitionists have their way and let us keep the traditions laid down by our forefathers.” Belle cast her eyes around the campus of Mount Washington Female College, as if the lush landscaping could belie the official political leanings of the school. Maryland was still a slave state, but its proximity to Washington made its status as Union or Confederate unclear. “I must get home to mother as soon as possible.”

Virginia shook her head. “You know Headmistress Staley is a staunch Unionist. She will not allow you to go home as long as your tuition is paid up.”

“We shall see about that,” Belle said, hiking up her own skirts and heading toward the headmistress’s office.

“Absolutely not.” As predicted, Headmistress Staley refused to let Belle leave the school grounds. “There is a war brewing in our fair Union. It would not be safe to let you leave.”

“But Headmistress—”

“Your parents have entrusted me as your guardian. You are under my care, hence you will obey my command.” Never once in Belle’s tenure at the school did Headmistress Staley ever waver in her principles. Miss Staley ruled the girls under her like a temperate overseer, molding them into submission with threatening words instead of fists while teaching them both the classics as well as how to be a proper lady. As the attendees were from both the North and South, Belle often felt that the mannerisms she was taught contradicted greatly with the feminine ideal of a Southern woman, but that was no matter, since Belle herself was in contradiction to those same ideals.

Realizing she was as likely to change Staley’s mind as she was to take up arms and join the war effort, Belle gave a half-hearted curtsy before exiting the headmistress’s chambers.

Virginia was waiting for her outside. She need not ask for the outcome of Belle’s plea since the disappointment was written on her face. Virginia joined Belle’s quick pace and walked beside her. “What shall we do now?”

Belle stopped and stared helplessly at the sky. She could see the entrance to the grounds, the starred-and-striped flag that graced the hill, flapping in the breeze just beyond the driveway. Belle felt a sudden rush of hatred for that once beloved symbol of a country that no longer felt like hers. A plan began to form in her mind. “Ginny, do you still have that pearl-handled pistol your father gave you?”

Virginia nodded. Her father manufactured such items back home in North Carolina.

“Go and fetch it for me.”

Virginia, used to Belle’s odd demands, did as requested.

“You aren’t going to shoot anyone, are you?” Virginia asked when she returned with the gun.

“No.” Belle walked quickly across the sprawling green lawns of the college. “I won’t be shooting a person.” She paused near the flagpole and peered up at the flag. Squinting against the bright sunlight, she grasped the pistol with both hands and took aim. Belle shot the gun with the expertise of someone well accustomed to a firearm, not even startling at the kickback. Virginia glanced up, noting the bullet hole that was located where one of the Union’s stars should be. Belle repeated the gesture and managed to take out another star. The lawn soon filled with young women chattering at a safe distance from the line of fire. Belle used up the entire round, managing to take out four stars in total.

“Miss Boyd.” The headmistress, who had waited until there were no more bullets left to shoot, appeared next to Belle.

Belle opened the chamber and held the gun handle toward Staley. “I suppose now you will choose to expel me?”

Even after three years of Belle’s antics, Staley was clearly surprised by this newest one. She merely nodded. “I will make the arrangements immediately.

Belle nodded and headed to the dormitory to begin packing.

Chapter 3

Mary Jane

April 1861

“Give me liberty or give me death!” Patrick Henry’s famous words echoed in Mary Jane’s head as she glanced up at the towering spire of the church. The day was gray, but somehow the white paint of the wooden structure was still blinding and Mary Jane had to shield her eyes with her hand, the lace on the sleeve of her finest red dress billowing in the wind.

“It is for your own protection,” Miss Lizzie had appeared beside her, in her usual sly manner. Stealth was as natural to Miss Lizzie as her notions of abolition, borne by her education in Philadelphia.

Mary Jane dropped her arm. “I don’t love him.”

“I am aware. But marriage and love don’t always equate. Look at me… I was in love too, a lifetime ago.” Miss Lizzie had once been beautiful and, according to her, had been a much sought-after Virginian belle. But her fiancé had died of yellow fever in the epidemic of 1841, and now, at forty-three, with her blond hair graying and her face becoming thinner and more pinched by the day, she was an established spinster. “Perhaps love will develop out of affection. Besides, Wilson Bowser will make a perfectly adequate husband.”

“He is a slave.” Mary Jane’s anger was swift and sudden. For most of her young life she had been ruled by Miss Lizzie’s desires—she’d gotten an education up North and then spent some time in Liberia, all at Miss Lizzie’s expense. But her choosing Mary Jane’s life partner was too much to bear.

“A slave who is working to pay for his freedom.” Miss Lizzie turned her hawkish face to look Mary Jane squarely in the eyes. “After what happened last year…” Miss Lizzie’s voice faded out. She disliked talking about Mary Jane’s arrest even more than Mary Jane herself. Miss Lizzie switched to a different tactic. “Let’s not forget you too were born a slave.” Miss Lizzie broke eye contact, as she always did when she mentioned Mary Jane’s status.

They both turned as a carriage pulled up a safe distance away from the women so as not to muddy their dresses.

“Miss Richards!” A black man several years older than Mary Jane climbed down from his post next to the driver.

“Mr. Bowser,” Mary Jane acknowledged. “Seeing as we are about to get married, you might as well call me by my Christian name.” She had not a little pride that she had been baptized at the very same church they were about to enter. Mary Jane knew that was another source of gossip for the Richmond society: St. John’s Church was a white people’s church and it was highly unusual for black marriages to take place there. But Miss Lizzie was not one to heed anyone else’s desires but her own, and so it came to be that she’d scheduled Mary Jane’s wedding to be held there, in the same spot where Patrick Henry had given his instrumental speech 86 years prior. A strange coincidence, considering that just a few days ago, Virginia had voted to secede from the United States.

“Mary Jane, then.” Bowser—Wilson—replied. He led the way into the church, which was sparsely adorned. Unlike her fellow Richmonders, including her sister-in-law, Miss Lizzie had no desire to be ostentatious, either in dress or decoration. She had invited many of her most influential neighbors, but most refused to attend a Negro wedding. A few servants filled the family pew along with Miss Lizzie and her brother John. Their mother, Mrs. Van Lew had sent her best wishes that morning, but she was suffering from another one of her headaches and could not leave her bedroom.

Mary Jane replayed the Patrick Henry speech in her head during the ceremony. She’d memorized it in its entirety long ago, much to Miss Lizzie’s delight since he had stood in what had eventually become the Van Lew family pew as he called such prominent Virginia colonials as Thomas Jefferson and George Washington to arms. Mary Jane wanted to concentrate on anything besides the commitment she was making, another mistake possibly, just like going to Liberia had been. Miss Lizzie had convinced her that Liberia would have been Mary Jane’s ticket to freedom, once and for all. But Mary Jane’s roots had always been in Virginia; it was where her mother had lived and died, and, if Mary Jane couldn’t be with her, at least she could be near her burial site. In her letters, Miss Lizzie had included accounts of the unrest the nation was feeling, especially in regard to the question of that peculiar institution of slavery. Mary Jane realized they were on the brink of another revolution: this time for the rights of blacks instead of American men and begged for Miss Lizzie to pay for her return. She had finally relented, and after Mary Jane had been arrested, arranged for her to marry Wilson Bowser.

The white minister united them in matrimony within the Episcopalian tradition: there would be no jumping over broomsticks in St. John’s. He asked that the couple turn as he presented the rings. Wilson stared at the ground as the minister spoke and Mary Jane used that time to study him. He was a good twenty years older than herself, with a sturdy figure. His skin was blacker than hers, darkened by many days spent toiling on the Van Lew farm outside of Richmond. But his eyes, which were walnut, like the cabinet work in Miss Lizzie’s parlor, were kind. He was dressed in the livery uniform of the Van Lew household: dark blue with yellow accents, complete with a white cravat. He had been a relatively new addition to the family’s slaves—or, “servants” as Miss Lizzie preferred them to be called. Her father, Old Man Van Lew, though a Northerner by birth, had accumulated a healthy supply of fifteen slaves, including Mary Jane and her mother, and put a stipulation in his will that they remain his property upon his death. Senile as he was at the end of his life, he must have had some inclination of his wife and daughter’s abolitionist proclivities. But Miss Lizzie defied her father in death as she never would have done in life and began freeing his slaves by way of hiring them out to employers and letting them keep a small portion of their earnings in order to ultimately buy their own freedom. She then used some of her father’s estate to purchase more slaves in order to set them free. Wilson Bowser was part of the latter group of purchases; even with the prospect of war, their mistress wanted to give them what she could.

An admirable act, as was most of Miss Lizzie’s work, especially given the Southern ways that dictated normal Richmond life. But, as always, Mary Jane suspected that Miss Lizzie’s actions included an alternative clause and there was something she wasn’t telling her.

After the ceremony, and the resulting congratulations by the few attendees, Wilson gently took Mary Jane’s hand and led her out of the church to the awaiting carriage. He nodded to the driver, a man whom Mary Jane recognized as an occasional attendant of Miss Lizzie. “I thought we could take a ride to view the sights of Richmond before we arrive back at the Van Lew Mansion,” Wilson stated.

Mary Jane hesitated. She knew that most of the white population of Richmond would view her marriage as a farce—so much of a farce that many refused to honor the commitment and would sell a slave wife away from a husband faster than a whip’s crack, at the right price. At any rate, she didn’t feel like parading around now. Normally spring in Richmond was glorious with magnolia blooms and luscious greenery but there was a pall over the city for any abolitionist or Union sympathizer. There had been large parades of people carrying Southern flags after both the news of the surrender at Fort Sumter had reached the city and then again after the Ordinance of Secession had been passed by the Virginia Convention. The massive Union flag that had waved from the corner of Franklin and Governor Streets had been recently taken down to great fanfare, and been replaced by Virginia’s state flag with its emblem: Death to Tyranny. And there was much of Richmond that Mary Jane purposely avoided at all costs: namely the auction blocks at Lumpkin’s Alley and the Negro jail at Shockoe Bottom where she had recently spent time.

“Or we could just head straight for the farm,” Wilson added. He must have sensed that Mary Jane was uncomfortable.

“No, Miss Lizzie would be mad if we didn’t return to the mansion. She’s had the cook in the kitchen all day, brewing up a mighty feast.”

“Miss Lizzie is awfully kind in that way,” Wilson offered. He seemed disappointed when Mary Jane’s only reply was a slight nod.

A crowd had gathered at the Church Hill mansion when the newlyweds arrived. Mary Jane’s heart began to thud upon spying some of the Van Lew’s more secesh neighbors. She steeled her spine as she exited the carriage, the large hoop skirt that she had borrowed for her wedding making the process all the more difficult. She prepared herself to accept the insults about her marriage that were sure to ensue, but the Southerners had their sights set on the Union flag that flew in front of the main house. That flag—much larger than the standard—had always been Miss Lizzie’s pride and joy. The last time she’d taken it down was when Kansas had become a state. Then she’d sewn another star on it, rejoicing in the fact that another free state had joined the Union. Mary Jane led Wilson into the big house through the back door. Miss Lizzie had never insisted upon her servants using a different door, but Mary Jane thought it would be better than walking through the angry crowd.

Miss Lizzie’s voice was equally angry as she shouted, “I won’t do it, John.”

John Van Lew, Miss Lizzie’s younger brother stood with his hand on the knob of the ornate front door. “We both know which side we support, but to continue to back the Union outright will be a danger for us all.”

“I won’t—” Miss Lizzie started to argue, but John was already out the door. The three of them—Wilson, Mary Jane, and Miss Lizzie—stood in silence until John returned, the flag reverently folded. He handed it to Margaret, another servant, who had come in from the parlor. Without a word she took it and brought it upstairs.

Miss Lizzie stood with her arms crossed, muttering to herself. “I may not be able to display my Union loyalty in this Confederate town, but there must be other ways to help the Cause.”

Mary Jane heard John reply in a whisper as he passed by, “Your mouth may need to remain shut, but you can keep your eyes and ears open.” All three pairs of eyes then focused on Wilson Bowser, who had taken a sudden interest in a hallway vase.

The next day, Wilson brought Mary Jane to his cabin on the family farm. But Mary Jane panicked. All she could think about were her mother’s stories of her grandfather’s time as a cotton picker—a field hand—on a New Orleans plantation. Her mother had always revered her status as a “house slave.” As such, it had always been a threat that a misbehaving house slave would be sent to work in the fields, where the workload was heavier, the food was worse, and there was less freedom to come and go as one pleased. It seemed that the Southerners weren’t the only ones whose prejudices endured.

Wilson dismounted and pointed toward the horizon. “Massa John says that this little patch of earth will be mine one day. We can work our own land.”

Mary Jane, remaining on her horse, held up both palms. “These hands were not meant for farming.” She said nothing of her mind, which had always been her greatest asset. Miss Lizzie had taught her to read at a very young age. She saw this instruction as part of her Christian duty, never fearing that it was illegal in Richmond, but she never came across anyone who learned as fast as Mary Jane.

On Sundays, her mother, Mrs. Van Lew, would read the Bible to her slaves and teach them how to pray the white-people way. Many fellow Richmonders opposed this education of slaves, fearing that they would then demand equality and endanger a practice that had defined the South, and without which cotton could never have been King. Old Man Van Lew was one such advocate of the practice, and Mrs. Van Lew would change her sermons according to her husband’s presence. “Slaves, obey your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling in the sincerity of your heart, as you would Christ.” Old Man Van Lew would nod his head in agreement as Mary Jane’s juvenile sense of defiance would rise up. She hated the old man as she hated anyone who was pro-slavery. Her mother had established from an early age that blacks were just as good as whites, though whenever Old Man Van Lew was around, Mama was sure to curb her tongue. But alone, she would tell Mary Jane that the drudgery of slavery on Earth would be more than made up for in Heaven.

After Mary Jane’s mother had died, Miss Lizzie sent her North to be educated. Her teachers had declared her intelligence as “on par or better” with a white person. Mary Jane could not explain to her peers how she had come to memorize anything she read, including the Declaration of Independence or Thomas Paine’s pamphlets on the American identity. And she definitely could not explain the same to her new husband.

Wilson took her soft hands into his rough ones. “Mary Jane, I’m working for us. For our family, as it is now, and as it will be in the future.”

Mary Jane’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. She knew the meanings of thousands of words, but sometimes could not use them to express what she felt. She did not love Wilson Bowser, but she did not hate him. She’d long ago become numb to the strong feelings that most people experienced—it was easier to endure life that way. After what had happened last year, Miss Lizzie thought that marriage would be a safeguard, an extra layer of protection. So far Wilson had only treated her with kindness, but Mary Jane knew that she needed to be in Richmond, the now declared Capital of the Confederacy, if she were to accomplish any of her goals. She cleared her throat and thought about how best to appeal to her new husband. “I may be free, and you might be soon, but what of our brothers and sisters of color? They might never be free unless the Union wins this war.”

Wilson’s glance darted around him, as if seeing who might have heard, but there was not a soul around. He stepped in closer anyway. “Wife, you speak of treason.”

“I do.” Mary Jane’s voice rang loud and clear. “Treason might be the only way to win this war.”

Wilson shook his head. “You are putting the both of us in danger.”

Mary Jane took a deep breath. “And that is why I must return to the Van Lew Mansion. I wouldn’t want to put you in any more perils than you are in for being a slave in a Southern city. You are subject to any white man’s will. Regardless of whether your current master is kind, you could be sold to a cruel man at his will. I would not want my children brought up in that atmosphere.” With that, she kicked her heels and steered her horse in the direction of the Van Lew Mansion.

Chapter 4

Belle

July 1861

Much had changed in the months since Belle had left her boarding school. There was no place in the world more scenic than where she had grown up, but she had been dismayed to find out that her hometown of Martinsburg, Virginia, was the only region in the Shenandoah Valley that had voted against secession. She knew the issue currently dividing the nation was that of slavery, and Belle recognized that the practice, while necessary, was imperfect and would someday come to an end, but the Federal government had no right to demand the immediate abolishment of it. Her family had always had slaves, including Mauma Eliza, who had run away from an intolerable master when she was little and who became Belle’s personal maid. The other five slaves in her family mostly helped out on her father’s tobacco farm.

The majority of the Martinsburg males had enlisted with Company D, the 4th company of the 2nd Virginia Infantry, including both Belle’s father and her many beaux. Mr. Boyd had been offered an officer’s position but declined in favor of joining the ranks with his fellow townsmen, under the command of Colonel T. J. Jackson.

“You must look after your mother while I’m gone,” Ben Boyd told his oldest daughter as he packed his bag. “In war, boys become men as soon as the first shot is fired. But for now, it’s time for my little girl to become a woman.” He smiled. “I know how you’ve always been eager to be older than you are.” Her father loved to tell the story of how an eleven-year-old Belle, dismayed to hear that she was too young to attend a dinner her parents gave for prominent Virginia politicians, led her horse, Fleeter, into the dining room and demanded that, since Fleeter was old enough to attend, he should be set a place at the table. Although Mauma Eliza was fit to be tied, the guests insisted that Belle join them for dessert. A house servant led Fleeter back to his stall in the barn as Belle enjoyed a custard to the delight of the Boyds’ important visitors.

“I will, Papa,” she replied.

He went to his top drawer and pulled out his Colt revolver. “I’m going to leave this with you.” He put a hand on Belle’s head. “I know you know how to use it.”

“Of course.” Despite the fact that she desperately feared for her father, and all the boys going off to war, she refused to cry in front of him. There was something so unfair about men marching off to war while their women stayed back at the house and wept, and she knew her father was counting on her, his oldest daughter, to take care of the family in his absence. Belle turned the gun over, checking to see that it was loaded. If only she could join the war and use the gun to shoot Yankees!

Belle watched them march off, old men such as her father with graying mustaches and whiskers, accompanied by boys still in the flush of youth, some barely able to shoulder a musket. Belle had just turned 17—a year older than her mother had been when she got married—and she felt not just a little dismay as she noted Cliff McVay, a once promising beau, heading toward the gaps in the Blue Ridge Mountains to the destination of Harper’s Ferry.

Belle knew that she was no great beauty: her nose was a little too hawkish and her eyes a bit too beady to be considered the conventional kind of pretty so valued in the South. However, she had never wanted for male attention. She’d made an effort to dress in the latest fashions; her figure was fine and the Virginia sun lent a reddish tint to her brown hair. She knew how to flirt and use her long lashes, framing dark blue eyes, to command men to do her bidding. Her wit was quick, her cunning daring, and she possessed the most graceful curtsy in all of western Virginia. As much as she hated watching her future prospects leave for the front, Belle was eager to do her own part for the war effort. Belle joined the sewing circles composed of cousins, friends, and other debutantes to make clothing for the troops.

Her mother, having never spent any significant amount of time away from her husband, grew unbearably needy. Belle tried reassuring her—explaining that it was destined to be a quick skirmish, one sure to end in the South’s favor, and it would be only a matter of time before the men of Martinsburg returned home to resume their customary duties of shopkeepers, millers, and farmers—to no avail. Consequently, Belle escaped to go visiting among her friends as much as possible.

One day, as she walked back from such a visit, Belle came upon an old schoolmate, Benjamin Hearst. “Why Ben, have you already been granted a furlough?” she asked.

“No.” Ben shuffled his feet. “You know that mother is very ill.”

Belle placed a hand over her mouth in shock before removing it to say, “Do you mean to tell me that you have not enlisted?”

Ben met her eyes. His contained more than a hint of defiance. “Yes, that is right, Miss Boyd. As I have said, Mother is sick and needs someone to look after her.”

“Is that not what your slaves are for—to take care of domestic duties? Yours is to fight for your country.”

Ben tapped his hat. “Good day, Miss Boyd.”

Belle watched him shuffle down the street with narrowed eyes. How dare he linger about his daily life when the other boys and men of the town were risking theirs for the South! Upon arriving at home, she went to the attic to dig through boxes until she found a petticoat that no longer fit. She wrapped it in parcel paper and attached a note addressed to Mr. Benjamin Hearst, declaring that he should enlist immediately rather than join the ranks of the petticoat warriors. Belle did not receive a reply, but the next time her mother paid a visit to Mrs. Hearst, the old lady was in mourning over the fact that Benjamin had joined the Union army

In early July, Belle was dismayed to see men clad in Union blue march down Queen Street. Belle’s Negro maid, Mauma Eliza, joined her at her bedroom window, mirroring an equally disdainful expression.

“Look at them, Mauma. Why does their flag still contain thirty-four stars? It should only be twenty-three now.”

Mauma Eliza’s eyes narrowed as she watched one soldier spit on the street. “Them Yankees have no respect. No respect at all.”

Belle silently agreed as her eye caught a familiar figure. “Why that’s Ben Hearst. How dare he come marching through his town wearing that despicable uniform? He would have been better off in the petticoat I gave him.”

“No respect at all,” Mauma Eliza muttered again as she turned away from the window and began pulling the bedclothes off Belle’s bed. “Indeed,” she harrumphed to herself as she left Belle’s room, her arms full of dirty sheets.

Two days later, on the 4th of July, Belle was disappointed to hear of the Confederacy’s defeat at Falling Waters, a beautiful spot just eight miles away. Only three Yankees had met their maker as a result of that battle and now Martinsburg was under Union control. That, combined with the date, was enough to make Belle’s blood boil. Only one year ago her family had picnicked at Falling Waters in celebration of the holiday. Now Belle had come to hate the holiday and the archaic Yankee traditions it brought with it. What would the Founding Fathers have thought if they knew their precious Union had willingly let 11 of their states secede?

Belle grimaced and backed away from the window as the men below began singing “Yankee Doodle.” She reached for the blinds and yanked on the cord. The thin wood did little to drown out the drums, bugles, and fifes, however.

The men were celebrating both America’s eighty-fifth birthday and their recent victory, and soon became belligerent with drink, terrorizing the Confederate citizens of their new dominion. Belle could hear the shouting and screaming before she caught sight of the blue-coated men stomping the grounds just outside her bedroom window.

She ignored her racing heart and picked up her father’s Colt pistol, opening the barrel to check that the bullets hadn’t mysteriously disappeared. She descended the stairs and then began counting to ten in an effort to slow the canter of her heartbeat. On five, a pounding on the front door commenced. At eight, the Yankees burst into her parents’ home, the broken door practically falling at the feet of Mauma Eliza.

Mother jumped up from her nervous perch on the settee. There were four of them, and Belle could smell the whiskey on their breath from across the room. Instead of fearing the soldiers, she felt only hatred—what right did they have to invade her home? She had heard of the barbarism the Union soldiers had inflicted upon their Southern neighbors, plundering homes and violating women. It had gotten so bad that Confederate husbands and fathers were demanding that Jefferson Davis appoint contingencies to protect their helpless women. But never once in Belle’s seventeen years had she felt helpless, and she was not about to start now. She tightened her grip on the gun.

The biggest one cast his eyes around the parlor and then settled on Belle. “Are you with the Union or are you one of those damned rebels?” he asked in a heavy German accent.

Belle folded both hands, including the one with the pistol, behind her back, and matched his disdainful tone. “I happen to be a secessionist.”

The sneer on his face grew larger. “So you are. And do you have any Reb flags hidden in your dwelling?”

Belle didn’t answer, not wanting him to know that a Confederate emblem spanned the wall in her room directly across from the window. Out of the corner of her eye, Belle watched Mother sink back into the couch before giving the most imperceptible nod at Mauma Eliza. The slave crept back upstairs, unnoticed.

The tallest of the other three soldiers stepped forward. “With the Confederate loss at Falling Waters, this town is now under federal command. We intend to hoist a Union flag above your house as soon as possible.”

This was too much for Mother to bear. She rose to her feet, her voice void of its customary lilt as she stated, “Every person in my household will die before you dare raise that flag over our heads.”

Belle gasped as the German man marched over to her mother. Time seemed to slow as Belle watched him stare her mother down before grabbing her waist and pulling her close to him. Mother’s struggles to get free were no match for her captor’s brawny arms. The man paused as he took in her brown eyes and well-rounded figure. His big, ugly lip curled outward as he bent toward her. Her head flinched in time and the soldier’s lips met empty air. This threw the soldier off balance, and he dispatched a slew of obscenities directed at both Belle’s mother, whom he had been forced to let go of, and the Confederacy in general.

The blood coursing through Belle’s veins was as hot as a boiling kettle as she saw the German’s hands again seize her mother’s waist before everything in her sight disappeared into a haze of crimson. It took her nearly a full second before she realized that the voice shrieking, “Let go!” over and over was hers. She lifted her arms and squinted her eyes to block out the redness, aiming the gun square at the German. Her intent was to frighten him into releasing her mother; she wasn’t aware that her finger had coiled around the trigger until she heard the gunshot and sensed the recoil in her arms.

At first Belle felt only numbness, no anguish for the blue devil lying prone on the parquet floor, no remorse over what she had done. The still smoking pistol was warm in her hands and, as she carefully set it on the armchair beside her, she felt bile rise in her throat. Surely there would be repercussions from the fallen man’s comrades.

Mauma Eliza had reappeared and both her and Mother’s mouths were open, but Belle barely heard their screams. Her concentration was gathered on the other three soldiers who were approaching her, guns raised. She let her gaze fall to the Yankee’s motionless body before holding up her arms. She had never seen so much blood before but she refused to let the Yanks see her fear. Steadying her voice as best she could, she declared, “Shooting a woman is an act of a cowardly man.” She met the eyes of the tallest man. “Are you a coward?”

He returned her stare as the other men rushed to their fellow soldier hemorrhaging on the floor and hoisted him in their arms. Mauma Eliza’s screams had turned into earsplitting shrieks as the tall man finally broke Belle’s gaze. He holstered his own pistol before snatching the one Belle had used. Without a word, he left the house to follow his men with the dead Yankee in their makeshift stretcher, leaving the women alone to clean up the mess.

Chapter 5

Loreta

July 1861

Lieutenant Harry T. Buford was fixin’ for a fight. He had traveled to Virginia with his slave, Bob, determined to prove that he was as honorable as the scores of men who had taken up arms for the Southern cause. He was not afraid to die in battle—the only true fear that Harry had to contend with was missing the action, as people were saying that the war would be over in no time. The last thing Harry wanted was to return to New Orleans without ever having shot a Yankee.

Harry hadn’t joined a regiment, knowing he’d have more freedom to follow the action as an independent soldier. He’d arrived at the station near Manassas Junction on a train from Richmond. He’d left that city to a cheering crowd, a Confederate cockade—a gift from an admiring female—pinned to his uniform.

For the past three days, Harry had been participating in skirmishes with the enemy outside Blackburn’s Ford, near the muddy Bull Run Creek. One of the Yankee generals must have thought that the road to Centreville was clear through and began to advance. General Longstreet’s men, with whom Harry had currently taken up arms, commenced firing. To Harry, it was more like a series of duels between enemy soldiers and not a true battle. He’d exchanged gunshots with a few Yanks, but did not wound anyone seriously, despite having picked up and fired a dead man’s musket at a fleeing Federal.

“Hah!” a fellow soldier commented as the Yanks started to retreat. “Those blue devils thought they’d march right into the South to take our property, set the niggers free, and drag us back into the Union by our kickin’ feet. How wrong were they!”

“Serves them right for thinking they could force us back under their will!” Harry agreed. He joined in the gleeful shouting of insults at the Federal soldiers before the men were compelled to participate in another institution of war—the burial of the dead. There seemed to be only a few boys lost, yet they toiled under the July sun for hours, digging three-foot holes in the ground and then depositing the next poor fellow in, clothing, shoes, and all, accompanied by a short prayer, until both Harry and his darkey Bob were exhausted. Harry was sorry for the loss of his comrades; some of those boys who lost their lives at the dawn of the war were very young, never having a chance to prove themselves. He wondered if they had a family at home, or, like him, had no family to speak of anymore.

Despite the afternoon’s drastic circumstances, Harry slept well. In the short time that had elapsed since he became a soldier, he’d learned to sleep as soundly on the cold hard ground as he once did on the expensive couch in his ma’s living room. When he rose at four the next morning, he felt sore from the previous day’s exertions.

Harry marched with the brigade through Ashby’s Gap, reaching the small town of Piedmont, located on the Manassas Railroad. They were ordered to halt there. Over the next few days, more Southerners came with various regiments. The talk of the army was of the impending Federal attack on the 21st. According to one of Brigadier General Barnard Bee’s men, the Confederates had ample knowledge of the Union army’s movements.

“How did they get that information?” Harry asked him.

The soldier shrugged. “They say that there is a Confederate woman in Washington City who uses her…” he cleared his throat, “powers of persuasion on high-ranking Union men. She sends messages to our leaders through an underground network.”

Harry smiled to himself, picturing a courageous seductress in the Federal Capital, ferreting out reports on troop movements from unsuspecting Yankee scamps.

The soldier continued. “We’ll be able to defeat them Yanks with one blow and then this war will be over just as fast as it started. Everyone knows that one Confederate is worth five Yankee men.”

Harry nodded, hoping that it would not be finished before he had a chance to show his worth. The previous day’s skirmishes had only served to provoke his desire for a real battle. He’d dreamed about such an adventure his whole life. He’d read every book about soldiers, kings, or adventurers he could get his hands on, and, as a child, begged his father to tell him about his exploits as an officer in the Mexican-American War. Like Harry, his father had fought against the United States, but he had been a much more reluctant soldier.

On the night of the 20th, Harry assumed he might be too excited to get a good night’s rest, but he fell asleep right away, the bare ground being a welcome coolant for his sunburned face.

July 21, 1861 dawned bright and clear. Harry arose with the sun and shrugged on his uniform, smoothing down his mustache and combing back his hair. In his excitement, he found it almost impossible to keep still.

“Look at the little dandy independent, ready to do battle!” one man at his camp called.

Harry steeled himself but did not reply. If he allowed himself to be bothered by every enlisted man who thought themselves better than he, he would have gone back to Richmond several days ago. He’d come this far, experiencing ordeals and circumstances that these mocking officers would never have to go through. He had no thought of turning back for any cause, especially not because of officers who were too big for their britches.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, it cast its light upon thousands of Southerners ready for battle. Harry decided to post himself with General Bee’s men, leaving Bob to clean up the camp.

The brilliant sunshine of the morning gave way to sweltering heat at the same pace as some of the men gave way to their inner fears. As Harry scrambled up the hill for an ideal position, he passed by many men with white faces and trembling hands holding their muskets, ascending very slowly, looking for any excuse to slip back down the hill. Cowards. He almost wished he felt even just a hint of fear, if only to sympathize with the chicken-hearts behind him.

The mist from the morning dew disappeared, only to be replaced by the faint clouds of dust from thousands of enemy feet marching toward the hill on the opposite side. As Harry bent forward to get a better look, he caught an occasional glimmer of a bayonet through the trees. Adrenaline surged through him as the tiny figures in blue uniforms grew closer. Every man marching on that side is my personal enemy, Harry told himself. He raised his musket as a gunshot sounded.

The sounds of many rifles firing soon filled the air, along with the roar of military shells exploding. To Harry’s delight, the moment he’d dreamt about all his life was upon him. The first major battle of the war had finally begun. The air became clogged with acrid smoke which burned Harry’s eyes and caused incessant coughing from the men around him. As more and more Federal soldiers entered into view, it became evident that the Confederates under General Bee were vastly outnumbered, although Harry noted with satisfaction that the men in grey still managed to hold their own. When he heard someone shout, “Fall back!” Harry assumed that the command had come from a Yankee general. But the men beside him began hightailing down the hill—it was General Bee who was ordering his men to retreat. Harry bit back a rage of indignation. He briefly considered disobeying Bee and continuing to shoot at the Yanks. His rage, however, turned to shame. He might have not had an official commission, but he was a soldier, and a Confederate at that, and the gallant men who fought for their independence always listened to their commanding officer. So, with all the mortification of someone admitting defeat, Harry turned and fled.

Bee had an alternate plan, however, which Harry quickly surmised as the general led his men to the rear of a nearby house and ordered them to halt. Soon, Harry was elated to see more and more Confederate reinforcements arrive.

After they’d had a chance to catch their breath, Bee turned to his men, and with a voice as loud as thunder, said, “My boys, at them again! Victory or death.” He gestured toward the newly promoted Brigadier General T.J. Jackson, who stood in front of his brigade of fearless Virginians. “See how our Jackson stands there like a stone wall.”

A thousand men echoed Bee’s roar as they made another go at the enemy, cheering for “Stonewall” Jackson as they did so. They rallied behind the Confederate flag, “The Stars and Bars,” which, in Harry’s opinion, was a little too similar to the detested Yankee flag.

When Harry glanced up at the hill that the Confederate’s bravest generals had occupied that morning, he saw it covered with men desperately fighting. Their shouting, combined with the deafening sounds of the guns, made for a roar that became a constant buzzing in Harry’s ear. The more intense the conflict became, the more determined he became to avenge the Southern cause as well as vindicate his comrades lying slain on the ground beneath them.

Jackson pressed forward, ordering his men to reserve fire until the enemy was within 50 yards. “Then charge, boys, and yell like furies!” The Confederates did as they were told, pushing through the lines with their bayonets pointed and emitting a guttural howl, an unearthly sound that would come to be known as the “Rebel yell.” The last of the men in blue were pushed off the hill by late afternoon.

Although the Confederates were eventually victorious, their losses that day were great, including General Bernard Bee himself, who was mortally wounded only a few moments after giving General Jackson his nickname.

At the end of the day, Harry’s exhaustion from the day’s trials was mixed with exhilaration from both the victory and the fact that he had accomplished something he had dreamt of doing all of his life. Something that everyone, including poor William, God rest his soul, had told him was impossible.

As Harry headed back to his tent, he reflected that if anyone were to ask his fellow soldiers how he had fared, they would reply that Lieutenant Buford had fought just as valiantly as any man on the field, perhaps even more so.

After double-checking that the tent flaps were closed, he removed his shirt. He unwrapped the soiled wrappings on his chest, taking one free deep breath before replacing them. He then used a hand mirror to take off his fake mustache in order to reapply the glue that held it in place. For a brief second, the face that stared back at him was not that of Harry Buford, but that of his real identity: Loreta Janeta Velazquez Williams, a recent widow who had a sympathy for the South that was as strong as anyone’s: male or female.

Chapter 6

Mary Jane

July 1861

When Richmond became the capital of the Confederacy, the once quiet city was overrun with government officials—the Confederate Congress was installed in the State Capitol Building and the Post Office was established in the basement of the beautiful Spotswood Hotel. Jefferson Davis, the newly elected President, had arrived to the salute of 15 guns—one for each Confederate state.

After the Battle of Manassas—or Bull Run to the Federals—train after train arrived bearing the pine boxes of the dead and wounded soldiers. Many of the “brave boys” were welcomed into private homes to convalesce when the hospitals grew too full, but others were not so lucky and the streets were thronged with bruised and bloody men from both sides of the war.

“Come with me,” Miss Lizzie commanded Mary Jane as she returned to the mansion after an errand. Mary Jane helped her down the steps. She trailed after her mistress down Grace Street, puzzling over her fine attire: a blue silk dress trimmed with yellow ribbon and a matching parasol. She contrasted greatly with the soldiers who wandered the streets as though they were the walking dead, which, Mary Jane mused, with their faces black with gunpowder and blood-soaked bandages over every appendage, they nearly were.

“Miss?” the man’s throat was surely so parched he could barely croak the words out.

Miss Lizzie paused and took in the man’s appearance. His head was wrapped with a yellowing bandage and another was wrapped around his right knee, the leg below it gone. He used his musket as a makeshift crutch.

“If I had to give a quarter for every wounded soldier, my father’s fortune would disappear in no time,” Miss Lizzie muttered, more to herself than to anyone else. But she dug change out of her reticule, anyway. She placed it square in the man’s open palm and then folded his fingers over it, as if to say, “Don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.”

She motioned for Mary Jane to continue on, checking to make sure there were no carriages in the vicinity as she crossed Franklin Street. “Damned wounded rebels,” Miss Lizzie murmured. “If I could guarantee that for every quarter I pay to them, the impaired Federals would receive the same, I would indeed spend every penny of the money Daddy left me.” She gave Mary Jane a searching look before adding, “For the cause.”

Miss Lizzie stopped abruptly at the corner of Main and 25th Street as Mary Jane peered up at their apparent destination: the former tobacco warehouse belonging to Mr. John Ligon. The tobacco factories of Richmond had been infamous for their tales of cruelty to the slaves who labored in the warehouse, pressing and preparing the tobacco leaves and stuffing them into the massive hogshead barrels.

A crowd had already formed outside the three-story brick building.

One woman pointed her parasol toward the building and shouted, “Nothing but cowards in there, not even daring to show their face at the window!”

“Of whom do you speak?” Miss Lizzie asked the woman.

“The blueback malingerers in there.” Again she waved her parasol. “They’ve been taken prisoner and we are here to stir up the Northern lunatics.”

Mary Jane caught sight of a young man in a blue uniform, staring out the barred window as though he were a wild animal in a cage. Another woman, this one younger than the one beside Miss Lizzie, shouted, “Even if you end up killing all our men, we women will make more soldiers!”

Mary Jane bit back a giggle as the other woman planted the tip of her parasol on the ground. “Why, Sarah, just because the Yankees are rude, that doesn’t mean we need to be as well.”

The woman named Sarah opened her mouth and then shut it, glancing at the rest of the crowd, who were snickering at her remark. “I didn’t mean we’d make more, as in... make more ourselves. I meant we’d take up arms if need be.”

“That’s even funnier,” a young man, clearly not old enough to enlist, commented. “Women taking up arms.”

The woman with the parasol found a new target. “You sir, you don’t think women could fight the Yankees as well as you?”

“Not me,” the young man conceded, shaking his head. “Not until I’m 18.”

“See there,” the woman replied, shouldering her parasol. “There are other ways to go to battle with the Yankees.”

Miss Lizzie marched up to the door and held it open for Mary Jane. “Give them officers hell!” an unknown female voice shouted before it faded when the door slammed shut. “I’d like to see the officer in charge,” Miss Lizzie stated to a guard.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Miss Elizabeth Van Lew,” she said, not without a little pride.

The man, a Richmond native, Mary Jane could only assume, nodded with deference at the name and disappeared behind an inner door. In a few minutes, he was back to escort them into the former owner’s office.

The man rose upon their entrance. He looked to be in his early thirties. He had a full goatee and mustache, both black as pitch without a hint of gray. His dark eyes seemed to match, and they became darker as they fixed briefly on Mary Jane standing behind Miss Lizzie before flickering back to the seated Miss Lizzie. Mary Jane could detect a hint of alcohol in his breath as he introduced himself as Lieutenant David Humphries Todd. He pronounced his name with half as much pride as Miss Lizzie used earlier. Mary Jane knew him to be the half-brother of Mary Todd Lincoln, a native of Kentucky. It had been rumored that some of her kin had joined the Confederacy, and, judging by the battered gray uniform, this would be one of them.

If Miss Lizzie recognized the family name as belonging to the First Lady, she did not show it. “Lieutenant, this prison must contain wounded soldiers, and, as such, I would like to be appointed nurse to them.”

Todd narrowed his eyes and glared at Mary Jane.

“My servant,” Miss Lizzie replied to his unasked question. “She will be of assistance to me.”

“Miss—”

“Van Lew,” Miss Lizzie supplied.

“You are the first and only lady to make any such application,” his voice, slightly slurred, was more of a growl than anything else. “You are aware that we house Yankees here, not gentlemen.”

“Yessir,” Miss Lizzie’s voice had affected a Southern drawl. “But if we wish our cause to succeed, we must be charitable to the thankless and unworthy as well.”

His black eyebrows, previously knitted together, became two again at the mention of the words, “our cause.” He pulled a pen out and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “This is a pass to see General John Winder, the provost marshal of Richmond. You will find him next door at Howard’s factory.”

“Thank you, sir.” Miss Lizzie rose.

His eyes followed them. As soon as the door shut behind them, Mary Jane thought she heard a drawer open. She pictured him uncapping a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and taking another swig before returning to his paperwork.

“Miss Lizzie,” Mary Jane hissed once they were past the crowd outside the prison. “What was all of that about ‘our cause’?”

“You can kill more gnats with honey than you can with poison,” Miss Lizzie said cryptically before entering the adjacent building. They entered directly into a cavernous room, with multiple rows of wooden structures that Mary Jane guessed were tobacco presses. A gray-haired man in an officer’s uniform stood in the middle of it all, barking orders at two other uniformed men, who seemed to be running around in circles.

Miss Lizzie waited for a lull in the commands before tentatively calling out, “General Winder?”

“Yes’m?” he replied, marching closer to the women.

She stuck out her hand. “I am Miss Elizabeth Van Lew. Lieutenant Todd sent me here to speak to you about the federal prisoners being housed at Ligon’s Warehouse.”

“Yes. Eating utensils,” he shouted at one of the soldiers nearby, who marked something in a notebook. Addressing Miss Lizzie, he said, “We’ve already reached capacity there and plan on moving some of the officers here as soon as we can ready it.”

“Sir, that’s exactly why I’m here—I want to help. A man of your authority shouldn’t need to worry about such trifles as forks for the Yankees.”

Winder sighed. “Indeed, it is a thankless position. I was a major in the US Army.” He pointed to a scar running the length of his cheek. Everything about his countenance was gray, from the dull eyes devoid of color, to the unruly tufts of hair that stuck out underneath his hat, to the stony expression on his face. “Got this in the Mexican War, fighting for the Union. But they have no right to use force to keep the Union intact.”

“Ah, I would have never noticed your scar. Your hair is what distracts me—it belongs in Rome among the Gods, not here in Richmond.”

The taut line of Winder’s lips extended, as if he were attempting a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You say you want to help the prisoners.”

“I know the good women of Richmond will tend to all of the needs of the Confederates, but the federal prisoners will need provisions as well.”

He nodded. “You there,” he called to a passing soldier. “Write Miss Van Lew a pass to visit the prisoners at will.”

Even Miss Lizzie seemed taken aback at Winder’s easy compliance. He excused himself and returned to his spot in the middle of the warehouse to bellow out more items for his men to procure. The other soldier returned with the requested pass and Miss Lizzie bid him good day. When they left the dank warehouse and the sun was once again warming their shoulders, Miss Lizzie congratulated herself. “I’d heard Winder’s vanity was great. Now I know I can flatter anything out of the old man.”

Mary Jane thought once again of that gray face, lined with knowing wrinkles. Perhaps Winder wasn’t completely blinded by arrogance and those colorless eyes saw past Miss Lizzie’s flattery to her true intentions.

Mary Jane assisted Miss Lizzie in gathering fruit, bread, books, boots, and other various items for the prisoners. They loaded her wagon until the wheels threatened to stay buried in the mud. Miss Lizzie’s sister-in-law Mary watched the goings-on from her perch on the porch. “Elizabeth,” she called as Miss Lizzie made another trip from the kitchen to the wagon.

“Yes, Mary?” Miss Lizzie asked as she carefully balanced a basket of socks on the pile of supplies.

“Why do you insist on aiding those miscreants? If freed, they would rape or murder us in an instant.”

Miss Lizzie pasted on a smile. “All Yankees are not criminals, just as all Southerners are not gentlemen. There are evil-doers on both sides of the war, just as there are noble men. Our purpose is not to judge, but to aid.”

“You are aiding the wrong side. You could be considered an enemy under Jeff Davis’s new proclamation,” Mary stated.

Mary Jane knew that the Confederate Congress had recently passed an act declaring that any person “adhering to the Government of the United States and acknowledging authority of the same” would be treated as an alien enemy.

Miss Lizzie motioned for Mary Jane to climb into the front seat of the wagon. “That act only applies to male citizens,” she replied, ascending the block to take her place beside Mary Jane. “God knows it’s the least we can do,” she said, more to herself than anyone else as the driver picked up the reins and the horses began to pull the wagon slowly out of earshot.

Chapter 7

Hattie

July 1861

After helping deliver Lincoln to his inauguration in one piece, Pinkerton and Co. settled back in their Chicago office. Even though Fort Sumter had fallen, resulting in a war between the states, the criminals were still at work, and the Pinkerton operatives resumed their status quo.

Since Hattie was the new girl, her day mostly consisted of completing paperwork and sketching. Hattie knew she had been hired in large part because Pinkerton had spotted her talent for drawing. She would draw a likeness of a suspect based on the hair color, eye color, chin shape and physical abnormalities dictated to her by an informant or victim. The picture was then hung in the “Rogues’ Gallery,” a hallway which was also filled with daguerreotypes and tintypes of criminals the Pinkertons had arrested through the years. To Hattie’s immense pride, a few of her depictions had resulted in arrests—in her own way, Hattie contributed to getting dangerous criminals off the street. But still, she longed for a larger role.

When strangers insisted on inquiring after her occupation, Hattie told them she was a dressmaker. Most people assumed she was a widow, like her supervisor Kate. She did not correct them, for they would think it impossible for “a respectable married woman” to remain virtuous in such work. Pinkerton did not agree with such musings and told Hattie so when he encouraged her to stay in Chicago and work for him, stating that “the position of a lady operative is as useful and honorable of employment as can be found in any walk of life. It is no less respectable or honorable than that of a lady copyist or clerk.”

When Hattie was clearly still hesitant, he added, “And actually, your virtue would be even more safeguarded than those aforementioned jobs, since the operatives in my company know that their conduct is under constant surveillance.”

Pinkerton knew the value of a beautiful operative, having employed Kate Warne for six years. After being left destitute at a young age upon the death of her husband, Kate sought work from Pinkerton. She managed to convince him that he needed her type of tact and discretion as well as her uncanny ability to read anyone’s inner motives, which indeed he did need. After a successful trial run—and her subsequent hire—Pinkerton sent Kate out on various assignments. The Pinkerton Detective Agency’s largest clients were the railroad companies, who hired the agency to guard their rails and prevent theft on the trains. But the Pinkerton operatives also solved fraud and counterfeiting claims, and even murder cases. Kate’s duties usually involved becoming a mistress to suspected criminals—in that way she could achieve the confidences of difficult subjects and get them to divulge information they would not to a male operative. Once Pinkerton realized the advantages of having a woman on staff, he quickly promoted Kate to head of the female unit and hired more female detectives.

Kate had reopened the murder case she’d been working before she left for Baltimore. She had befriended the murder suspect’s girlfriend and, a few days after returning to Chicago, came into the office with a quickened gait and a thoughtful expression. She disappeared into Pinkerton’s office and emerged several minutes later. “Hattie! Are you ready for your next undercover role?”

Hattie dropped her pen. “Of course!” Hattie followed Kate into the back “disguise” closet. Kate began tossing women’s clothing all around until she found a flowing silk scarf. “Miss Davis just told me that Mr. Pattmore believes in fortune tellers.” She draped the yellow scarf over Hattie’s head and they both gazed at her reflection in the mirror. With Hattie’s dark eyes and hair, she already had an exotic look to her, made even more so with the scarf.

Pinkerton paid for Kate and Hattie to go to a fortune teller that night. Kate pretended to be interested in having her fortune told while Hattie memorized the soothsayer’s rhetoric and jerky movements. The woman foretold that Kate would soon be pregnant.

“But my husband is dead,” Kate replied.

Undaunted, the woman stated, “You will be married again within the year.”

Kate cocked an eyebrow but did not say anything as she rose from the chair. “Your turn, Hattie.”

“That’s okay. I think we’ve learned enough tonight.”

“Come on, Hattie.”

Hattie shrugged. As close as Hattie and Kate were, Kate was, after all, still Hattie’s boss. She sat down and placed her hands palm up on the table.

As soon as the fortune teller laid her hands over Hattie’s, she pulled them back, as if Hattie’s palms were red-hot pokers.

“Is something wrong?” Hattie asked. She looked down at her hands, fearing they had betrayed her past to this strange woman.

“I’m tired,” the woman replied. “It’s been a long day, and my third eye has closed.”

Hattie glanced at Kate, whose eyebrows were furrowed.

“That’s fine,” Hattie said, grabbing her purse. She threw a few dollars on the table and the two operatives left. They headed to the “office” located across the street from Pinkerton and Co. Pinkerton had purchased it a few years ago to utilize for various cases—its most recent use had been acting as an accountant’s office for another undercover operative. Kate and Hattie worked late into the night to cover the windows with dark drapes, creating an atmosphere more akin to a fortune teller’s place of business.

“Do you believe in any of that stuff?” Kate asked once they were on the street again.

Out of habit, Hattie checked to make sure her revolver was secure in her handbag. “No.”

“Me neither. I don’t ever want to marry again, let alone in the middle of the war. The only man worthy of my love would be fighting for the Union, and I don’t want to spend my time worrying if he lives or died in battle.”

Hattie gave her friend a tiny smile. “Agreed.”

As Hattie climbed the steps to her apartment, she reflected on what Kate had said. There had only been one man that Hattie had ever met that she felt would be worthy of her love. And it wasn’t her husband.

After Hattie had unlocked the door, she was grateful to note that her landlady was not home. She headed to the room that she leased and pulled a small box from the upper corners of her closet. The box contained papers from her past life: mostly newspaper clippings of her brother’s exploits, but it also included her marriage certificate, the train ticket from Iowa City to Chicago, and a small folded paper, which she removed before replacing the lid. The paper was a sketch of one of the men who had accompanied them on the journey from Kansas: Captain Lawton. He was the bravest man Hattie had ever met, refusing to give in to the slaves’ fears that they would be caught and whipped, or, worse, sent to the gallows. Hattie traced her finger along the etched lines. She’d completed it by memory after she arrived at the Chicago safe-house. The woman of the house had made up a guest room for Hattie while some of the slaves were herded into a small room off the basement to await the next leg of their expedition. The others went to various other refuges—called “stations” in terms of the Underground Railroad—located throughout the city.

The owner of the safe-house happened to spot the drawing amongst her things while Hattie was packing. “Did you draw this?” he asked, picking it up to examine it closely. Even that early in their relationship, Hattie could tell that his sharp eyes did not miss much.

Hattie suppressed the urge to snatch the drawing back. “Yes sir.”

He set down the picture and turned his penetrating eyes on her. “You intend to go to Canada with the rest of them.”

“Indeed, sir.” Hattie tucked some clothing into her carpetbag.

“Are they relatives of yours?” His finger pointed downward, referring to the slaves hidden away in the lower reaches of the house.

“No, sir.” Hattie refused to meet his eyes.

“Then why? As I’m sure you’re aware, the journey is exceedingly dangerous.”

Hattie could have laughed aloud. Of course it was dangerous: she’d already spent weeks traveling the frigid prairies, traversing creeks swollen with ice-cold water, and dodging armed bands of men intent on murdering their leader—in their words, “that damned nigger thief” John Brown.

“Why then?” he demanded when Hattie did not reply.

Hattie blew out a breath of air. There was something about this man’s demeanor that coaxed the truth from her. “Aaron Dwight Stevens is my brother.”

She assumed correctly that he was aware that Aaron was one of the warrior abolitionist Brown’s most devoted followers. “That does not answer my question.” His voice softened. “While I agree with Brown’s viewpoints on slavery—I personally despise it and see it as a curse upon all Americans—I disagree with his vigilante methods. The pro-slavers wouldn’t hesitate to kill him and his disciples on sight. Including your brother.”

“I know,” Hattie said softly.

“And Captain Lawton as well. None of them are long for this world if they keep up their escapades. Which puts you in the same danger as them.” He once again picked up the drawing. “I own a detective agency. Your artistic gifts would be of great use in capturing criminals.”

Hattie refrained from gasping aloud. She knew the safe-house had been owned by a Pinkerton, but she didn’t realize it was that Pinkerton. Hattie was an avid newspaper reader; she’d developed the habit at an early age, sneaking the paper into her room and scouring it for any word of Aaron. Later, she’d search through the obituaries, hoping that news of her husband’s death would make it into the Chicago papers. She’d come across stories on the exploits of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency many times. “I read about how you solved that post office robbery.”

“Yes,” Pinkerton scratched at his beard. “I was undercover, working as a clerk, and I saw that rascal Dennison sneak envelopes into his waistcoat. We did a thorough search of his apartment but turned up nothing until I had the idea to look behind the many pictures he had on his walls. There we found thousands of dollars.” He met Hattie’s eyes again, and this time Hattie didn’t turn from his gaze. “It’s that kind of quick thinking that helps solve cases. Your brother must be a quick-thinker to have survived this long. Surely you are as well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Pinkerton must have realized that Hattie was intent on continuing to Canada because he tried a different tactic. “I managed to scrape together some funds to help get the slaves to freedom. But it’s not much money and it could go further if there was one less mouth to feed along the way.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “The party plans on leaving tomorrow night. You have some time to think it over.”

Indeed she contemplated Pinkerton’s words after he’d gone. Now that she’d left her husband once and for all, Hattie knew that she would not have a lot of options for earning an income on her own. Jobs for women were few and far between, mainly consisting of three options: factory worker, which offered little job stability; house servant, which meant that Hattie would have to live in her employer’s household and give up her freedom of movement; or prostitute, whose drawbacks needed no further explanation. But it was the mention of the slaves that did her in. She knew of the hazards they had faced in their old life, especially from Hattie’s own husband, who treated his slaves even more brutally than he treated his wife. One of the men on the journey had been a free man until captured under the Fugitive Slave Act and brought to Kansas. Although Hattie’s husband had never owned him, he said that he did anyway, and beat the man senseless as a lesson for the other slaves never to run. Hattie had been shocked by the scars on the man’s back—revealed the day he’d removed his shirt to serve as a makeshift blanket for a baby—and couldn’t imagine the wounds he carried on the inside.

And so Hattie stayed in Chicago, reconciling with the fact that she’d never again lay eyes on Captain Lawton, who represented everything a man should be and everything her husband wasn’t: an abolitionist who wasn’t afraid to stand up for what was right. That fall, John Brown organized the doomed raid on Harper’s Ferry in an attempt to trigger a slave uprising. Although Aaron was shot four times, he managed to survive and was arrested along with Brown and his other followers. Aaron wrote Hattie one last letter from his prison cell. In it, he stated:

I do not feel guilty in the least, for I know, if I know anything, that there was no evil intention in my heart. I thought I should be able to do more good for the world in this way than I could do in any other. I may have erred as to the best way, but I think everything will turn out for the best in the end.

I do not expect to be tried until next Spring, when I expect I shall be hanged, as I think all the rest will, as Slavery demands that we should hang for its protection, and we will meet it willingly, knowing that God is Just, and is over all. There seems to be no mercy for those who are willing to help those who have none to help them.

My heart feels like bleeding to think how many thousands are worse off in this land than I am now. Oh, that I could see this country free, I would give a thousand lives if I had them to give.

Hattie wrote to him, vowing to help him see that goal of a free country in both the North and the South, but her letter was returned to her. Aaron, Brown, and the others were sent to the gallows in March of 1860. Hattie pored over every paper she could get her hands on, but she found no mention of Captain Lawton.

The next day, Kate’s suspect, Mr. Pattmore arrived with his mistress, Miss Davis, at the makeshift fortune teller’s place of business. Although unduly nervous in her fortune teller disguise—she’d worn a flowing silk dress and the requisite scarf and carried an oddly carved wand donated by one of the other operatives—Hattie was determined to prove once more that she could be a successful operative.

Mr. Pattmore was a well-dressed, rather handsome man, with dark hair and eyes.

“What do you seek to know?” Hattie asked.

“The outcome of the war,” Pattmore replied.

Hattie tried to meet the man’s gaze in order to ascertain what side he had allegiance for, but his eyes shifted in every direction but hers. Unable to get a fair impression, she rotated her head, mimicking the fortune teller’s movements from last night. In this way, she was able to make momentary eye contact with Kate, who stood behind Mr. Pattmore, half-hidden by a black curtain.

“Rebs,” Kate mouthed.

Hattie moved the wand back and forth. “The Confederacy fights well. And though they are outnumbered—”

“Yes?” Pattmore leaned forward.

“The outcome is favorable.”

He nodded and sat back in his chair.

Hattie refrained from frowning. “Do you wish to know your own future?”

“She is a fortune teller,” Miss Davis cut in. “Isn’t that what you paid for?”

“Indeed,” Pattmore placed his hands on the table.

Hattie pretended to take her time examining the inside of his palms while recalling what Kate had told her about her suspect. “Your parents are dead. You had one brother, who died at an early age. Most of the money your father left you is gone.”

Miss Davis gasped. “You can tell all that from the lines on his hand?”

“Shh.” Pattmore directed his attention back to Hattie. “What else?”

“There was a man.” Hattie shifted her eyes to Miss Davis. “Your husband, I believe?”

The woman, clearly under Hattie’s spell, nodded.

Hattie turned Pattmore’s palm over. “He is no longer with us as well.” Hattie focused once again on Miss Davis. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“It was no great loss on anyone’s part,” Pattmore muttered.

“Indeed not, although she got a great amount of wealth upon his death.” Hattie widened her eyes. “But it seems that you had something to do with his death.”

“Of course he did not.” Miss Davis stood. “What kind of soothsayer are you? You know nothing.”

“Quiet, Cecile,” Pattmore commanded. “I want to hear more.”

“These are just lies.”

“Oh, but they are not, my dear.” Pattmore gestured for her to sit. “I did have something to do with his death.”

“What?” Miss Davis fell back into her chair. “How?”

Pattmore seemed more angry than agitated now. From behind the curtain, Kate rapidly circled her hand. Keep going.

Hattie traced a line on his palm. “You paid someone to off him.”

“No, he didn’t.” Miss Davis said. She faced her fiancé. “You wouldn’t do that, would you Benny?”

He removed his hands from the table and stood up. “How else would you have gotten your inheritance from the old man?” He puffed out his chest and looked down at Miss Davis with cold eyes. “He was onto our relationship. It was just a matter of time before we were discovered and you were disinherited.”

Miss Davis gasped as Kate and Sam Bridgman, another Pinkerton operative, appeared from their hiding places. “You’re under arrest,” Bridgman said as he bound the criminal’s wrists in handcuffs. “Nice work, Lewis,” he told Hattie as he escorted a protesting Pattmore out.

Kate pulled off one of the window coverings, flooding the room with light, before turning to Pattmore’s bewildered mistress. “You are free to go, for now. But Miss Davis, make sure to choose your beaus with a greater amount of prudence from now on. Your future husband’s life may depend on it.” After Miss Davis promised to be more careful, she left.

Kate hugged Hattie. “Thank you. This is the second time you’ve proven yourself a worthy operative.”

“Hopefully now the Boss will give me other work besides drawing and being his secretary.”

“He will,” Kate said as she gathered an armful of sheets. “I know it.”

Pinkerton had summoned a meeting to begin at 7 am the next morning for all of his employees in the Chicago area.

As Hattie walked down the hall to the offices of Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, she was surprised to see a new logo painted on the frosted glass: a realistic drawing of an eye. Underneath were the hand-painted words, “We Never Sleep.”

“Bizarre, isn’t it?” Kate asked when Hattie entered the office. She must have caught Hattie staring at it in the hall.

“Yet somehow fitting,” Hattie murmured. The unblinking eye seemed to watch Hattie as she yawned. She indeed had been up all night, feeling at once exhilarated about her role in the murder case, and anxious about today’s meeting. Hattie hoped it would be a big case, and that she would have an integral part in it.

Pinkerton ran his business with an iron hand: all operatives—despite his agency’s official name, he refused to refer to his employees as “detectives” because he thought it carried an overtone of dishonesty—were required to make daily reports and then to wait for his reply either by mail or telegraph. None in his employ were to make their own decisions unless the nature of the circumstances demanded it, and even then, the agent who acted would have to face a lengthy inquiry by Mr. Pinkerton. Pinkerton had written a reference book, or, as Kate referred to it, a tome, of the edicts his employees had to adhere to, which he presented to every new hire. His operatives were never to stoop to immoral means to complete their investigation, nor would the company take on cases involving divorce or other “scandalous affairs.” All employees and their subsequent actions must be “pure and above reproach.” Hattie often wondered how much Pinkerton knew of the reason she’d fled to Chicago in the first place, but he never asked and Hattie never offered.

“What do you think Pinkerton’s got in store for us?” she asked Kate.

Kate’s blue eyes were wide. “Have you heard that Colonel Ellsworth was killed in Baltimore? The secessionists are rioting. They’ve been burning bridges and they even cut the telegraph wires connecting Baltimore to Washington.”

Hattie sighed. “I thought Maryland hadn’t seceded.”

“I’ve seen firsthand how those rebels can sow the seeds of revolution,” Kate had been undercover in Baltimore for weeks prior to the Lincoln incident, pretending to be a Southern belle and cultivating friendships with the wives and daughters of high-ranking Confederates.

“That’s about the only thing they don’t need slaves to sow.” The voice belonged to John Scully, Hattie’s least favorite co-worker, a red-bearded Irishmen who was about Hattie’s age. “Right, Warne?” The man had spoken Kate’s last name, but his eyes were directed at Hattie.

“Lewis,” Hattie replied pointedly. Although the two women had become fast friends the moment Hattie had started at the agency, they looked nothing alike. Kate was slightly taller than Hattie, with short blond hair and expressive blue eyes. Kate was graceful with all the confidence in her abilities that Hattie seemed to lack. Her broad, honest face, lightly sprinkled with freckles, caused fellow operatives and criminals to easily divulge confidential information. Scully should have known better, anyway: his frequent partner on missions was Pryce Lewis, an Englishman, of no relation to Hattie despite the shared last name. Had Hattie realized there was another operative named Lewis in the office, she would have chosen a different nom de guerre.

Pinkerton cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, and... ladies.” The inclusion of Hattie and Kate was, as always, an afterthought, but Hattie could hold no ill will toward her boss, who was the only man in the world as far as she knew who hired female detectives. “We have been asked to perform a task of great importance. Due to the destruction of the telegraph wires leading to the Capital, Mr. Lincoln has asked me to personally oversee communications from Chicago to Washington. A messenger must be dispatched immediately. It will not be an easy task by any means, but one that will be of honorable service to our country.”

At these words, Hattie sat up in her seat. She had no sentiment that she would be chosen for the monumental task, but she had a slight inclination it could be Kate.

“Mr. Webster will be traveling to Washington to offer our services to begin what I’m calling a ‘secret service.’” Pinkerton held up a sheet of paper. As Webster rose to accept it, there was a murmur of approval from the rest of the department followed by a modest ovation.

Hattie gave her friend the tiniest of smiles. In truth, Webster’s operation was going to be quite dangerous and rebels would not look in favor of a woman trying to get through the lines by herself, pass or not. Kate winked at her and then turned her attention to Webster.

Hattie had not spent a significant amount of time with Timothy Webster, but she knew of his spotless reputation. With his graying hair and eyes beginning to crinkle at the sides, Webster looked to be in his late 30s or early 40s. His eyes were the type of blue that appeared gray at a distance. Surely that, combined with his tall frame, would make him stand out in a crowd and render him nearly useless as a spy. Still, Hattie thought, there was something about his good-naturedness that made you instantly trust him.

Pinkerton turned to the detective to ask, “Timothy, knowing what you know of the task that lies before you, will you undertake its performance?”

Webster drew up to his full six feet. “I understand all perfectly.” Even from where Hattie sat, she could see his gray-blue eyes flash. “If my country demands my services, I am ready to perform my duty, even if it costs me my life.”

Pinkerton nodded, the slight upturning of his mouth indicating he was pleased with Webster’s response. “Miss Lewis.” His eyes searched the audience before landing on Hattie. “Your presence is requested.”

Hattie’s heart thumped in her chest and she rose and stepped forward. Would this be her big break—her chance to avenge the Union? “Yes, Mr. Pinkerton?”

Pinkerton gestured to Webster, and the latter shed his jacket and waistcoat, a well-toned chest and arms were visible beneath his shirt. Hattie dropped her gaze to the ground in an attempt to maintain her modesty, looking up just in time to see Pinkerton grab a pile of papers from the table beside him. He handed them to Hattie. “These will need to be sewn into the linings of Mr. Webster’s finery, if you do not mind.” Without a word, Mr. Webster extended his accouterments toward Hattie. Shoving the sheaf of papers most unladylike under her arm, she accepted them.

Chapter 8

Belle

July 1861

A week passed after the soldier was killed. Belle’s fear of Union reprisal diminished with each day that went by without incident. But one morning she had just walked downstairs when she espied a group of soldiers making their way up the front path.

“Dear God,” Mother said when she also caught sight of the brigade. She folded her hands in front of her and said a quick prayer before opening the door. “May I help you gentlemen?”

“Is this the Boyd residence?” a man in a Yankee officer’s uniform asked.

“It is indeed. I am Mrs. Boyd.”

He pulled a notebook out of his satchel. “I am General Patterson and these are my men. We have been dispatched to ask you and your daughter a few questions about what happened during the afternoon of July 4th.”

Mother stepped aside and gestured for the men to enter. The man in charge caught sight of Belle on the staircase. He touched the tip of his hat. “You must be Miss Boyd. We’d like to query your mother first, if you don’t mind.”

Belle nodded but did not move from her post as the men and her mother went into the parlor. Mauma Eliza came into the hallway.

“Remember, Mauma, if they question you, make sure you tell them what the German was trying to do to Mother.” The three women had prepared what to say if the Union soldiers came back. Southerners would never dare take a slave’s word, but Belle made sure Mauma Eliza had her story correct backwards and forward should the Yanks dare to question her.

When it was Belle’s turn to meet with the men in the parlor, she made it clear that shooting the man was her only means of protecting both her mother and herself. Luckily the men did not ask her if she felt any sorrow for what she had done, for Belle held not even a shadow of regret for killing the German. His blood had left not a shadow of burden upon her conscience nor any stain on her soul.

At long last, General Patterson sighed before closing his notebook. “I apologize if Private Martin threatened you harm. I never met the man, but as he was a Union soldier, I doubt he was intent on hurting you or your mother.”

“But we will never know, will we, sir?” Belle kept her voice light.

“No.” General Patterson gazed at the stain on the floor that, try as she had, Mauma Eliza could not get rid of. “We never will know now. Next time, I advise you to trust in the jurisdiction of the Union before you go killing any more of its soldiers.”

Belle bit her tongue from insisting she would never trust a Yankee. She pasted on her most saccharine smile. “I wouldn’t be able to anyway, sir. Your soldier has confiscated my pistol.”

General Patterson stood. “That is for the best.” He nodded at one of his men who stood in the corner of the room. “We will establish a watch outside the Boyd home just in case.”

To Belle’s both horror and delight, men were stationed at all hours outside her home. Martinsburg was still under Union control and the federal flag flapping in the square was visible from the Boyds’ upstairs windows. Every time she set eyes on that flag, her indignation grew, and she became determined to do what she could to rid her town of the Yankee soldiers.

Lucy Buck, an acquaintance of Belle’s, visited for lunch a few days later. Lucy’s brother had a furlough after Manassas Junction and had shared stories of the Confederate victory. Belle laughed aloud when Lucy spoke of the Yankees who had ventured out to watch the battle brandishing picnic baskets and wine.

“I guess they must now realize that we will not be defeated,” Belle said, taking a bite of a sandwich.

“Indeed. And when General Jackson stood his ground, General Bee likened him to a stone wall. Now that’s what they are calling him: Stonewall Jackson.”

Belle smiled. She had always had a sweet spot for General Jackson.

“And did you hear?” Lucy continued. “The intelligence that helped us win Manassas was provided by a Southern lady living right inside Washington City.”

“What was her name?” Belle asked.

“A Mrs. Greenhorn?”

“Rose. Rose Greenhow.” Belle was familiar with her reputation, having spent last winter in Washington. Mrs. Greenhow’s parties were the most exclusive, the kind every debutante such as Belle aspired to attend.

“A girl just about our age was the one who delivered the missive. Bettie Duvall,” Lucy continued.

“Ah.” Belle wrinkled her nose, picturing the thin-boned Bettie, fragile as a bird. “I’m surprised she had the nerve.”

Lucy picked up her tea. “Many of us find strength to do what we can for the cause.”

Belle nodded. She longed to contribute something other than sewing, killing a drunken Yankee notwithstanding. She wanted other Confederate women to discuss her own daring at tea, to applaud her for her bravery and sacrifice.

That evening, Belle and her mother were invited to meet General Jackson himself at Ramer’s Hotel. When the general entered the parlor of the hotel, everyone rushed to greet him at once. Belle hung back, watching while small children pulled at his trouser legs and daughters and mothers batted their eyelashes as they curtsied. Stonewall Jackson was a thin man, dressed in a tattered single-breasted coat. An equally shabby cap was flung over his eyes so coldly blue they were nearly gray. He was a somber man who rarely smiled, but he good-naturedly let some of Belle’s mother’s friends cut off his uniform buttons for souvenirs, joking that this was the first time he’d been attacked at close range. Finally, Belle saw her chance to approach the general. She walked over and held up a bouquet of wildflowers. “General, do you have any more buttons to spare for my own collection?” She did not have a collection yet, per se, but having one of the respected general’s buttons would be an auspicious start.

Jackson threw his head back as if to laugh, but no sound came out. He held out the flaps of his coat like a pauper. “No, ma’am. Not a one.” Belle could see the vest underneath had also been robbed of buttons.

Belle batted her eyelashes. “Maybe next time we meet then?”

Jackson nodded before turning to yet another demanding admirer.

Belle watched as his heavily lined face smiled at the newcomer. He was not a handsome man, but his kindness made him attractive. Belle made a vow that there would be another meeting between them.

The next morning, Belle was pleased to note that the Union trooper standing below her bedroom was young and, despite his homely and ill-fitting blue uniform, handsome. “You there,” she called from the opened window. She waved a lace handkerchief at him as he looked up. “What is your name?”

He saluted her. “Franklin Smith.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ohio.”

“What’s that?” Belle held a hand up to her ear for good measure. “I can hardly hear you.”

“Ohio,” Smith shouted.

“Oh bother.” Belle hurried downstairs to continue the conversation.

If Smith was startled to see her at street level, he did not show it.

“Is it terribly hard to be so far away from your wife?” she asked him with a bat of her eyelashes.

“I’m not married.”

“Your girlfriend, then.”

“I’ve not one of those either.”

Belle tilted her head. “How could such a fine-looking soldier be unencumbered?”

The man shrugged. “I was just out of military school when the shots at Fort Sumter were fired.”

“Oh, indeed?” Belle asked Smith a few more questions about himself in a lilting voice before warming up to the subject of the Union army. She pretended to brush a piece of lint off of Smith’s coat before asking his opinion on General McDowell. “Is it true he is trying to reorganize his scouts?”

“He had a great plan for Bull Run, but most of his troops weren’t experienced enough to pull it off. The people in Washington are calling for his removal. They are talking about replacing him with McClellan.”

Belle nodded sympathetically, repeating the name McClellan in her head so she would not forget it.

That night, as soon as Mauma Eliza bade her goodnight, Belle re-lit the candle and went to her writing desk. She quickly wrote down everything Smith had told her. She resolved to have Mauma Eliza deliver her letter to General Jackson’s camp in the morning, thinking that the Yankees wouldn’t question a Negro servant on an errand for her mistress. She was not sure whether the information would be of value, but that was no matter. General Jackson could glean what he could. She paused in her furious writing for only a moment, considering what she was doing might be treason in the eyes of the Union. It is no matter, she thought, dipping her quill back in the inkwell. It is not treason in the Confederacy. And, after all, if they did not hang her for the murder of one of their own, what harm could a note written by a mere woman do? She signed her name and blew out the candle before retreating to her bed.

Chapter 9

Hattie

July 1861

Webster successfully reached Washington and returned to Chicago carrying a message from Mr. Lincoln in a hollow walking cane. Although Lincoln had stated that his services would be a great help to the government, Pinkerton’s obvious excitement at the prospect diminished each week that went by with no further communication from Washington.

Finally, a letter came from General George McClellan, newly appointed commander of the Army of the Potomac, directing most of the Chicago operatives to report to Washington City for an undisclosed period of time. Hattie’s heart soared when Pinkerton read the missive aloud to the office. It was finally going to be her time to serve the Union!

Pinkerton went on to explain that their immediate concern was whether Kentucky’s neutrality was to be maintained or whether the state would become hostile to the Union. In addition, McClellan had requested intelligence regarding Confederate troop numbers, equipment, and intended movements.

“He says Washington City is teeming with spies and it is his suspicion that intelligence provided by them resulted in our terrible loss at Bull Run. We are packing up the entire operation and moving to the Capitol.” Pinkerton added as he set the sheet of paper down on a nearby desk. “Oh, blessed be McClellan for his fortitude in seeing the necessity of our service.” He nodded at Webster. “Tim and I will go as soon as possible to set up operations in Cincinnati. Mr. Bangs will stay here to run our daily operations.”

“Of course, Boss,” George Bangs confirmed. “War or no war, the criminals will still need to be apprehended.”

With those words, Hattie’s heart sank like a brick and she shot a worried look at Kate, who returned a hesitant smile before focusing on Pinkerton.

“Miss Lewis,” Pinkerton rose and headed to his inner office. “Will you help me sort what to pack?”

Hattie followed him, determination setting in her soul like a red wine stain.

“Are you acquainted with McClellan personally?” Hattie asked, tucking papers into a carpetbag.

“Indeed,” Pinkerton rubbed his chin as he cast his eyes about his office, most likely wondering what else to bring to his new place of operation. “Our acquaintance goes back to when he was vice president of the Illinois Central Railroad. I know him to be a fair and intelligent man.”

As she picked up his ledger, she caught sight of a newspaper. “Mr. Pinkerton?”

“Hmm?” he returned, obviously distracted with the task of packing.

“You are aware that some of the suspected spies are female?”

“Yes.”

“Sir.” Pinkerton finally met her eyes. “Don’t you think that you would need females in Washington City?”

“Yes. Miss Warne…”

“I would like to come.” Even Hattie was surprised at the commanding tone of her voice. “The Secret Service will need the kind of finesse only a woman could bring.”

Pinkerton covered his mouth with his hand and stared at a space above Hattie. “Of course,” he said finally. He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” He gave an uncharacteristic chuckle as he shut his carpetbag. “Did you hear that my dear? This would-be barrel maker is going to head the President’s Secret Service!”

“Yessir!” Hattie’s enthusiasm matched Pinkerton’s as she realized she would indeed have a chance to help President Lincoln in saving the Union.

“Do you trust Pinkerton?” Hattie asked Kate when they had settled on the train to Ohio.

Kate looked at her friend, her blue eyes curious. Thus far, Hattie had only told Kate the superficialities of her story: that she was originally from Connecticut and was married at a young age and moved to “Bleeding Kansas” at the desire of her new husband. “I’ve never had cause to doubt the Boss,” Kate replied. “What is your opinion?”

Hattie gazed upward. “I trust no man more than Allan Pinkerton. Except maybe President Lincoln.”

Kate nodded before putting a finger to her lips and gesturing at the strangers surrounding them in the train car.

As Kate shifted in her seat and then shut her eyes, Hattie stared at the passing landscape out the window. Trusting a man was a new experience for Hattie. Her father had been a cruel man and even her older brother Aaron ran away from home at sixteen, leaving Hattie to suffer her father’s wrath. She had no idea of her brother’s whereabouts, however, and as Aaron’s exploits eventually made national news, Hattie’s parents were determined to keep Hattie misinformed and away from the public eye. Although Hattie was only 18, they arranged for her betrothal to a family friend, Stewart Smith. He’d been born in Tennessee and was a former slave owner. After they’d married, Stewart took Hattie to Kansas, where he purchased a few slaves. He was brutal to both the slaves and Hattie. She knew he kept a mistress, a beautiful mulatto girl, who became pregnant. When Hattie had the gall to suggest that he free both the mother and his soon-to-be child, Stewart beat his wife until she was unconscious.

When Hattie had somewhat recovered from her injuries, she read that John Brown and his followers were in Kansas, stirring up riots with slave owners. She wrote to Aaron and told him that she needed his help in escaping from her husband. She didn’t have a plan, exactly, but knew she had to get away from Stewart before he killed her. Aaron’s strategy was simple: the night he arrived, Aaron slipped laudanum in Stewart’s whiskey, causing him to pass out. Aaron and Hattie took most of the Smith slaves with them, including Stewart’s concubine, who gave birth to the baby along the journey. Hattie never heard any information on what happened to the slaves, but she hoped they found emancipation in Canada.

Hattie adjusted her seat, secure in the fact that even if they hadn’t, the nation, under President Lincoln’s guidance, would soon see that all men were free. She closed her eyes, pleased in the fact that she would play at least a small part in ending the practice of human bondage forever.

Chapter 10

Mary Jane

August 1861

The Richmond Examiner caught wind of Miss Lizzie’s aid to the Federal prisoners, stating that she was using her “opulent means in aiding and giving comfort to the miscreants who have invaded our sacred soil, bent on raping and murder, the desolation of our homes and sacred places, and the ruin and dishonor of our families.”

“Humph,” Miss Lizzie tossed the paper aside. “What causes more dishonor than enslaving people?”

“The paper also warns that you could be exposed as an alien enemy and suffer the ensuing punishment,” Mary Jane warned.

“It doesn’t mention me by name, though. No one would dare imprison a woman as an alien enemy, not even that traitor Jeff Davis.” She caught herself and glanced over at Mary Jane. “If you don’t want to continue coming with me to the prisons, I understand.”

Mary Jane sighed. “I, more than anyone, want a favorable outcome to this war, I’m just not sure giving them food and clothing is enough of a contribution.”

“Indeed,” Miss Lizzie mused. “Perhaps we could be doing more.”

Miss Lizzie’s solution to avoid suspicion was to add to the already circulating rumors that she was a bit mad. She began dressing in well-worn dresses, covering them with a moth-eaten shawl and whispering to herself on the street. But all the Richmonders would have had to do was peer into Miss Lizzie’s deep blue eyes to see that her cunning was still intact, her intelligence unscathed.

The next day Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane paid yet another visit to Ligon’s Warehouse, this time bringing Lieutenant Todd an offering of gingerbread cookies.

“I’ve heard that the prisoners are in want of books to occupy their time,” Miss Lizzie informed Todd when they reached his office.

“Is that so?” he asked, his mouth full of cookies. “I have doubt those Yanks can read, but,” he finally swallowed, “I don’t take issue with it, so long as you’re not passing out abolitionist trash.”

Miss Lizzie held up a copy of Moby Dick. “No, sir. You won’t find me reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

Mary Jane smiled to herself. Her mistress had given a copy of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s best-selling “fictional” account to everyone in her household, with the exception of her sister-in-law. Miss Lizzie’s own version was dog-eared and underlined in several parts.

Todd gestured toward the door without rising. “By all means.”

The prisoners were, as always, grateful to see the women and even more so when they presented the books, passing them out to eager hands until only Moby Dick remained.

Miss Lizzie asked a nearby captain if any of the men knew how to operate a telegraph machine.

The captain indicated a young man in civilian clothes.

“I think you’ll find this one quite interesting,” Miss Lizzie told the telegraph operator. “Particularly right here,” she said, opening to a specific page before handing it to him. Mary Jane had carefully stuck a pin through the margins near the front of the book, using Morse code to ask if they had any information regarding the Confederate troops.

The young man ran his fingers over the tiny holes and smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“And I also heard that you men are in desperate need of a needle and thread,” Miss Lizzie said in a loud tone.

“Now, wait a minute,” the guard started forward.

Miss Lizzie focused her stern gaze on him. “My servant and I can’t possibly keep darning these Fed’s socks. They will have to learn on their own.”

The guard smiled. “Just so long as you don’t tell that to my wife.” He nodded at the telegraph operator. “I expect to see all those holes in your uniform mended.”

“Yessir,” the man said, accepting the sewing supplies from Mary Jane.

The following day, the operator handed the book back to Miss Lizzie, telling her it was “very interesting, indeed.”

Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane distributed their latest supplies, both women eager to get home and see if the men were able to provide them any information.

The day had dawned cloudy, but it was even darker when the women left the warehouse, the clouds heavy with impending rain. Miss Lizzie wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. The novelty of the Yankee prisoners had gradually worn off and Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane no longer had to deal with angry crowds when going to and from the prison. But today Mary Jane could sense someone following them as they started for home. She quickened her pace, sensing as Miss Lizzie did the same without speaking that she too was aware of their pursuer. Unfortunately, they had to pause at Franklin Street for a passing carriage.

“You dare to show sympathy for those Yankee swine?” a gruff voice spoke behind them. “I would shoot them as I would blackbirds. We know what you and your darkey are up to, and there is something on foot against you now.”

Neither woman turned around. As soon as the carriage passed, they crossed the street. When they dared to look back, the man was nowhere in sight. The two took the long way home, walking down Franklin Street instead of Grace, Miss Lizzie glancing now and then to make sure no one else was behind them. Although Mary Jane figured they’d lost their pursuer, both women’s steps sped up anyway as they neared Shockoe Bottom, the area that Richmond’s slaves often referred to as “the Devil’s Half Acre.”

While it was true that the Yankee prisons were overcrowded and filthy, they were nothing compared to McDaniel’s Negro jail, located on the lowest point of the hill. It was part of a complex of several brick buildings known as Lumpkin’s Alley which included the slave-trader Robert Lumpkin’s apartments—where he lived with his former slave wife and their many children—and boarding houses where potential buyers from all over the South stayed before they ventured to the nearby auction blocks to take stock of their potential property. The jail served as both a holding pen for its human cargo before they were “sold down river” as well as a prison for misbehaving slaves. Mary Jane had been arrested for being the latter soon after she returned from Liberia—it was illegal for a woman who had been educated up North to return to Virginia. Because Mary Jane was a free Negro that was caught without having a certificate of freedom, according to the Fugitive Slave Act, she could be sold back into slavery if her master did not claim her.

Mary Jane had blocked out most of the memories of her month of incarceration, but now the smell of rot and decay brought a million loathsome recollections back to the surface: the cries of the slaves being tortured in the whipping room, a girl younger than herself being stripped down so a potential buyer could examine every inch of her body, the meager diet of rancid meat and trickles of water. She and the other captives had been kept chained and their clothes grew tattered, their hair and skin fetid with sweat and vermin.

As they passed, Mary Jane sighted the gallows where slaves whose crimes reached beyond whipping, such as Gabriel Prosser, the leader of the slave rebellion, were hanged. He was probably buried somewhere in Lumpkin’s Alley, along with the thousands of others who didn’t survive the harsh conditions of the prison.

If Miss Lizzie noticed Mary Jane’s breathing had grown heavy, she did not comment and kept her eyes on the street in front of them. Miss Lizzie never talked about Mary Jane’s arrest—it was Old Mrs. Van Lew who had paid the fine of $10, telling the judge that Mary Jane was one of her most valuable servants, and if she wasn’t to be returned, then the courts would owe her money. When Mary Jane had at last returned home, Miss Lizzie pretended the whole thing had never happened. But the experience lived on in Mary Jane’s nightmares and served as one of the reasons she was so determined to help end the practice of slavery.

They finally crossed over to Grace Street and Mary Jane once again tried to put her past behind her, reminding herself that the best way to earn emancipation for all blacks would be for the Union to win the war.

“What does it say?” Miss Lizzie demanded when they were safely ensconced in her room, the door locked behind them.

Mary Jane, somewhat recovered from her earlier panic, flipped to the back of the book. “Let me see.” She traced her finger along the new holes. “Gen. T.J.S/ Wash. City.” She looked up at Miss Lizzie, her eyes wide. “I think he means Stonewall Jackson is planning an attack on Washington City.”

“It can’t be.” Miss Lizzie sat back.

“But it would make sense. The Confederates are still riding high on their victory at Bull Run. And the Capitol is not far from Manassas Junction.” Mary Jane set the book down. “The problem now is how to pass on this information to the Union authorities.”

Miss Lizzie nodded. “I will reach out to some of my contacts and see what I can do.”

The next day, Miss Lizzie called Mary Jane into the kitchen. Miss Lizzie’s brother John had taken his wife and daughters for a carriage ride in the country, and Miss Lizzie sent the rest of the servants out of the house on various errands. The house was empty save for Mary Jane, Miss Lizzie, and her visitor, whom she introduced as Thomas McNiven, the baker. “He specializes in tea cakes, scones, and running secret messages via the Richmond Underground,” Miss Lizzie told Mary Jane.

All three pairs of eyes peered around the kitchen, but they were alone. “I make deliveries in my truck,” McNiven said in a thick Scottish accent. “People refer to me as Quaker. I’m told you can read and write.”

“Yessuh,” Mary Jane affected her “slave” accent.

“You are going to want to code any intelligence you can glean. Take down this cipher. The alphabet will be assigned to numbers, but A will start with number 7, and then continue to 14, except 13. F will be 21, then back to 15. The second half of the alphabet will start with 77 and continue on, except 81 and 84, which will be 13 and 2… why aren’t you writing, girl?”

Mary Jane shut her eyes and repeated, “Number 7 to 14 except 13; number 21 back to 15, and then 77 except 81 and 84 will be 13 and 2.” She opened her eyes. “Ain’t no need to write it down for prying Rebel eyes to find, suh.”

McNiven raised his eyebrows as he glanced at Miss Lizzie. “I told you she was good,” Miss Lizzie stated.

“I can have one of my contacts stationed outside the Van Lew farm, but you are going to need to get the messages there on your own.”

Miss Lizzie turned to Mary Jane. “Isn’t it about time you visited your husband?”

Mary Jane narrowed her eyes. She had known that Miss Lizzie had an ulterior motive for her marrying Wilson Bowser, but this seemed almost underhanded, even for her. Had she known about McNiven’s underground network all along and was just waiting for the right time? That seemed too deceitful for even Miss Lizzie, but you never knew.

Mary Jane finished copying the information into a cipher on a tiny sheet of paper and then used the same needle she coded Moby Dick with to delicately empty an egg of its contents. She then carefully slid the message into the hollow shell via a small slit and then placed the fragile egg into a basket of unaltered eggs.

“Does my husband know about the Underground?” Mary Jane asked Miss Lizzie as she prepared to leave.

“Yes,” Miss Lizzie said simply. “But no one else at the farm. The fewer people who are acquainted with our work, the better.”

“Do you trust this McNiven? He knows I can read, now, in addition to this situation,” Mary Jane held up the basket. “Not to mention that man on the street the other day.”

“That man made idle threats. I haven’t thought about him again, and I suggest you don’t either. But McNiven is worthy of our trust—I’ve known his mother-in-law for years. Before the war he was a conductor for the Underground Railroad.”

Mary Jane nodded. “And Wilson?”

“He will still be your husband when the war’s over.” Miss Lizzie focused her shrewd eyes on Mary Jane. “A conciliatory gesture would go far in securing your relationship.”

Mary Jane wanted to retort that she needn’t take marital advice from a spinster, but she bit her tongue. Miss Lizzie carefully placed a bakery box of cookies on top of Mary Jane’s basket. “This was going to be a present to Mr. Bowser from me, but you can tell him it’s from you.”

The conveyance of the message was the easy part—a rider came to the farm just after Mary Jane had arrived. He tipped his hat, told her his ailing wife would appreciate the eggs, and then rode off.

The conciliation part was much harder. Wilson was understandably upset that his wife had chosen to live in other accommodations besides what he could provide.

“We’ve had this discussion before, Wilson. Old Mrs. Van Lew needs me at the house.”

“Why would Miss Lizzie consent to our marriage if she had plans for you to live there?”

“I don’t think she thought her mother would become so sickly.” Mrs. Van Lew, in fact, was no more sickly than ever, but Wilson did not know that.

“Well, can we at least be together as husband and wife while you are here?”

The last thing Mary Jane needed was a baby. “I’m sorry, Wilson, I can’t.” She hoped that he would assume she meant she was having her monthly course, which she wasn’t, but it sounded like a valid excuse.

Wilson must have understood because Mary Jane slept in Miss Lizzie’s vacant bedroom at the farmhouse while Wilson slept in his outbuilding. She still held no ill will toward Wilson—in fact, she almost wished that she could fall in love with him, if she was still capable of having such feelings. But she knew her mission was hard enough without a family. Perhaps when the war was over, they would be united in freedom like the millions of other families, white and black alike, who had been forced to endure separation because of the conflict.

When morning came, she bid her husband farewell and headed back to her duties at the Van Lew mansion.

Chapter 11

Belle

August 1861

“Miss Belle, you’d better come quick. A Yankee be lookin’ for you.”

Belle had been enjoying the silence of the peach orchard before Mauma Eliza had bustled from the house.

Belle sighed as she rose. She thought briefly of the letter she had asked Mauma Eliza to deliver the previous week. “You managed to get that letter to General Jackson’s camp, didn’t you, Mauma?”

“Yes’m I did, Miss Belle.”

Belle’s heart hammered as she went downstairs, hoping the Yankees hadn’t somehow gotten word of her underground activity.

The man standing in the doorway introduced himself as Captain James Gwyn, assistant to the provost marshal of the Union army.

“What do you want with me?” Belle asked.

“I was told to escort you to headquarters.” He offered her his arm, but Belle strode past him.

“Tell Mother I might be late for dinner,” Belle called over her shoulder to Mauma Eliza. Her confident tone belied her nervousness. Not only was Belle’s handwriting distinct, she had signed her name at the bottom of the letter in what she now realized was a foolish move.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she arrived at headquarters and met the colonel, who held that very letter in his hand. “Do you realize the punishment for aiding the enemies of the United States Government?”

“No, sir.” She refrained from adding that she didn’t care: that her goal was to incriminate pompous Yankees like him.

“I could have you jailed, or even hanged.”

Belle met his eyes, giving him her most pitiful look.

“But I won’t. Consider this a warning—you must not ever do this again. Do you understand?”

Belle curtsied, hiding a triumphant smile with a bowed head. She had gotten away with only a mere admonishment. The colonel either didn’t consider her a threat or else one of her neighbors had intervened on her behalf. “Yes, sir.” She let herself out of his office, vowing, not to quit, but next time to disguise her handwriting.

Though Belle’s mother was unaware of her daughter’s underground activities, she thought it would be safest to leave the occupied town of Martinsburg for her brother’s house—Belle’s uncle—in Front Royal, Virginia.

Belle had often visited there when she was younger, and delighted in the beautiful town, nestled in the Shenandoah mountains like a baby in its mother’s arms. As Front Royal was only about forty miles from Manassas, the local hospital was filled with ailing Confederate soldiers. Belle took a break from her espionage—there were no Union officers around to beguile into passing off secrets anyway—to aid the nurses and doctors.

As soon as she stepped into the hospital room, with the long rows of cots filled with wounded or ill men and the smells of rotting wounds and death filling the air, Belle knew that she was not cut out to be a nurse. She looked away as a doctor dressed the stumped elbow of an amputee. A boy covered with small rose-colored spots lying on top of a dining room table beckoned Belle. She started toward him, but the man next to him began going into convulsions and every able-bodied person in the room rushed to his bedside. Belle, feeling like she was in the way, decided to back away. As she started toward the door, she felt something soft under her foot, and glancing down, she saw that she had stepped on the hand of an amputated arm. And then everything went black.

When Belle opened her eyes, she found she was outside. She felt as though a horse had run over her body and something was preventing her from speaking.

“The fresh air did ya good.” An older woman kneeled beside Belle to retrieve the rag that had been stuffed into her mouth.

Belle flexed her stiff jaw before saying, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. We couldn’t save the man, anyway. And I don’t think whoever’s hand you tramped over minded neither.”

Belle shuddered, thinking of that room full of death and decay. “How can you do this every day?”

The woman stood up and held out an arm to Belle. “We all do what we can.”

As Belle rose, she couldn’t help thinking that she would help her country in any way, save for nursing.

The next day, against her mother’s and aunt’s wishes, Belle went to visit her uncle, who was a lieutenant in the 12th Virginia, under the command of Stonewall Jackson himself. She blithely informed him that she would like to become a spy for the Confederacy.

Her uncle spit out the chicory coffee he’d been drinking. “You? A girl?”

“Cousin William could use me for the missions. I can ride a horse better than most of the boys here,” she cast her arm around camp, “and I’ve been shooting guns since I was a toddler—”

“All right.” Her uncle held up both hands. “You do know your way around the Valley. And I suppose the Yanks would be less suspicious of a woman riding among their lines. I will pass your name on to Colonel Ashby.”

And so Belle began acting as a Confederate courier. She rode Fleeter throughout the Valley, passing information regarding army movements back and forth between Stonewall Jackson and General Beauregard. Her uncle taught her the countersigns that were needed in order to pass through the Southern, and sometimes, enemy lines. The signals involved hand gestures such as throwing up her arm or taking off her bonnet and placing it over her chest. Unfortunately, at least in Belle’s mind, the excitement of being a part of the Confederacy’s underground railroad of information soon wore off as the soldiers became accustomed to her and let her pass easily. Her base was her aunt’s home in Front Royal, although she sometimes stayed at her parents’ home in Martinsburg, telling her mother she was making deliveries for her aunt as an excuse.

She changed outfits frequently, occasionally dressing in her father’s overcoat, her face void of make-up to complete the man disguise. Sometimes she would wear a dress tied with a Confederate tassel belt and a headband decorated with seven stars—one for each of the initial Confederate states. She never ceased to do anything required for the Southern Cause: even sneaking into Union camps in the middle of the night to steal sabers and pistols. She hid the contraband in abandoned barns or buried it, waiting until it was safe to inform other members of the Underground of their presence. One bowie knife did not make it to a hiding spot; Belle was particularly fond of its pearl handle and tied it to her own belt.

Chapter 12

Loreta

August 1861

While it didn’t result in immediate independence, The Battle of Manassas confirmed the view of most Southerners that the Confederacy was far superior to the Union army. Consequently, a multitude of rebels received permission to go on leave. Loreta headed to Richmond, where she found that money was plentiful and the food was good. The drinking saloons, gambling houses, and other places of ill-repute were packed. But Manassas had whetted Loreta’s appetite for war and she longed to show more prowess as Harry Buford. She soon became restless with the inaction the continual festivities precipitated. She applied for a pass to head west and got as far as Leesburg, Virginia when she met up with a few men from General Bee’s regiment. They convinced Harry to accompany them to Front Royal, assuring her that the Federals were making their way to that part of Virginia.

Front Royal was in a state of celebration throughout the summer of 1861. Loreta was determined to keep up appearances and frequented the saloons with her newfound friends, although she usually stuck to cider and cigarettes while the other soldiers drank whiskey and smoked cigars.

Major Bacon proved to be quite the ladies’ man, and Loreta herself would have found his combination of dark hair, red beard, and blue eyes extremely attractive had she not been acting the part of Harry Buford. After all, Loreta was still a woman and was not immune to a handsome man. In fact, Major Bacon reminded Loreta in a small way of her late husband, William, who had been killed when his weapon had fired accidentally during a training demonstration.

One day Major Bacon and Loreta were purchasing new hats when the major introduced her to a friend of his, Miss Belle Boyd, a strangely dressed woman with a knife fixed to her belt.

“Pleased to meet you,” Loreta stated as she extended her hand.

“Oh my,” Miss Boyd replied. “Your skin is so smooth.”

Major Bacon clamped Loreta on the back. “That’s Lieutenant Buford for you. The dandiest dandy of them all.”

Miss Boyd batted her eyelashes. Loreta recognized the move as something she used to do before she was married and had to admit that Miss Boyd had the art of flirtation down to a science, which made up for the fact that she was not conventionally beautiful. “Will you call on me later?” she asked Loreta.

Loreta cast her eyes at Major Bacon, who gave her an encouraging nod. A few of her comrades had asked her if she had a lady friend, but she had always declined to answer. At camp, she was always one of the only ones not to pull out a tintype and speak longingly of a fiancé or wife back home. Miss Boyd might do wonderfully for my cover. Loreta pasted a smile onto her face and agreed to meet Miss Boyd later that day.

“She’s a real strumpet, that Miss Boyd,” Major Bacon commented once the lady had left the store.

“Strumpet?”

“She’ll latch on to anyone she thinks has money.” Bacon let out a hearty laugh. “And she seems to have fixed her attentions on you!”

Miss Boyd’s servants had set up tea in the garden in the back of the house. A large, handsome black woman poured the tea and then sat heavily in a chair nearby, sewing.

“My chaperone,” Miss Boyd told Loreta.

Loreta nodded. Miss Boyd was even more friendly than she had been at the store. She asked numerous questions: where Harry hailed from, who his parents were, where he’d attended school. Loreta told half-truths, creating the rest of Harry’s story as she went along: that her father had been an envoy to the Spanish embassy when he met Loreta’s mother, the daughter of a French naval officer and an American heiress. “The blood of Spanish Castilian nobles flows through my veins,” Loreta informed Miss Boyd. “One of my ancestors was the Spanish Conquistador Diego Velázquez de Cuéllar who conquered Cuba under the Spanish flag and was governor of the island for many years.”

“You must have inherited his sense of adventure,” Belle stated.

“Indeed.” Loreta had always thought that it should not go to waste just because she was born female. “My father fought in the Mexican War, although on the wrong side. When he lost, our plantation became part of the United States.”

“And now you are fighting against them.”

“Yes. Fighting for the rights of the Southern sovereignty.”

“But you didn’t join the army per se.”

“No. I’m paying my own way. I don’t like to have people tell me what to do.” That part was definitely true. Even though Loreta had loved her husband, she had chafed when he told her she could not accompany him when he went off to war. “If I remain independent, I can go where I need to. That’s how I was able to fight at Manassas.”

Miss Boyd stirred her tea and sat back. “My, you’ve led an exciting life thus far.”

“Indeed.” Loreta was careful not to disturb Harry’s glued on mustache as she took a sip.

Miss Boyd leaned forward and put her hand over Loreta’s. “Pa says the war should be over before the year’s end. Do you think you’ll stay on in Front Royal on a permanent basis?”

Loreta was taken aback at the woman’s forwardness. Evidently her servant was too, as she snorted loudly, causing Miss Boyd to draw her hand back.

Loreta straightened her pant leg before asking, “Why do you take such a fancy to me when we have just met? There must be many elegant, accomplished, and equally wealthy young men in Front Royal with whom you have been acquainted.”

“It won’t be hard for us to become better acquainted,” Miss Boyd stated with another flutter of eyelashes.

Loreta was quite sure that none of the other debutantes back in New Orleans had ever been so bold as this one. “I’m sorry, Miss Boyd. I don’t want to deceive you, but you should know that I’m as good as married already.”

Miss Boyd’s restless lashes were now blinking back tears, and Loreta immediately regretted hurting her. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the couple and Loreta felt the need to fill the lull in conversation. “I am betrothed to a woman of my parents’ choosing.”

Miss Boyd looked up from her hankie. “You do not wish to marry the girl?”

Loreta shrugged. Miss Boyd’s face held the same expression that Loreta’s roommate at boarding school, Nellie, had years ago when Loreta had stated that her parents had arranged for her betrothal to Raphael, a handsome Spaniard who lived in New Orleans, and that she would be married when she graduated in two years.

“You cannot be serious,” Nellie had replied. “Are your parents from a hundred years ago?”

Loreta shook her head. “It’s customary in the part of Europe that my father is from. They say that young people often fancy themselves in love when they do not know what love is.”

“Well, no one will tell me who to marry, convenient or not,” Nellie had declared. “This is, after all, a free country. No one could ever forbid me to marry William.”

After that, Loreta had made it her mission to win her rival’s dashing soldier beau.

Now Loreta spoke the same words to Miss Boyd that she had told William after they eloped when Loreta was eighteen. “My father said if I don’t abide by his wishes, I should consider myself ‘repudiated and disinherited.’”

“Oh my,” Miss Boyd replied. “I guess you have no choice, then.”

“Not if I expect to inherit my father’s fortune.”

“Don’t you think that some things are worth giving up?” Miss Boyd asked with another bat of her eyelashes.

“No,” Loreta replied resolutely. “Money can make probable what you think is impossible. The Confederate government knows that—why else do you think we are fighting this war, or any war, for that matter? As much as we fought against sovereignty in the Revolutionary War, King Cotton has been the benefactor that allowed the United States to become the great power that it is.”

Miss Boyd gave a clap of her hands. “I wholeheartedly agree. And it will remain so, however fractioned the Union becomes.”

“Indeed.” Loreta rose and placed a hand briefly on Miss Boyd’s shoulder. “I must wish you good evening now, miss.”

Miss Boyd buried her head in her hands. When she looked up, she was rather pitiful with her red face and wet eyes. “Will I ever see you again?”

“Perhaps, if I am not killed in battle.”

“Oh, do be safe. God willing you will survive.”

Loreta nodded and, once again, bid her adieu. She expected that Miss Boyd would soon recover from the heartbreak of Harry T. Buford and set her eyes on another, hopefully more consenting, beau.

As she made her way back to the hotel, she reflected on what she’d told Miss Boyd about Harry’s background. Though the estrangement of her family had caused Loreta considerable grief, it was a small price to pay to have won William from Nellie.

Loreta had always had a penchant for battle and occupied the long hours when her husband was training by studying past military tactics. After Lincoln was elected and South Carolina seceded, Loreta figured it would not be long before the fighting started. She’d eagerly scan the papers every day, making a notch in a leather belt as state after state left the Union. When Texas finally seceded, she threatened to forsake William if he dared raise his sword against the South.

The night after William informed her he’d reluctantly resigned his commission as a Union officer, Loreta surprised him by dressing in one of his old army uniforms, adding a drawn-on mustache to convince him she’d make an excellent Confederate soldier. The shocked William had been adamant that no wife of his would be accompanying him to war.

But then William had gone and killed himself accidentally even before he had seen battle and Loreta had no choice but to avenge his death by taking up arms.

Chapter 13

Belle

August 1861

Belle watched Lieutenant Buford as he walked out of the garden. Although she still found him somewhat dashing, there was something definitely odd about him, from his thin figure, to the obviously fake mustache, to that wild tale about his Spanish ancestors. He had said his father was a Spanish envoy and inherited a large estate in Mexico, but the name “Buford” didn’t exactly sound Castilian. In fact, Bouffard in French translated to “blowing.” While his last name didn’t match his story, it certainly fit his inflated sense of self-importance, the sort of arrogance not usually found in a Southern gentleman. Belle suddenly sat up in her chair, wondering if perhaps the lieutenant was really a Yankee spy in disguise. She chided herself to be more careful as she went back into the house.

A few days later, her resolution to undertake more caution forgotten, Belle delivered stolen Union weapons to General Beauregard’s camp. The Confederate soldiers there were even more gallant than Lieutenant Buford, and Belle attempted to win their favor by bragging about how she had killed one of the enemy.

“I doubt that’s true,” one man replied. He was large, with an unruly rust-colored beard. “But I’ll be more inclined to believe you if you brought any whiskey along with those guns.”

Belle’s lip curled. She knew that the soldier could be punished for drinking, but she also knew that Mother could use the money. “Two dollars.”

“One,” the man responded.

“Forget it,” Belle said, standing.

“Not so fast.” The man pulled at Belle’s belt and then put his hand under her skirt. Belle grabbed her pearl-handled knife as the man, finding a bottle of whiskey hidden underneath her hoops, uncapped it and began to chug.

“Sir!” Belle shouted but the man paid no attention as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then tucked the bottle into his coat pocket.

Belle pointed her blade at the man’s chin and tried to hold both the knife and her voice steady. “Give it back.”

The man got to his feet, towering over Belle. Her knife was now level with his chest. “What are you going to do, little rebel?” he asked.

As she heard the words, “We’re with you, Miss Boyd,” Belle glanced backward. Several men stood behind her. She recognized the man who had spoken as Private Winfried; he was from Martinsburg and had known Belle since she was a girl.

Other men gathered behind the soldier who had stolen the whiskey. The two parties of men faced each other, wondering, like Belle, what would happen next. The large man pulled out Belle’s pilfered bottle and took another drink.

That was enough for Belle. She charged forward, knife pointed. The man reached his hand out and planted it on Belle’s forehead. She shouted and swung her knife, but he kept her at bay and the knife only connected with air. The soldiers behind her fell into action and clashed with their comrades defending the large man. Belle, realizing the danger, headed for the hills, watching the fight she had started from a safe distance.

Chapter 14

Mary Jane

August 1861

The fighting between Mr. John and Miss Mary, which had been almost constant before the war, grew everlasting. She frequently accused Mr. John of being a Union sympathizer, or, in her words, an “enemy of the Great State of Virginia,” an accusation she often extended to Miss Lizzie and their mother, the widow Mrs. Van Lew. Miss Mary had been born into the prestigious Carter family, who had long ties to Virginia. She considered the entire Van Lew family to be nouveau riche trash while she was a full-blue blood of the Old Dominion.

When Mrs. Mary called Mary Jane a “nigger” for accidentally spilling wine on the tablecloth in front of her, Mary Jane began referring to her as Witch Mary in her head. Mary Jane had been called a nigger very few times in her life, and she resolved to not stand for such a low blow coming from a guest in Miss Lizzie’s house. Not to mention Mary Jane had more intellect in one little finger than Witch Mary had in that tiny brain of hers.

Mary Jane gave Miss Lizzie a heated look.

Miss Lizzie set her fork down. “You will not refer to my servants as ‘niggers,’” she spat the word out with obvious distaste, “ever again. The Negroes in this house may have black faces, but their hearts are white.”

John focused his soft brown eyes on his wife. “We treat our servants here as though they are family.”

“Servants, indeed,” Witch Mary returned bitterly. “They should be slaves. This is Virginia. How dare you question an institution that was good enough for George Washington and my own cousin, Thomas Jefferson, true Virginians if there ever were such a thing. Both the niggers’ hearts and brains are smaller than ours. They were destined to serve the white men.”

Mary Jane again glared at Miss Lizzie, but her mistress discreetly held up one finger. Mary Jane knew that Miss Lizzie gave Mrs. Mary a wider berth than normal because of their prison visitations, but it was getting to be too much for Mary Jane. She was tired of living in a nation full of bigots like Witch Mary—it was time for Southerners to learn to do a true day’s work of labor and let her people be free to live their own lives.

When Mary Jane bent to pick up a plate, Witch Mary pinched her. Mary Jane looked to the other diners, but no one else had seen. She was well aware that Witch Mary, with all her connections, could make Mary Jane’s life miserable in revenge should she dare to confront the woman. Concluding that it was wisest to disappear, Mary Jane deposited the plates in the kitchen and then retreated upstairs.

“You must forgive her,” Miss Lizzie said later, appearing in Mary Jane’s doorway. “Slavery is as much a part of her life as the water she drinks or the air that she breathes. She knows no different, and someday people like her will need to be educated.”

Mary Jane looked up from her desk, where she had been coding another message to the prisoners. “She would never willingly learn the errors of her ways.”

Miss Lizzie reached out and grabbed Mary Jane, her claw-like fingers wrapping around Mary Jane’s skinny brown arm. “Mary Jane. I alone know what you are capable of, but we must keep that a secret and not let anyone, or anything, threaten that. We both know that your intelligence can be a great help toward a Union victory. Richmond will rise from its intolerant ashes and once again become a great city of the United States. But none of that can happen if Mary finds out what we’ve been doing.”

Mary Jane rubbed at her arm. There were splotches from where Miss Lizzie’s fingers had dug in. “So I must keep my mouth shut while she berates and insults everyone around her?”

“It won’t be forever,” Miss Lizzie promised.

The next day, Mary ventured into the kitchen while Mary Jane was preparing Mrs. Van Lew’s tea. She watched Mary Jane for a moment before stating, “I know who you are.”

Mary Jane looked hopelessly around but they were alone. Resolved in her decision that the best way to deal with Witch Mary was to try to speak to her as little as possible, Mary Jane picked up the tea tray. As she started to head out of the kitchen, Witch Mary suddenly stepped in front of her, causing a stream of tea to spill out of the kettle.

Witch Mary folded her arms in front of her chest. “Haven’t you ever wondered why your skin is so pale compared to the rest of the Van Lew darkeys? Aren’t you curious as to why the Van Lews treat you like family?”

Mary Jane set the tray down and fetched a rag to wipe up the spill. From the parlor, the wavering voice of Mrs. Van Lew called out, “Mary Jane? Is that tea on its way?” As Witch Mary stepped away from the doorway, Mary Jane picked up the tray and headed to the parlor.

“You know you have white blood in you, don’t you, girl?” Witch Mary’s voice followed Mary Jane out of the kitchen.

Mrs. Van Lew eyed Mary Jane as she arranged the tea tray. “Was that Mary you were speaking with?” Mary Jane returned the old woman’s searching look. Mrs. Van Lew’s hearing was bad, but the thought occurred to Mary Jane that she’d indeed overheard and was pretending she didn’t.

“Yes’m.”

“Well,” Mrs. Van Lew sat back on the chaise, tea cup in hand. “Mary likes to fill people’s heads with gossip and rumors. Pay her no heed.”

“Yes’m,” Mary Jane repeated.

Mrs. Van Lew’s gaze fixed outside the window to soldiers marching by on the street. “That’ll be all for now, Mary Jane.”

Mary Jane headed up to her room. It was true that she was lighter than most of the other servants, lighter than many of the Richmond slaves she had interacted with over the years. Of course she had heard the rumors of her parentage—the other slave children had often teased her when she was a little girl that her daddy “musta ben white.” It was a fact of a slave woman’s life that their masters saw them as property and could have their way with them, in the process creating more slaves for their collection or to sell off. Mary Jane saw the prospect of her paternity as an advantage: she knew that some white folks held mulattos in a higher esteem than pure negroes because of the white blood in their veins. Mary Jane’s mother never confirmed nor denied the rumors. They had come from another plantation in Virginia to the Van Lew Mansion when Mary Jane was a baby. Right before she turned ten, her mother had died, taking the secret of who Mary Jane’s father was with her to her grave. Mary Jane assumed it was someone on that old plantation, possibly the master, the overseer, or even one of the half-breed children of the master. She suspected both Miss Lizzie and Mrs. Van Lew knew who it was, but they denied so whenever Mary Jane had asked. At this point, Mary Jane figured it didn’t matter: she was who she was and knowing her father’s identity wouldn’t change that. And Witch Mary’s conduct in the kitchen only served for Mary Jane to ignore the narratives even more.

“I want out,” Mary Jane told Miss Lizzie the next day.

“Out? What do you mean, out?” Miss Lizzie’s head swiveled around the parlor before she bent in toward Mary Jane. “How shall we continue our aid to the prisoners if you leave?”

“Helping the prisoners is not enough for me.”

“Is this about Mary?”

“Somewhat. But it’s more about this.” She tossed a newspaper onto the parlor table. On the front page was an article about Jefferson Davis and his family’s new residence at the former Brockenbrough house.

Miss Lizzie picked up the paper. “It says that Mrs. Davis is hiring qualified servants.”

“Indeed. She’ll be in need of discreet maids, maids that would need to dust the President of the Confederacy’s office, with all of his papers and plans in plain view.”

“Mary Jane, although this is a brilliant idea, it is also an exceedingly dangerous one.”

“Miss Lizzie, think of how this information could help our cause. Remember what we read about Rose Greenhow and how she got information from those men in Washington City?”

Miss Lizzie’s face wrinkled in concentration for a moment before

she spoke again, a twinge of hesitation in her voice, “I think I will pay a social visit to Mrs. Varina Davis, and recommend a wonderful servant for her new house.”

Chapter 15

Hattie

August 1861

Pinkerton rented a house on I-Street, out of which he established both his Washington City office as well as the living quarters for him, his wife and three children. Pinkerton’s first order of business was to assume a new nom de guerre as his own had become synonymous with detectives. “I will now be referred to as E.J. Allen,” he informed the travel weary operatives as soon as they had arrived.

According to Pinkerton, the main duties of the Secret Service of the Army of the Potomac was to gather military intelligence as well as ferret out any suspected counterespionage activities, hence Timothy Webster was sent to Memphis, beyond enemy lines, in order to retrieve the desired information. The experienced detective needed no instruction regarding the delicacy of his mission. The rest of the Washington staff settled in to contribute to the war effort.

One dismal rainy afternoon, none other than the assistant secretary of war, Thomas A. Scott, himself visited the I-Street office. He and Pinkerton were sequestered in the inner office for over an hour. After Scott finally left, Pinkerton asked Pryce Lewis and Sam Bridgman, the former soldier, to conference with him.

“And you, too, Miss Lewis,” he said as he passed by her desk.

She grabbed her sketch book and a small notebook before she walked into his office, expecting more secretarial work.

Pinkerton put his hands behind his head. “It seems that the widow Rose Greenhow has fallen under official suspicion.”

Hattie nodded, recognizing the name. She’d read several wires in which Webster mentioned her as being a possible spy for the Confederacy.

“Scott has requested that we arrange a surveillance team in order to pass on any information that might be of use.” Pinkerton rose heavily from his desk. “Miss Lewis, we will need you along as an intermediary.”

Hattie got eagerly to her feet, tucking her books behind her skirts. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, boss?” Pryce asked, his eyes focused on the pouring rain outside the window, darkening the already dimming light of late afternoon. Hattie had to stop herself from glaring at him. Don’t you ruin this for me, she commanded him silently.

“Indeed.” Pinkerton grabbed his hat and coat off the rack. “I will accompany you to find a good place to set up watch outside her home.”

The three men and Hattie started out from the office and walked toward the White House. The miserable downpour could hardly dampen Hattie’s spirits, however. She paid no heed to the lightning that streaked the sky, nor the thunder that boomed overhead. All she could focus on was that she’d finally been included on a mission with the boss himself.

They passed numerous large and stately homes, pausing in front of a beautiful mansion at the intersection of I and 13th Streets. Pinkerton stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle, though the sound was nearly eclipsed by yet another boom of thunder that sounded a second later. Pinkerton stood back from the house, rubbing his chin in his customary way, as he took stock of their environs. Mrs. Greenhow lived in a dignified three-story brick building with carefully tended landscaping. A veranda extended off of the elevated first floor, which was accessed by a flight of stairs in the center of the exterior.

The trio followed as Pinkerton walked to the side of the house, finding a narrow path that led behind the shrubbery and passing in front of the portico.

“Well boys,” Pinkerton addressed Lewis and Bridgman once the group had assembled behind the bushes. “Those windows are a bit too high to peer into from this level.” The rain let up for a few brief moments. “No matter.” He shed his shoes and then motioned for Lewis and Bridgman to bend down. In a moment, a shoeless Pinkerton stood on each man’s shoulder. Rain dripped off of Pinkerton’s hat, adding to the deluge that soaked the men underneath him. Pinkerton edged up to peer between the Venetian blinds. No hint of gaslight was discernible in the fading light outside. “It doesn’t appear that anyone is home,” he whispered loudly.

“Shh!” Hattie commanded, too occupied with watching someone stroll down 13th street to notice that she just chastised her boss. Pinkerton climbed off the men and all of them bent down, hiding amongst the branches before them. It was too dark for Hattie to discern anything about the person, but the lack of a skirt and his walk made her think it was a man. She heard him climb the steps and then ring the bell. Presently they could hear the door close and a beam of light illuminated the bushes directly behind them; Hattie assumed it was more lightning until she realized someone inside had lit a lamp.

Pinkerton resumed his perch and peered in. “I believe that’s Captain Elwood, of the Union army. He looks nervous,” Pinkerton added, but then fell silent. Hattie could not hear any of what was happening inside, but Pinkerton’s hands were cupped around his eyes in an attempt to read their lips. “He’s pulled out a map of Virginia. The miscreant.” Pinkerton added a few more choice words, which were probably not of the nature for a lady’s ears, but luckily another clap of thunder sounded. “They’ve gone.”

“Gone?” Bridgman asked, his eyes on the vacant porch. “Gone where?”

“Out of the room. They must have walked upstairs.” Pinkerton got down, but they stayed at their perch. An hour, perhaps more, went by in silence before they detected movement again. A vague rectangle of light fell on the sidewalk as the front door opened. Hattie heard the couple murmur their goodnights and then what sounded like a kiss.

As night had fallen, the operatives did not have to worry as much about being seen and they maneuvered themselves to get a better look. Elwood’s legs descended the front steps, and they watched as he walked down 13th Street in the same direction he had come. Pinkerton, still without shoes, set off behind him.

The three remaining members of the agency exchanged bewildered looks. “What now?” Lewis asked. “Should we head back to the office?”

“You go,” Hattie told them. “I’m going to see if she has any more gentlemen callers tonight.”

Hattie lingered for another hour or so, finally leaving after the last light had been extinguished at the Greenhow residence, retiring to the small room she shared with Kate, wet, tired, but elated.

The next morning, Hattie arrived at the office early, only to find Bridgman and Lewis already in the Old Man’s inner chamber. Hattie pulled a package wrapped in brown paper from her reticule and marched in.

“Ah, Miss Lewis,” Pinkerton swept his arm around in a welcoming gesture. “I was just telling these gentlemen what happened when I took off after Mrs. Greenhow’s visitor.” As the men occupied the only chairs in the room, Hattie stood and listened as Pinkerton recounted how he’d pursued Captain Elwood at a distance, until the man disappeared into an office building at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. “I had just opened the door when I felt the tips of a bayonet pointed at my chest. ‘Halt or I’ll fire,’ the bayonet wielder shouted.”

Pinkerton went on to say that, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the shapes of four sentries facing him, wearing Union uniforms. He immediately felt the futility of trying to explain who he—the man standing in his socks, with water dripping down every inch of his mud-splattered clothing—really was. “One might have more readily imagined that I had been fished out of the Potomac than I was the chief of the secret service of the government.”

The men gave a hearty laugh as Hattie smiled.

Pinkerton gave Captain Elwood his alias but refused to answer any other questions. He didn’t want to give the probable traitor any more information than necessary. After they’d put him in a prison cell with a multitude of drunken men, Pinkerton became friendly with the guard and asked him to pass on a note to Assistant Secretary of War Scott.

The guard agreed and soon Pinkerton was escorted to Scott’s home. Pinkerton gave up Elwood, and Scott agreed that Greenhow was a dangerous character and must be kept under surveillance.

Pinkerton put his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “And if we detect that she is trying to convey any intelligence to the enemy, we have authorization from the assistant secretary of war to arrest her immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Lewis replied. “Shall we set on a course of 24 hours outside her home?”

Pinkerton nodded before readjusting his position and picking up his pen. Lewis and Bridgman rightfully took that as a sign to take their leave, but Hattie remained.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Pinkerton replied.

“I just wanted to deliver these to you.” Hattie set the brown parcel on his desk and left the room, hiding a tiny smile behind her hand. As the Old Man’s hearty laugh filled the office, Hattie no longer felt the need to hide her grin.

“Miss Lewis, what was in the bag?” Bridgman asked.

“Oh, just the Old Man’s shoes,” Hattie said as she sat at her desk and got ready for the day’s tasks. “I thought he might need them.”

Word eventually reached Pinkerton and Co. that Elwood had been escorted directly from Scott’s house to Fort McHenry, where he used a penknife to slit his own throat.

Hattie felt sorry for the man: the more she tailed Rose Greenhow, the more she saw the woman as a seductress who used men as pawns to garner information. Several prominent men from the House of Representatives and Senate would call on her in the evenings, not that Hattie ever witnessed this. She had daytime duty, as Pinkerton felt that the nighttime surveillance should be conducted by a man, both because it was dangerous and because it wasn’t ladylike to be observing what he termed “illicit affairs.” At any rate, Hattie enjoyed her duty: the pleasant spring air made for a good excuse to be outside, and Hattie would often sit on a bench across the street from Greenhow’s mansion, pretending to read.

One morning Bridgman came into the office unusually early, before Hattie had left. He was visibly angry and declared it was time to “arrest the whore.” He’d seen Senator Wilson, the man who had replaced Jefferson Davis as chairman of the Senate Committee on Military Affairs, being received by her the previous night.

Pryce Lewis waved his hand. “If being intimate with Mrs. Greenhow was a federal offense, our prisons would be full to the brim by now.”

Pinkerton, who had come out of his office to retrieve a file, paused. “What would Mrs. Greenhow want with a known abolitionist like Wilson other than his knowledge on army movements?” He nodded at Pryce and Bridgman. “I think we have enough. We’ll arrest her tonight.” He started back before pausing at Hattie’s desk. “Miss Lewis, I believe we will need your presence as well. Greenhow residence, eight o’clock sharp.”

“Yes, sir.” Hattie could barely keep the pleasure out her voice.

The operatives gathered once again outside of Greenhow’s home at the appointed time. This time the night was clear, a pleasant breeze rustling the shrubbery Hattie had become acquainted with a fortnight ago. They watched as yet another well-dressed man exited the home and then made their move. A liveried servant answered the door. Pinkerton barged past him, Pryce and Bridgman, as well as John Scully, on his heels. Hattie stepped over the threshold a bit more cautiously.

A dark-haired woman in a splendid blue silk gown appeared behind the servant. Hattie recognized her as the one she’d been following for the past few weeks. Up close Rose’s features were finely lined, but she still had traces of what must have been a beautiful face in her younger years.

“Mrs. Greenhow, I presume?” Pinkerton’s words were more of a statement and less of a question.

“Yes. Who are you?” She got close to Pinkerton and peered up at him.

Hattie wondered if she was at all aware they had been tailing her. It did seem as though she recognized Pinkerton. As the two stood contemplating each other, Hattie marveled at their contrasting traits. Rose Greenhow had all the airs of an immaculately dressed Southern belle, albeit an aged one; Allan Pinkerton’s unruly brown whiskers and ill-fitting uniform lent him a disheveled appearance. Although Rose’s war-time proclivities went against the typical Southern ideals, she was heralded as a Confederate championess while Pinkerton was almost as staunch an abolitionist as John Brown himself.

“Major E.J. Allan,” Pinkerton finally replied. He did not bow. “I have come to arrest you.”

“You cannot enter my home without a warrant.”

“I don’t need a warrant—I have verbal authority from the War and State Departments,” Pinkerton told her before marching to a bold watercolor in an elegant frame placed prominently in the front hallway. He pulled the painting down and ran his hands over it. Rose stepped forward but Pinkerton paid her no heed. “Miss Lewis, please detain Mrs. Greenhow in the parlor.”

Hattie wondered if Pinkerton had meant for her to use force, but Mrs. Greenhow consented, though somewhat reluctantly, to lead the way to the parlor. She sat herself on a settee and gestured for Hattie to sit in one of the elegant armchairs she must usually reserve for her gentleman callers. The two sat in awkward silence, Rose watching Pinkerton and his men ransack her house.

As Bridgman and Pinkerton came into the parlor, Rose got up from the couch and glided toward the fireplace, her hoop skirts swishing. She extracted a piece of paper from a vase on the mantle and then flung it at Pinkerton. “You would like to finish this job, I suppose?”

Pinkerton pocketed the note without reading it. The action and his silence made it clear that he thought Rose eminently guilty. He nodded at Hattie before continuing his search.

Hattie probed her mind for a subject to converse with Rose. Timothy Webster, although reticent by nature, could become the most loquacious man when his role demanded it. However, Rose already knew their true purpose in being at her home and Hattie saw no use for a disguise. The constant opening of drawers and doors throughout the house kept the awkwardness out of the silence.

“You there,” Rose said, sitting straighter and adjusting her skirts as Pryce Lewis entered the room.

“Madam?” Pryce inquired.

“You are from England?” The surprise was obvious in her voice.

“I was born in Wales. Now I am from Chicago.” He sat in the armchair across from Hattie. Pryce had all the mannerisms of an aristocratic Englishman, from his lush sideburns to his carefully cultivated accent. “Mrs. Greenhow, there is another room upstairs—”

She held up her hand before he could finish. “My daughter Gertrude’s room. She passed away this March. I couldn’t bear to move any of her things.”

Pryce handed her a handkerchief, and Rose carefully dabbed at each eye before handing it back to him.

Hattie finally had something to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Rose began to pull at her collar. She reminded Hattie of a little bird, always fluttering. A bird that must have been racked with nervousness, knowing her evidence of her guilt was probably hidden in every room in the house. “It’s awfully warm in here.” She pulled out her fan and flapped it near her face for good measure. “I don’t suppose you would let me upstairs to change my dress.”

Hattie was about to refuse as Pryce replied, “I can let you leave for a few minutes.”

Rose gracefully arose from the couch as Hattie glared at Pryce. She followed Rose up the stairs and down the hallway. Rose must have heard Hattie behind her, but she shut the door in her face. Hattie heard the rustling of papers and then a clattering of what sounded like an iron stove.

I knew it, Hattie thought. She’s destroying evidence. Rose must have had papers hidden underneath her skirts, but Pinkerton and Pryce were too gentlemanly to search her body. Hattie tried the doorknob, but found it locked. “Madam?” Hattie began banging on the door. “Madam, your time is up!”

Pryce appeared. Hattie indicated the door, and he shoved at it with his full weight. The door burst open on a near-naked Rose. He paused and Rose reached for a revolver on her nightstand and then aimed it at Pryce’s face. He made no move as he stared down the muzzle. Hattie, still in the hallway, echoed his stillness, afraid of startling Rose into pulling the trigger.

Hattie’s heart leapt into her throat as Rose readjusted her aim. “If I had known who you were when you came in, I would have shot you dead!”

Pryce affected a smile. “Madam, in order to fire that pistol, you first have to cock it.”

Hattie breathed an audible sigh of relief as Pryce walked forward and fetched the pistol from Rose’s startled grip.

Hattie stepped into the room. “Since you’ve already started the task, I will ask that you finish undressing.” She nodded at Pryce and he left the room. Rose bristled, evidently weighing a refusal, but she relented and began handing Hattie garments one by one until she was stripped down to her linens and boots. Hattie ran her fingers across the fine garments, looking for any hidden papers. Of course, she could not find any remainders of evidence.

After Rose finished, Hattie retreated to the hall while the suspected spy redressed and then followed her back down the stairs.

Pinkerton announced that he was going back to the office to make a full report of what they’d uncovered so far to the War Department. He asked Hattie to finish cataloging the items they’d found. He also left Bridgman, Scully, and Pryce to guard Rose.

Rose sat down to tinkle on her ivory-keyed pianoforte while Hattie sorted the documents on the dining room table. Many were letters from prominent Yankee men, including one from an Oregon senator who “desired a visit as soon as possible.” More than a dozen were letters from the married Senator Wilson declaring his love for Rose. One, written on stationary belonging to the United States Congress, stated that he knew “nothing that would soothe me so much as an hour with you. And tonight, at whatever cost, I will see you.” Hattie picked up the letter, pinching it between two fingers, as if its sordidness was contagious, and put it into the “Political” pile of correspondence. John Scully came in to peer over Hattie’s shoulder. She was about to ask him to help her when he espied Rose’s liquor cabinet. After a brief inquiry into its contents, he declared, “Men, we’ve had a hard day. I think it’s time to reward ourselves.” He pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured it into three crystal glasses.

“Miss Lewis?” he asked, holding up another glass.

Hattie shook her head.

The men imbibed, Scully pouring them new glasses when they ran dry. Hattie ignored them. Presently they began slurring their words. When they lurched into the parlor, Hattie heard the music cease. She crept to the doorway, not wanting to miss Rose’s reaction. Pryce sat in the same chair he’d occupied not too long ago, although this time with much more unsteady movement.

Rose watched them for a moment before rising from the pianoforte. “Look at your wretched selves,” she commanded. “Don’t you know better than to be in nothing but your shirtsleeves in front of a lady?”

Make that two ladies, Hattie corrected Rose silently.

Rose continued her tirade. “You have made me a martyr, on par with Marie Antoinette or Mary Queen of Scots. Would you get drunk at their courts? What am I saying?” she cackled. “Of course, you would. Your manners would be horrifying if you were a Southerner, but, being as that you are all slaves of Lincoln, I should expect no better.”

The men exchanged glassy eyed glances but did not reply.

“That abolition despot must have you trained like dogs to attack ladies such as myself.”

John Scully managed to focus his eyes on Rose’s bosom. “That may be so, but here’s to nice times we will have with you, Marie Antoinette… in your bedroom tonight.” He raised his glass, but no one returned the gesture.

“That’s it.” Hattie stepped into the room. “You are all a disgrace to the business that you conduct, and I will be having a word with Major Allen about what has transpired this evening.” She glared at each man in turn before marching back into the dining room to gather the evidence.

“Hattie, wait.” Pryce stood at the threshold between the two rooms. “The men were just having a bit of fun. Scully didn’t mean anything by it.”

“She might be a Rebel spy, but she is still a lady and we should treat her as such.”

Pryce pulled off his hat and fiddled with it. “You are right. And he should have never said anything. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he knew you were in the room.”

“That makes no matter.”

He stepped forward. “Will you not tell the Boss?”

Hattie sighed. She was still exasperated with him for his earlier negligence with Rose. He stopped swaying and gave her a pleading look. Although the men had clearly been out of line, she wasn’t sure if Pinkerton would appreciate her tattling on fellow operatives. “I suppose I can let it go this time,” she relented. “But don’t ever let it happen again. With anyone.”

Pryce nodded before putting his hat back on. “Thanks, Hattie.”

“I’m going to get going.” She shouldered the parcel full of documents.

Pryce nodded at the rest of the piles. “I’ll get the men to clean and sort the rest of this out. We’ll bring it to the office in the morning.”

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

“G’night.”

When Scully brought the rest of the evidence in the next morning, he looked even worse for wear than when Hattie left him last night.

“Is this it?” Hattie asked as he dumped the contents of the bags on the evidence table. She swooped around the table like a mother hen examining her nest. “There seemed to be more last night.”

Scully exchanged a glance with Pryce, who adopted the same sheepish look. Hattie was growing to hate that look.

“We found some ashes in the fireplace this morning,” Pryce finally offered. “Mrs. Greenhow might have burned some papers last night.”

“However did you—wait, let me guess. You men got even more drunk and passed out.”

Scully refastened the empty bag and put it under the table. “That’s none of your business.”

Hattie walked up to him and stared into his face, ignoring his wan complexion. “It’s my business when you go and muck with a case. Especially one so important to our cause.”

“Hattie,” Pryce reached out to touch her shoulder. “We all make mistakes. We’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and wanted to celebrate.”

Hattie shrugged off his hand and was about to continue to chew them out when Pinkerton entered the room. “Ah,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “at last, Mrs. Greenhow’s guilt is laid out for the world to see.”

Hattie folded her arms and glared at Pryce and then Scully.

Pinkerton used his detective senses to pick up on the animosity flowing through the room, dividing Hattie from the other operatives like the Mason Dixon line between the North and South. “What is it?”

“Nothing, sir,” Pryce replied. “It was a long night and my men are a mite tired.”

Pinkerton nodded. “The replacements arrived in the morning?”

“Yes, sir, right on time.”

Hattie wondered what they had thought upon arriving to see the men who were supposed to be guarding the suspect passed out.

“The General has already given permission for some of his Sturgis Rifles to assist us in guarding Mrs. Greenhow.” Pinkerton stated. The men of Sturgis Rifles were McClellan’s own bodyguards. “Great work last night, men. And Miss Lewis,” he added, turning to her.

Hattie gave him a half-smile. She could see the begging expression on Pryce’s face, but ignored it and went back to her desk. It was awfully tiring sometimes to be a woman in a man’s world.

Chapter 16

Mary Jane

September 1861

Mary Jane’s new place of business was a gray stucco house on the corner of Twelfth and Clay Streets, at the top of Shockoe Hill. She paused at the entrance to glance down through the trees, catching a glimpse of the slave auction blocks in Shockoe Bottom and the jails of Lumpkin’s alley beyond them. She steeled herself, remembering the reason why she was now standing outside the home of the Confederate President. There can be no slave jails if there are no more slaves.

She walked around the eastern side of the house to find a door underneath the portico, correctly assuming that was the servants’ entrance. A housekeeper in a pristine white uniform greeted her and introduced herself as Mrs. O’Melia. She looked to be in her middle forties, with a kind, round face. “What’s your name?” she asked in a thick Irish accent.

“Mary,” she replied, omitting her customary second name just in case.

“We already have one Mary,” Mrs. O’Melia replied. “We’ll just have to call you ‘Little Mary.’” She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the door wider. “Mr. Garvin?” she called in a louder voice.

“Yes, Mrs. O’Melia?” a black man with graying hair appeared from the side of a nearby building.

“Mr. Garvin, can you bring Little Mary’s bag to her quarters?” She flashed Mary Jane an apologetic smile. “I’ll show you around the big house, but right now I’ve got to get Mrs. Davis her tea. We’ve been a bit short-handed lately, so I’m glad that you are here.”

Mr. Garvin walked into the room and picked up Mary Jane’s bag before exiting again. He led her to a two-story log cabin, stating that it housed the servants’ living space. Once inside, he directed her through a small hallway. “Normally you’d have a roommate, but, as Mrs. O’Melia said, we’re short staffed as of late.”

“What happened to the rest of the help?”

Mr. Garvin flashed a brilliant smile. “A lot of them left when they heard the Union army was at Manassas.”

“They fled to freedom?”

He nodded. “I believe the Yanks are now calling them ‘contraband.’ But at least they ain’t returning them.” Mary Jane gave him a tiny smile, not sure what Mr. Garvin’s aim was in telling her this. In her opinion, most slaves, excluding herself of course, fell into two factions: those who were so devoted to their masters that they would never willingly leave them, and those who would run at the first opportunity. Mr. Garvin could be baiting her with the intent to tattle later to Mrs. Davis, but somehow Mary Jane didn’t think so. She wasn’t sure if it was the articulate timbre to his voice or the gentleness in his brown eyes, but she had an inkling that she could trust Mr. Garvin.

He paused outside a tiny room, gesturing for Mary Jane to enter. The room was bare except for two pallets laid out on the wood floor and a small dresser in the corner.

Mr. Garvin spoke from the hallway. “There’s a flushing toilet in the big house, but we don’t have those luxuries here.”

Mary Jane set her bag on the dresser next to the washing-up bowl and then followed Mr. Garvin back to the mansion. “How many servants are there total?”

“Right now about nine, but there’s work enough for around twelve most days. I heard tell that the Davises owned hundreds of slaves on their plantation back in Mississippi. Only two of them followed them here: Jim Pemberton and his wife Betsy.”

Mary Jane avoided a mud puddle. “Are most of the people who work here slaves?”

Mr. Garvin opened the door of the main house. “Most are, although there are others who are paid for their services, including freedmen and white immigrants like Mrs. O’Melia, and Miss Catherine, the nurse. I belong to Mr. Thompson myself. He hired me out to be Mr. Davis’s coachman.”

Mary Jane nodded in recognition. It was customary practice in Richmond for slave-owners to let newcomers rent their slaves until they bought or hired new servants. Miss Lizzie had offered Mary Jane in the same way—the Davises would be paying the Van Lews for the use of Mary Jane. Miss Lizzie promised Mary Jane that she would give her the money she had earned, after, in Miss Lizzie’s words, “the whole affair was over.”

Mr. Garvin tipped his hat to Mary Jane before he walked back outside.

Mrs. O’Melia greeted her once again. “All right, Little Mary, let’s get you acquainted.” As she led her to the front of the house, the housekeeper regaled Mary Jane with the story of how she had been visiting friends in Richmond from Baltimore when the war started and she was unable to cross the lines to get back home. Alone in a strange city and separated from her children, she prevailed upon Mrs. Davis, who offered a job instead of a pass.

Mrs. O’Melia obviously took great pride in her position and pointed out to Mary Jane little details in the décor of the circular main hallway, such as the large plaster statues painted to look bronze and the wallpaper that mimicked white marble. She caught Mary Jane’s startled glance at a portrait of George Washington prominently displayed in the state dining room.

“Mr. Davis has a great respect for the man. He’s said multiple times that if Washington were alive, he’d be on the side of the Confederacy.”

Mary Jane wanted to ask her if she believed that was true. Coming from Maryland, Mrs. O’Melia could veer either way, or, as Mary Jane was beginning to suspect, she held no particular allegiance to either side and remained loyal as long as she was employed.

Mary Jane went over to examine the gray granite fireplace. “It’s cast iron,” Mrs. O’Melia stated proudly, thumping it with her knuckles.

Mary Jane was beginning to suspect that a lot of the adornments in the Executive Mansion gave off a grand surface impression that belied what they were underneath. Like Mr. Davis himself attempting to equate himself with Washington.

Mrs. O’Melia led Mary Jane through the parlor, showing her how the pocket doors could separate it into two “twin” rooms if need be. “Mrs. Davis is in the room the Davises call the ‘snuggery.’”

Mary Jane followed her into a smaller room lined with scarlet wallpaper. An elegant woman sat primly on a gold and red brocade sofa. Her pink dress contrasted greatly with her olive complexion and, as she focused her brown eyes on her new servant, she reminded Mary Jane of some of the mulattos, or “quarter-breeds” that she knew.

Mrs. O’Melia curtsied. “Mrs. Davis, may I present your newest maid, Little Mary.”

Mrs. Davis nodded a greeting. “You are from Miss Van Lew?”

“Yes’m,” Mary Jane said. Knowing her place, she did not meet Mrs. Davis’s eyes and instead stared down at the white wool carpet.

“It was very good of her to offer us your services,” Mrs. Davis continued.

“Yes’m,” Mary Jane repeated, recalling the shyness most new maids exhibited upon arriving at the Van Lews. There, Mr. John and Miss Lizzie, as well as old Mrs. Van Lew, would ask the servants questions or carry on conversations with them, but Mrs. Davis acted as if Mary Jane was not even in the room when she informed Mrs. O’Melia that they would be having company, a Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut, over for tea that evening. “We will be served in the parlor after supper. You can have the new girl assist.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. O’Melia replied.

This unfamiliar behavior continued when Mary Jane served the Davises the evening meal. Mrs. O’Melia had instructed her to stand in the corner when she was not clearing plates or delivering food from the kitchen. Mary Jane did as she was told, and it was as if she had disappeared into the shadows. When Mrs. Davis mentioned Mary Jane’s arrival, she did not bother to introduce her to Mr. Davis, simply stating that “a new maid had arrived.” Mr. Davis kept his austere blue eyes on his obviously much younger wife, and nodded, the somber expression on his gaunt face remaining unchanged.

Mrs. Davis set her fork down. “I’m still not sure it’s enough, though, with so many of the help gone now and good maids hard to find.”

“Don’t forget that everything is double the price now, Winnie.” Mr. Davis wiped his mouth. “These Richmonders are a tough lot. We don’t want to look extravagant in their eyes.”

“No, but a woman has to have help. With the baby coming, the work will be all that much more come December.”

Mary Jane didn’t bother to cover the shock on her face with the mention of such a private matter in front of her. It didn’t matter—the Davises obviously thought their slaves were invisible as well as deaf and dumb and paid her no heed unless they needed a refill. All the better to spy with, Mary Jane mused.

Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut arrived after dinner and were escorted to the West Parlor. Mary Jane resumed her role of server/shadow, doing her best to blend in with the gold-embossed wallpaper.

Once they were seated and the tea had been served, Mrs. Chesnut stated, “If what they say is true, and that every Southerner is the equal of three Yanks, we could be a match for twelve Union men right now.” She gave a gay laugh.

“Yes,” Mr. Davis ventured, “From what I’ve seen in my experience so far and in the war in Mexico, we will do all we can do with pluck, dogged courage, and red-hot patriotism.” His tone did not match his enthusiastic words, however. To Mary Jane, it was almost as if he spoke by rote and did not necessarily believe in what he said.

“Do you think the war will continue on for much longer?” Mrs. Chesnut asked him.

He nodded.

“Oh, but Jeff, don’t you think this war is already about played out?” his wife cried.

“No, Winnie, I don’t. We are in for a long, bitter fight. We must not be fool enough to doubt the willingness of the Yanks in battle. Instead of them accepting defeat, Manassas seems only to have roused them—we have bruised their egos.”

Mary Jane was cheered that even the leader of the Confederacy acknowledged the doggedness of the Union, but she did not think that this was the type of intelligence that Miss Lizzie or Mr. McNiven would be looking for.

Mrs. Davis took a thoughtful sip of her tea. “If they hate us so, why don’t they just let us go?”

Mrs. Chesnut answered, “They say that slavery is so horrid for the Negroes, but they don’t see that we are offering a better life than they would have had otherwise. Their intellect is far inferior, they aren’t cut out for much more than menial labor.”

“Not to mention the North is the one who profited the most from our cotton,” Mr. Chesnut added.

Mary Jane kept her eyes on the floor through most of the exchange, not wanting to meet the eyes of any of the conversationalists. But no one looked up to see her reaction on the topic of slavery. Most likely they didn’t think her reaction was one worth noting. Or else maybe they thought her inferior brain couldn’t process what they were saying.

“Yes, it’s always about money with the Yanks, isn’t it?” Mrs. Chesnut agreed.

“Still, they don’t fight for the fun of it, and once the war is no longer profitable for them, they will be ready to give in,” Mr. Chesnut predicted.

Just then, two little boys ran into the room.

“Jeff Jr. and little Joe,” Mrs. Davis set her teacup in the saucer. “Say goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut.”

“Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Chesnut,” they called in unison. One of them looked to be about four and his brother was probably about half his age. They ran to the fireplace and placed kisses upon the white marbled women flanking each side.

“They do that every night,” Mrs. Davis commented with a tone of motherly pride.

“Adorable,” Mrs. Chesnut agreed.

A white servant came into the room. “I will take them upstairs now, Miss.” Like Mrs. O’Melia, her accent was heavily Irish.

“Thank you, Catherine,” Mrs. Davis replied.

The conversation continued in much the same vein. The Southerners did not veer too much from chiding the Yankees and exalting their own way of life. Mary Jane marveled at their foolishness: the Southern ways would not last through the war if the Union army was as dedicated to avenging their stung pride as Mr. Jefferson said they were. One can only hope, Mary Jane thought after the Chesnuts had left and the Davises had retired. She crossed her fingers briefly before resuming her duty cleaning up after the Confederate president and his guests.

Chapter 17

Loreta

October 1861

Loreta left Front Royal for the headquarters of General “Shanks” Evans but was told there were no officer vacancies. Again she found herself without a regiment, and nothing to do but wait to see if anything should turn up. As she set up camp with the Confederates who were stationed southeast of Leesburg, she was ordered to the office of Captain De Caulp. Loreta immediately recognized the name: De Caulp had been her late husband William’s commanding officer and it was he who sent the fateful letter informing Loreta of his death. The tragedy of their first encounter notwithstanding, meeting him as Harry Buford greatly amused her.

Captain De Caulp, a handsome man in his early 40s, had no idea that the dapper young man standing before him was not who he said he was. He seemed to take an interest in Harry and asked him several questions about his background. Again, Loreta was forced to make up a story on the spot, telling him that she belonged to the Mississippi regiment. This seemed to satisfy him and the captain pulled a bottle of whiskey out from his pack and offered some to Loreta. She declined with a pat of her stomach. “I never drink anything strong: it doesn’t agree with my constitution.”

Captain De Caulp poured himself some, saying, “A drink of the right kind of liquor now and then is a good thing, I think. Here’s to the Confederacy,” he said, raising his glass. He swallowed the contents without blinking an eye. Loreta watched, thinking that he was one of the most good-looking men she’d ever laid eyes on.

“Lieutenant Buford, you are more than welcome to turn in here if you haven’t been assigned to quarters.”

Oh, if only I weren’t in the disguise of a soldier! “Thank you, sir, but I have my own tent.”

“Well, be sure to visit often. I’ll be glad to talk with you.” Loreta couldn’t have agreed more. De Caulp nodded toward a map on the table. “Seems like we’re all in need of a good night’s sleep tonight, though.”

Loreta focused her mind, trying to block out sinful thoughts of De Caulp. Even though she was a woman at heart, with all the needs of the female sex, there were other, more important things she had to accomplish first. “Are there Feds in the area?”

“I’ve heard tell that General Stone’s troops have crossed at Edward’s Ferry.”

Loreta nodded. “Well, I guess that means I best be heading to my tent.” Loreta put her hat on and then bowed. The masculine movement combined with the heaviness of her hat brought her back to reality. “Thank you again, Captain De Caulp. Goodnight.” Loreta strode back to her tent, shoving her womanly desires deep into her boots. She found her slave Bob fast asleep and shook him awake to tell him to be up by 3 am. “And be sure to cook plenty of provisions. I expect we’ll need them, as I can feel that something’s about to happen.”

Only the white of Bob’s teeth were visible in the dim light. Although Confederate laws prohibited him from participating in battle, his appetite for other soldiery duties such as marching, cooking over a fire, and digging trenches was nearly equal to Loreta’s. Bob never spoke much of anything but sometimes Loreta caught him whistling at work. She supposed it was better than working as a field hand, or maybe it was the fact that he took a special joy in witnessing the white soldiers having to obey their superior officers just as a slave would a master.

Loreta and Bob arose early the next morning. Presently the two began to hear the crack of gunshots.

“If I’m not mistaken, the time for fighting’s coming soon,” Loreta told Bob.

“Yessa, Massa Harry.”

After having a hearty breakfast, Loreta left Bob and pushed in the direction of the gunshots, up Ball’s Bluff overlooking the Potomac River. At the top was a thick growth of trees and it was impossible for Loreta to discern which man belonged to which army. The woods seemed to be alive with soldiers. Colonel Burth and his 18th Mississippi regiment advanced on the left of the line while Lieutenant Colonel Janifer and his Virginians held the center.

Loreta spotted a group of Rebels that seemed lost. “Where’s your officer?” she shouted at a private.

He shrugged in return.

Loreta cast her eyes around the line, and, spotting a gap, shouted at the men in the company to follow her. The line again complete, it seemed that there was little to no maneuvering to be done. Loreta set about keeping the men together to hold the line. The fighting continued without interruption for three taxing hours until at last the Confederate forces succeeded in overpowering the enemy near the end of the chilly October day. As the sun went down and the day became even more gray, the enemy suddenly broke. Instead of marching as an organized army, they became a confused mob running towards the edge of the cliff and the river below. The Confederates rushed after them, hooting and hollering the banshee shriek of the Rebels. Loreta’s sense of satisfaction overwhelmed her and she joined in the shouting as she ran, feeling no need to deepen the pitch of her voice. They pursued the Feds through the woods to the top of the bluff. General Evans gave the order to “drive them into the river or capture them.” Complying, Loreta advanced the company she’d taken command of, but as they neared the edge, she called them to a halt. The Union soldiers, backed up against the cliff with enemy weapons pointed at them, began plunging over the cliff into the cold waters of the Potomac below. Watching the helpless wretches reminded Loreta of the stories her father used to tell her about Indians pursuing buffalo over ravines.

“Shall we shoot at them?” one of the men asked.

Loreta cleared her throat and, in Harry’s voice, stated, “That would be favorable work, but I think they are badly whipped.” She glanced down below at the river. In the twilight, she could just make out men in dark uniforms floundering in the wide river. Her comrades around were whooping in victory. She gave an involuntary shudder. Despite the fact they were her foes, they were still human beings. And she was still a woman with no heart to bear the ruthless slaughtering of men. Hours before, these same Feds had fought valiantly and now there they were, suffering a slow death in freezing water. She turned away from the fiendish shouts of her men, blinking back tears. For the first time since she put on her uniform, she was thrown off guard and might have done something foolish to betray her secret. But then she caught a glimmer of silver in the little ravine directly below her. A Yankee sergeant crouching in the narrow crevasse was reaching for his pistol. If she hadn’t seen him, he might have shot her. Loreta leveled her musket at him. “No, you don’t! Drop that and come up here.”

He gave an audible sigh before tucking the pistol back into his belt and scrambling up the side of the cliff. When he got closer, Loreta folded her shaking hands across her chest. Harry’s voice affected a bravado that Loreta did not feel. “If I wanted to do the dishonorable duty of murdering a prisoner, I would shoot you in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t care whether you do or not,” the sergeant answered in a sullen tone. He watched the waters below, and then, pointing with a shaking finger, stated, “There goes my colonel.”

Loreta watched the man he indicated, who was attempting to swim across the river. “What is his name?”

“Colonel Devens of the 15th Massachusetts.”

The two watched as the colonel struggled against the current of the river. Loreta fervently hoped he would reach the other side safely. She had seen enough death for the day.

Other men did not seem to be as strong a swimmer as Colonel Devens and the night air was filled with the shouts of drowning men.

Soon after she’d directed a soldier to take her prisoner to Captain De Caulp’s tent, a man dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant approached her. “Sir, I heard that it is you I must thank for taking command of my unit.”

“Where were you?”

“The Feds had taken me prisoner, but I made my escape in the confusion of their defeat.”

Loreta narrowed her gaze in scrutiny. The lieutenant avoided her eyes and instead focused on the river. This and the sheepish tone to his voice led Loreta to believe the man was lying to her. He probably found a way to slink to the rear of the line to stay out of danger. He was just another dandy officer who strutted about the city streets in his uniform, the type of man who liked to show off by bullying the soldiers in their command but who panicked the moment a gun was fired. He ought to be court-martialed and shot, Loreta concluded to herself, but, knowing the hierarchy of a soldier’s life, she told him to report to the commanding officer to explain himself.

She watched him as he sauntered off, grateful for at least a temporary distraction to the tragedy that was taking place below her. The Confederate higher powers will probably believe his lies, but hopefully someday he would pay for his betrayal. That man, and others like him, were a disgrace to the uniform. They felt themselves so superior to colored men, but Loreta knew a great many darkeys who would have fought more bravely than they, if given a chance. Bob especially.

Chapter 18

Hattie

October 1861

Hattie and the other Pinkerton operatives continued their investigation of Rose Greenhow, unraveling the secrets of her underground spy network. So far they had implicated a dentist, a banker, even a former clerk in the Department of the Interior. Greenhow had friends in high places in Washington City and Pinkerton’s largest fear was that she would be released from house arrest.

When Hattie uncovered a note from Eugenia Phillips, wife of a former congressman with the unfortunate name of Philip Phillips, Pinkerton had her and her adult daughters arrested and confined with Greenhow. Although the women were forbidden to have contact with each other, they joined in chorus to sing “Dixie,” and other songs rebellious in nature. The women continued to insult their captors, even complaining about Hattie using a gas light to read her newspaper when on guard in the evening.

Hattie showed Mrs. Greenhow some of the things the papers had written about her. Rose was particularly amused by the cartoons featured in Harper’s Weekly under the inauspicious title, “How to Deal with Female Traitors.” Some of their suggestions to keep the women in line included “Let them see but not touch all the latest novelties in Hats, Dry Goods, etc.” and “Make them wear very unfashionable uniforms.”

“They don’t think much of women, do they?” Rose asked.

“No,” Hattie replied. She folded the paper before tucking it under her arm. She decided to take advantage of Rose’s conciliatory tone and press further. “Did you have many other females working for you?”

Rose waved her hand. “Nice try, Miss Lewis, but I refuse to incriminate anyone else.”

“Don’t you understand you might be tried for treason?” she replied. “They might lessen your sentence if you give us more names.”

“I am a widow and a mother. Only the Union would serve to persecute such a victim of their worthless cause as me. But let them come, I am ready for them,” she said, looking up at Hattie with her black eyes. As if she had foretold what happened next, the doorbell rang.

Hattie answered it, Pryce Lewis appearing in the hallway behind her. The two men on the portico introduced themselves as Edwin Stanton, aide to secretary of war Cameron, and Colonel Thomas Key, an aide to General McClellan.

“We’ve been asked by our respective bosses to check on Mrs. Greenhow and Mrs. Phillips,” Colonel Key stated. He handed a pass over to Hattie. It had been signed by the secretary of war himself and Hattie admitted the two men into what the papers had dubbed “Fort Greenhow.”

Hattie led them into the parlor, where Greenhow was knitting, her needles clicking together angrily. She dropped them and stood when presented with her guests.

“Good evening, Mrs. Greenhow,” Stanton said warmly. “What have you done now to bring down such a wrath by the abolitionists?”

“That’s not funny, Stanton,” Greenhow said, her eyes narrowing. “If you are not here to help me out of this confinement, then I’m done with this conversation.”

“I will see what I can do.” He turned to address Pryce and Hattie. “I find it odd that the government seeks to employ Pinkerton operatives to guard a lady’s house.”

“It’s no oddity: Mrs. Greenhow has created a vast spy network that we are only on the verge of uncovering,” Pryce returned, a challenge audible in his voice.

“Spy network?” Mrs. Greenhow laughed a guttural laugh, placing a gloved hand over the lace décolletage of her gown, as if to remind the room that she was still a lady. “These men, and woman, continuously degrade me and treat me with utter disrespect.”

“Is that so?” Colonel Key asked, standing and glaring at Pryce.

“It is not, indeed, but our orders are to keep her under lock and key, as a protection to both our government and our soldiers in the field,” Hattie explained.

Pryce had been angered, however, and demanded to see their pass. Colonel Key pulled the now wrinkled paper from his breast pocket and handed it over.

“This concerns Mrs. Eugenia Phillips—and it does not give either one of you men proper authority to see Mrs. Greenhow.” Pryce returned the note. “I can either lead you to Mrs. Phillips’ room or escort you to the door, but your conversation with Mrs. Greenhow is now concluded.”

Stanton stood. “What right does a detective have to order us out?”

Hattie had been wondering the same thing, but Pryce remained undaunted. “I have authority from Pinkerton, who has been hired by your boss,” he nodded at Colonel Key, “to keep watch on Mrs. Greenhow.”

“We’ll see about that,” Stanton replaced his hat and stalked out of the living room.

* * *

A few days after the incident, Pinkerton told Pryce and Hattie that the Phillips women were to be released and sent South.

“They spit on Union soldiers,” Hattie stated upon hearing the news. “Like Greenhow, they wouldn’t hesitate to conspire against our government if given another chance.”

“What can I say?” Pinkerton asked. “Stanton worked for their release. And further,” he locked eyes with Hattie before moving on to Pryce. “Stanton has lodged a complaint with the war department regarding the ‘chaperoning’ of Rose Greenhow.”

“That’s fine, Boss,” Pryce said. “I’m tired of babysitting would-be women traitors. Put me back in the field.”

And me, Hattie wanted to add.

“Stanton’s a fool,” Pinkerton replied with a wave of his hand. “We answer to General McClellan, and I think I’ve made it clear that Rose Greenhow is shameless in her conduct and will continue to try to undermine the Union whenever possible.” He held up a slim piece of paper. “This is a message one of the Sturgis Rifles that act as her door guard gave me. Mrs. Greenhow bribed him to pass it on to another of her contacts.”

“Did you get the contact’s name?” Hattie inquired.

“Yes,” Pinkerton said with a wry grin. “It was Charles Winder, brother of Richmond’s provost marshal.”

“The woman has no shame,” Hattie murmured.

“Yes,” Pinkerton said, tossing the note into a drawer. “And that’s why she needs to stay put.”

Chapter 19

Mary Jane

October 1861

The silence of the servants at the Davis household sometimes made Mary Jane want to scream. They were trained to be aware of their master’s and mistress’s wants at all times, to think for them and know what they might demand before they demand it, delivering the unrequested goods all without one word from either servant or commandant. As Mrs. O’Melia told Mary Jane, it would be a miserable failure if Mr. Davis ever had to ask Mr. Garvin for anything. But all the same, Mary Jane wanted the help to have at least a hushed voice, or some autonomy over their circumstances.

Mary Jane was hired to serve at Mrs. Davis’s parties and to help her out when her personal maid, Betsy, was occupied. Betsy was always by her mistress’s side and, with the combination of Mr. Davis falling ill in late September and Mrs. Davis halting her elegant affairs—she claimed it was to save money, but Mary Jane suspected the Richmond Examiner’s harsh criticisms had something to do with it— Mary Jane had little to do. She convinced Mrs. O’Melia that she was an excellent housekeeper as well, so she was assigned to clean Mr. Davis’s office.

The fact filled Mary Jane and all of her contacts with glee, but with Jeff Davis convalescing, no major work was going down. Mrs. Davis herself received the cabinet members and dignitaries at the door, deciding whether their business required an interview with the bed-ridden president, or if it was something she could handle in the parlor.

One such visitor that did not warrant a sojourn upstairs was Mr. Chesnut. Mrs. Davis ordered Mary Jane to serve them coffee in the snuggery.

As soon Mary Jane entered the little room carrying a tray, Mr. Chesnut banged his fist on the table, startling her. He was clearly adamant in making his point. “As soon as England recognizes us as a sovereign state, all of our problems will be solved. And cotton is the way to do it, Varina.”

Mary Jane set down the tray and wiped a napkin over a bit of spilled coffee. She served a cup to Mr. Chesnut and then to Mrs. Davis, who took an approving sip and then placed her cup carefully in its saucer. “I heard the British are favoring the North simply because they are opposed to slavery.”

“Once their economy starts to suffer because there is no cotton, they will change their mind about the practice. Cotton is our gold mine and the surest way to win England over. But with all the slaves withdrawing up North, we have no one to pick our crops.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Mrs. Davis replied in her soft manner. “I just think as of now we have more important matters to worry about. We need our men in battle now, not in the fields.”

Mr. Chesnut, his coffee untouched, muttered something about women not knowing the first thing about war.

Either Mrs. Davis did not hear him or she chose to ignore his comment. She bestowed a patient smile on him. “Now, Mr. Chesnut, how do you like your coffee?”

Despite the paucity of information that was available to Mary Jane that fall, she progressed her mission by gaining the trust of both Mrs. Davis and the rest of the servants. Mr. McNiven continued his daily deliveries of his baked goods and Mary Jane managed to convince Mrs. O’Melia to let her be the one to greet him. No one else was usually around when his wagon pulled into the driveway outside the servants’ entrance and they could speak freely.

One day he told Mary Jane that Miss Lizzie had found a new way to keep abreast of Mary Jane’s progress. “She wants to meet with you, weekly if possible, at Miss Thompson’s shop. She’s a seamstress located down the hill. Mrs. Van Lew says to hang your red petticoat on the line a few hours beforehand to let her know of your plans.”

“But how will I convince Mrs. Davis that I need to go to a seamstress?”

McNiven shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The opportunity came sooner than Mary Jane thought. As Mary Jane delivered Mrs. Davis’s tea, her mistress pulled up the hem of her petticoat. “I wish I could get a new dress, but the Richmonders would use that as an excuse to say I’m being ‘extravagant’ again.” She had said this more to herself than Mary Jane and, consequently, looked surprised when Mary Jane told her she knew of a good seamstress who could repair her dresses.

“She kin also do alterations, ma’am,” Mary Jane continued. “Instead of buying new dresses, she kin change the style of yer old ones.”

“You might be right,” Mrs. Davis conceded, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “The righteous old biddies of this town can’t possibly look down upon repurposing old dresses, can they?”

Mary Jane wasn’t sure if she was addressing her, but she replied, “No’m,” anyway.

Once Mrs. Davis had entrusted Mary Jane with her expensive though simply decorated gowns, a new way of reporting intelligence formed. Mary Jane did as Mr. McNiven suggested, hanging something red on the clothesline whenever Mrs. Davis had something to take to the seamstress. Miss Lizzie would meet her there, and though her narrow face would droop each time Mary Jane had nothing to report, Miss Lizzie would fill Mary Jane in on what was occurring on her end. It was clear that Miss Lizzie had greatly expanded her underground network of spies and couriers. She’d managed to make contact with a guard in one of the warehouse prisons, saying that she expected to receive escaped Yankee prisoners at her home any day.

“What about Wit—Mrs. Mary? You are going to house them right under her nose?”

“Not under her nose,” Miss Lizzie corrected. “Above. I don’t know if you ever noticed it, but there is a small room in the attic.”

Mary Jane shook her head in disbelief.

“See?” Miss Lizzie’s eyes were shining. “If you didn’t know it was there, Mary will never know. They will arrive at night and stay up there until arrangements can be made to get them across the lines to freedom.”

As she left the seamstress shop, Mary Jane admitted to herself that Miss Lizzie’s determination to aid the Union was as strong as her own, however foolish Mary Jane thought this latest plan was. While she waited to cross the street, she saw a white man in a large hat standing beside the curb.

“I’m going through the lines tonight,” he said in a gruff voice.

Bewildered, Mary Jane tried to see if she recognized him, but the large hat covered his eyes. He had a scar that led from his ear to his chin.

Mary Jane took on her slave voice. “Sawry, suh, I’m not shuh what you mean.”

“Yer sure you don’t, nigger?” he asked as a wagon passed them.

Mary Jane hurried across the street, nearly colliding with a carriage, glad the package in her hands had prevented her from exercising her instinct to slap him.

The next day, as she was running an errand for Mrs. Davis, she saw that same gruff man, this time dressed in a Confederate uniform, leading a handful of troops down Main Street, confirming what Miss Lizzie had advised her yesterday: Trust no one.

Chapter 20

Hattie

November 1861

Due to Pinkerton’s intervention with the War Department, Hattie and Pryce Lewis were once again attending to Rose at Fort Greenhow.

Pryce told Hattie over tea that Timothy Webster had managed to infiltrate the Knights of Liberty. They were an underground group of Copperheads—Northerners who opposed the war—that were planning an uprising to take place in Washington City. Two days ago, on the same day President Lincoln had called for a national day of thanksgiving, Pinkerton agents and local police officers had raided the Knights’ headquarters and arrested the entire group.

“Don’t you wish you could be helping the Union in some other way?” Hattie asked Pryce.

He shrugged. “I’m really an operative at heart. This war is a temporary offshoot to my journey. I’m going to own my own agency one day.”

“But the rebels—”

Pryce shrugged. “It’s not my country.”

Hattie wanted to slap him, but she held her hands close to her side. She wondered what Allan Pinkerton, the famed abolitionist, would have done if he knew one of his own operatives had such apathy toward the Cause. Someone rang the bell and Pryce left the kitchen to answer it. A few minutes later he returned with a cake.

“What’s that?” Hattie asked.

“A holiday fruitcake for Rose. A delivery man just dropped it off.” He took a penknife from his pocket and cut into it. Instead of the expected fruit and pastry, the innards of the cake were made of paper. Hattie extracted a wad and unfolded it. “Confederate bills.”

Pryce picked out a folded sheet of paper and unfolded it, his eyes quickly scanning the contents. “Details of an escape to Richmond.”

“Why that...” Hattie struggled to keep her language ladylike.

“Tart?” Pryce asked, a smile in his eyes.

Hattie rolled her eyes, momentarily forgetting their earlier animosity.

“I have an idea,” Pryce said. He headed toward the front door and donned his overcoat and hat. “I’ll be right back.”

In a few minutes, he returned, brandishing a beautifully decorated holiday cake. “I wouldn’t want Mrs. Greenhow’s appetite to suffer because we ruined her other dessert.”

Hattie found one of Rose’s expensive ceramic serving trays and transferred the new cake onto it before adding the remains of the tainted one. “Shall we deliver this to Mrs. Greenhow?”

“Indeed, we shall.” Pryce replied, grabbing a silver cake knife and server.

“Mrs. Greenhow,” Pryce called from outside her room. “We had a special delivery this morning for you.”

Rose opened the door, expectation written all over her face. Clearly she knew about the cake, Hattie surmised. “We found the other one unsuitable,” she told the spy. “So Mr. Lewis bought this cake for you instead.”

“We think you’ll find the ingredients more agreeable to your palette,” Pryce added.

Rose’s features filled with fury. She seized the serving tray from Hattie and then pushed past her to hurl the entire thing down the stairwell. The three of them watched the cake smash into the wall while the serving tray shattered into a million tiny pieces. Without a word, Rose turned and headed back to her room, slamming the door behind her.

“Guess she doesn’t prefer fruitcake to treason,” Hattie commented before heading down the stairs to clean up the mess.

* * *

A few days later, Hattie was surprised to hear that her guardianship of Fort Greenhow would be at an end. Pinkerton had finally convinced Secretary Cameron to transfer Rose to the Old Capitol Prison. Rose was given only a few hours to pack. Pryce and Hattie thoroughly examined each item before allowing Rose to put it in her valise. When her carriage arrived to transport her to her newest confinement, her final words to Hattie were that she hoped that in the future she would have a “more noble employment than that of guarding defenseless women.”

While Hattie agreed with her on the employment aspect, she would never have called Rose Greenhow defenseless. She simply waved to Rose and then turned to supervise the boarding of the mansion’s windows.

The first thing Hattie heard when she arrived at the I-Street office the following morning was arguing. Pinkerton’s voice was firm while the other’s, slightly familiar to Hattie, was raised in protest. She could just discern the shapes of two figures through the frosted windows of the inner office. When she heard the door open, she pretended to be occupied with papers on her desk.

“Ah, Miss Lewis, just the woman we needed. Could you come in here, please?” Pinkerton’s stocky body stepped aside as Hattie walked into his office. Timothy Webster paced rapidly alongside the bookcases in the back. Pinkerton gestured for Hattie to sit. “Mr. Webster has just returned from Baltimore.”

Hattie nodded. “I heard of your success with the Knights of Liberty.”

Webster stopped his pacing and stood at Hattie’s elbow. “I don’t need a nurse.”

Pinkerton sat heavily behind his desk. “I’ve told you, your information is too valuable for you to fall sick again.” He turned his gaze from Webster to Hattie. “Tim’s been suffering from attacks of rheumatism. Now that the Knights of Liberty are no longer a threat, I’m sending him on to Richmond. I want you to accompany him to be his caretaker. Not to mention that single men seem suspicious, but a man who is committed to one woman will seem trustworthy to almost anyone.”

Hattie bit back her rebuttal as she thought of her own husband, whom not many people would call trustworthy.

Webster folded his arms across his chest. “Boss, I’ve told you, I work better alone. A one-sided story is easy to fib your way out of, but when you add another person, you have to corroborate every detail so you don’t get tripped up.”

Pinkerton stood up. “This is a non-negotiable. Miss Lewis will pose as your wife.”

Timothy turned to Hattie. “This isn’t secretarial work or looking after a Rebel prisoner. We’ll be behind the lines, cavorting with the enemy. You’ll be endangering your life.”

Hattie drew in a breath, insulted by his insinuations. She didn’t want either man to think she wasn’t up to the task Pinkerton was proposing. “I’m not afraid,” she replied.

“Miss Lewis will be a great asset to your mission,” Pinkerton added. “She has lived in the South, albeit under different circumstances than the role she will play. She can garner information from the ladies who accompany the men you will be courting. You will leave tomorrow.”

Webster gave a deep sigh before offering Hattie his arm. “Seeing as how we’re to be husband and wife, we better start getting into the role.”

She gave him a shy smile as she accepted his assistance and rose out of her chair.

“Have you any further commands, then, Boss?” Webster asked.

Pinkerton’s shrewd gaze fixed on the would-be couple. Hattie dropped Timothy’s arm. “No, Tim. I have no other commands, other than for you to take care of yourselves. And each other.”

Webster buttoned up his winter overcoat. “I’ll try to do that, sir.”

Chapter 21

Mary Jane

December 1861

Mrs. Davis had given birth to a son, William Howell Davis, nicknamed Billy, in the beginning of December. To her credit, she still planned a gathering at the mansion to celebrate the holiday a few weeks later.

The morning of the party, Mrs. Davis was dismayed to hear that the busts and friezes she had ordered from Europe had been seized by the blockade. “I’ll have to cancel it: I cannot have such important guests seeing an empty ballroom,” she wailed as she wrung her hands in distress.

They had opened the doors that separated the parlors so that it was one big, still vacant, room. Mary Jane paused her dusting of the mantel. “I have an idea, Mrs. Davis.” Mary Jane walked out of the room and returned with several trinkets that had been made by soldiers and given to the First Lady throughout her many hospital visits.

Mrs. Davis pawed through the items and picked up a wood carving. “I suppose it’s better than nothing,” she consented. “And they can’t possibly say anything about my spending on these. Let’s put this statue over the fireplace.”

Mary Jane did as she was told. She was so busy in her decorating that she forgot about Mr. McNiven until she happened to glance at the clock on the mantle. “The bakery truck!” she gasped before she hurried outdoors.

Mr. Garvin, the coachman, was standing beside the truck, holding a tray of muffins. He winked at Mary Jane when she arrived, gasping for breath.

“Don’t you worry about nothin’ Little Mary,” Mr. Garvin said with another wink. “Mr. McNiven and I go way back.”

Mary Jane gave him a tentative smile, unsure if he knew the real reason why Mary Jane made it her mission to meet the baker every morning. Mr. McNiven handed her a loaf of bread, but did not say anything else.

The guests that evening included the Chesnuts, Secretary of War Judah Benjamin, Mrs. Davis’s sister, Maggie, and various other associates that Mary Jane didn’t recognize. They gathered in the large parlor to enjoy eggnog, port, and ginger snaps, their gossip centering on the recent incident of the Union navy seizing passengers from a British mail ship off the coast of Cuba. Two of the captives had been newly appointed Confederate envoys to England and France. Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Chesnut were convinced that the incident would be the impetus they needed for England to take up arms against the North.

Even though the hour was late when Mrs. Davis finally dismissed her servants, Mary Jane was still fretting over the possibility of England joining the war and knew that sleep was not going to be forthcoming. She took the leftover port with her to the outbuilding.

Mr. Garvin was sitting on the steps of the servants’ quarters, smoking a cigar. “How was the party?” he asked Mary Jane in between puffs.

She sat next to him on the steps. “It was a party.”

He picked up the cup next to him, dumping out the water and holding it out to Mary Jane, who filled it with port.

Mr. Garvin took another puff on his cigar before asking, “You learn anything good to report to Mr. McNiven?”

Mary Jane’s eyes widened against her will.

Undaunted, Mr. Garvin continued, “I know all about Mr. McNiven’s, shall we say, ‘underground’ activities.”

Mary Jane stood up and looked around the garden.

“It’s all right, we’re safe out here.” He set down his cigar on the steps to take a sip of port. “In the big house, no. You must watch out for Mrs. O’Melia and the children’s nurse. We’re not sure if they would report anything to the Davises. But here, we are all friends. Some of them in there,” he indicated the outbuilding behind them with his thumb, “are planning to run when they get the chance. And most of them aided the ones that already left.”

“Did McNiven help too?”

Mr. Garvin shook his head. “He did before the war, for sure. Helped my wife and son escape when they was still slaves under another master. But now that Mr. McNiven’s attentions are otherwise occupied, he doesn’t want to do anything that would look suspicious to the rebels.” He picked up his still smoldering cigar and examined it. “Mr. Davis gave it to me as a Christmas present,” he stated before putting it back in his mouth.

“That was… kind of him,” Mary Jane said, for lack of anything else.

He shrugged. “Kind enough.”

“Are you still here because of your loyalty to Mr. Davis?”

“No,” he let out a breath of smoke. “I reckon I’m here same as you.”

Mary Jane gave him a sidelong glance, trying to ascertain his true meaning, but it was so dark that his expression was masked.

“Mr. McNiven ain’t the only acquaintance we have in common. Did you know I used to work for the Van Lews?”

“No,” Mary Jane gasped out. “I don’t think—”

“You wouldn’t have remembered me. You were but a baby when I got my freedom. But I knew your ma. She too wanted to leave, but Miss Lizzie wouldn’t let her. Miss Lizzie wanted to oversee your education herself.”

Mary Jane nodded. “She sent me up North when she couldn’t teach me anymore.”

“And what did you think of Liberia?”

Not for the first time Mary Jane wondered how Mr. Garvin knew so much. She put her hand on the railing and traced her finger up and down the simple design. “I hated it. Much as I hate what the South stands for, I missed America. They brought our forefathers here, tore them apart from their families in Africa, and enslaved them and their descendants. Now that some of us want to be free, they don’t know what to do with us. Their best solution is to send us back, not to let us make a home for ourselves here. Not to let us be free in our adopted country. So I came back to try and make that happen.”

“Someday, little girl, someday we will all be free. And with your and my assistance, maybe that someday will come sooner rather than later.” He stamped out his cigar on the steps. “If you ever need any help, remember you’ve got friends.”

Mary Jane wanted to inquire more about her mother, and if he knew anything about her paternity, but she was afraid of Mr. Garvin’s answers. “What happened to your son and wife?” she asked instead.

He drained the rest of his port. “My wife died a long time ago. My son was a freedman up North, but he risked all that to come back and be part of Mr. McNiven’s courier service.”

Mary Jane tightened her grip on the railing. “They could arrest him or worse, have him hanged.”

He stood up. “He knows that. But he’s real stubborn, my son. He won’t listen to nobody but that inner voice inside of him. Reminds me of you in that way.” He tipped his hat to her. “G’night, Miss Mary Jane,” he said before going inside.

Chapter 22

Belle

January 1862

The incident over the whiskey made headlines. Belle was pleased to read that the “bloody fracas” had occurred between rivals for her “stimulating donations and sweet smiles.” Belle’s mother, however, had a different take. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to be a spy. Not to mention dangerous.” Still worried over her daughter’s safety, Mother arranged for soldiers on leave for the holiday season to accompany Belle to the various parties and celebrations.

Belle thoroughly enjoyed the season—especially the brief flirtation with the older Dr. Cherry, who had proposed to her shortly after the holiday. Belle told her friends and family they would be married next February, more out of boredom than any particular conviction. But what she really wanted was for spring to come, and, with that, the continuation of the war. She was restless and had grown weary of being under her mother and Mauma Eliza’s never-ending guard. At least the war provided the pleasure of peril, as well as both grief and joy.

Her cousin James, on leave from the army, offered to chaperone her and Dr. Cherry for a day of riding in mid-January. But as they came to a clearing, a gunshot sounded, and though it was barely audible from their distance, it spooked Fleeter. He began galloping away. Belle shouted at him to stop, pulling hard on the reins, but Fleeter kept going, taking Belle deeper and deeper into the Valley, and closer to the Union lines. Belle managed to look back once during a break in the trees but did not see her cousin or Dr. Cherry following her.

When Fleeter finally slowed to a canter, Belle heard a voice shout, “You there!” She sighed to herself upon catching sight of a few Yankees standing guard underneath a pine tree.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Belle said in a breathless voice. “My horse was frightened and ran away with me on him.” She patted the sweaty steed. “I beg you to permit me to return to my friends.”

One of the men walked up to Fleeter. “You have a beautiful horse.” Belle’s grip tightened on the reins—she’d heard of Yankees stealing horses at their whim. The young man continued, “And you yourself would have made a beautiful captive, but we would never think of detaining you.” He glanced up at Belle and she noticed his kind brown eyes. “Are your friends with the Rebel army?”

Belle nodded.

“It is no matter.” He nodded at his companions. “May we have the honor of escorting you back? That is, if you promise those cowardly rebels won’t take us prisoner,” he added with a wink.

Belle managed a tiny smile at the Yankee. How dare he say cowardly and Rebel in the same sentence! “A pass would have been just as well. But if you insist on becoming my escort, I shall do you the honor of accepting.”

The Yankee mounted his horse and fell in line with Fleeter and Belle as another soldier trotted just behind them. As soon as they got back into Confederate territory, Dr. Cherry and James approached. All four men were startled, each of them glowering at each other.

“Here are my ‘cowardly Rebel’ friends whom you were afraid of meeting,” Belle told the young man before turning to her cousin. “James, may I present to you two Yankee prisoners?”

The young man’s astonished gaze fell on Belle. “May I ask the name of our beautiful captor?”

She touched her skirts as if to curtsy while seated. “Belle Boyd.”

The young man drew in his breath. “Are you none other than the Rebel spy we’ve heard so much about?”

“I am indeed,” Belle replied, pleased that her reputation had finally preceded her. Belle accompanied Dr. Cherry and James as they escorted their newfound prisoners to headquarters.

“That seems a bit heartless, even for you, Cousin,” James told her after the Confederate officer in charge had decided to hold the Yankees for questioning.

“All’s fair in love and war,” Belle replied, thinking that perhaps the Yankee would learn that her friends were not so cowardly after all.

That incident was the only one to liven up Belle’s winter. When the Yankees once again occupied Martinsburg, Belle’s mother decided she would be safer with her aunt in Front Royal, especially given Belle’s spreading reputation. Mother was able to obtain passes for them to travel from the Union provost marshal, an old family friend, and, in late January, Mauma Eliza and Belle took a carriage to Winchester. As soon as Belle stepped aboard the train that would take her to Front Royal, a blue sleeve reached out to grab her arm.

Belle was about to raise her voice in protest as a short man with sideburns demanded, “Am I in the presence of Miss Belle Boyd?”

“Yes.”

The man’s eyes traveled from Belle’s boots to her bonnet. “I am Captain Bannon, assistant provost. I have orders to detain you.”

“But sir, we have travel passes.” Belle dug them out of her bag and showed them to the man.

“Ah.” Captain Bannon’s face dropped in confusion. “These are from the Provost himself.”

“Yes sir.” Bannon realized that Belle’s pass superseded the orders he had been given and let her proceed to her seat unmolested.

It was almost dark when the train arrived. Belle was dismayed to find that the bridge spanning the Shenandoah River had been destroyed and the only ferry operating at that hour was one run by Union soldiers. Belle produced her pass again and, despite being exhausted by the day of traveling, managed to arrange passage to Front Royal.

Her uncle had managed the Fishback Hotel for years, and, in his absence, the duties fell to Belle’s aunt, Mrs. Fanny Stewart. Belle had expected Aunt Fanny to be waiting up for her to arrive, but when Belle stepped into the front room, she noticed a fleet of federal officers.

“Where is Mrs. Stewart?” a tired and hungry Belle demanded.

A man with a droopy mustache approached her. “I am Captain Keily, Miss…?”

“Boyd. I am Mrs. Stewart’s niece.”

Keily bowed. “Please to make your acquaintance. You will find Mrs. Stewart in the back cottage.”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “And why is that?”

“Front Royal is now under the Union control of General James Shields. He has commanded the use of your aunt’s fine hotel as his headquarters.”

Belle faked a smile. “In that case, please give the general my regards and tell him I hope he finds his stay welcoming.”

“Will do, Miss Boyd.”

Belle did an about-face as Mauma Eliza followed her outside, carrying her bags. She struggled to keep her balance on the narrow brick walkway that led to the back cottage.

Although she’d heard distasteful gossip about the fifty-one-year-old General Shields and his preference for young females, Belle decided to make his acquaintance anyway. When he paid a call on her aunt, Belle chatted with him, finding him to be a polite Irishman with a good sense of humor.

After exchanging pleasantries about the hotel accommodations and the town in general, Belle asked if he could grant her a pass to Richmond. Shields laughed. “I would not dare trust a beautiful woman like yourself to the Rebel’s tender mercies.” He helped himself to more cake before adding, “Luckily we will have annihilated them in a few days, and then you can wander wherever you please.”

“Oh?” she asked.

“Indeed,” he continued, spilling a crumble of cake onto his whiskers. “We will be meeting tonight at your aunt’s very own hotel to plan TJ Jackson’s and his army’s demise.”

Belle put a hand to her mouth. “I see.” She let her eyes travel the length of his coat. “I don’t suppose you’d have any buttons to spare for a little Southern girl like me?” A Union officer’s button would be a nice addition to her collection.

Shields ripped one off and handed it to her before rising from the table. “I best be getting going. The best laid plans and all.” He tipped his hat to her before he left the cottage.

That night, Belle stole out of the cottage and glided up the brick walkway to the hotel. She made her way to an upstairs closet, which was positioned right above the drawing room. A small hole had been carved into the wood floor a long time ago and now Belle lay down to put her ear over it. Below her she could hear the men greeting each other before getting comfortable in their seats. Finally, the men began discussing their intentions. She heard someone mention that Stonewall Jackson was making his way toward Richmond.

“McClellan too, is coming in,” another voice replied.

Belle listened carefully, at times halting her breathing so she could hear every word. She wished she could sit up to write the information down, but in doing so, she might miss something important. She forced herself to memorize every minute detail, trying to ignore how hot it was in the closet and the ache in her body from being in its cramped position for so long. Shield’s cigar smoke crept its way through the tiny hole to assault Belle’s nose and twice she had to pause her listening to sneeze and then wipe her nose on her uncle’s scratchy old coat.

The men finally said their goodbyes and adjourned well past midnight. Belle waited until the last chair scraped the floor and then got up and stealthily made her way back to the cottage, stretching out her sore body once she made it to the brick walkway. The cool night air felt like heaven after the stuffy, mothball-scented closet.

She knew this was the most pertinent information she had managed to gather thus far, and, likewise, Colonel Turner Ashby, commander of the 7th Virginia cavalry and the head of General Jackson’s intelligence committee, needed to be informed of it as soon as possible. Luckily Belle had garnered a pass to go beyond the lines from Captain Keily earlier in the week.

She pulled at the stays of her corset, unlacing it as fast as she could, and stepped out her skirts. In mere moments she was redressed in her male garb. She tiptoed to the stables and chose a horse. She had heard that Colonel Ashby was staying with an acquaintance of Belle’s aunt about fifteen miles away.

Although she was stopped twice by Union officers, they let her go after just glancing at the pass and she arrived without incident at Ashby’s lodgings at about three in the morning. No lights were on at the house, and it took a few minutes of Belle banging on the door to arouse someone.

“Who is it?” a male voice finally called from an upstairs window.

Belle backed up from the porch to peer at the speaker, but it was too dark to discern who it was. “It is I, Belle Boyd. I have intelligence for Colonel Ashby and must speak to him at once.”

“Wait one moment.” The speaker disappeared from the window and reappeared at the front door. “Come, come,” the man said, motioning to Belle. Once inside, he asked how she came about looking for Colonel Ashby at this hour.

“I have no time to tell you about that. I must see Colonel Ashby now.”

“Good God!” someone called from the top of the stairs. Belle turned to see that Turner Ashby, dressed in a nightshirt and wiping the sleep from his eyes, was making his way down. “Miss Belle, is that really you or am I dreaming?”

“Yes, sir, it is me and not a ghost.” She pulled a paper out of her bag. “I’m sorry to disturb you and your kind hosts at this hour, but you must know that the Yankees are setting a trap for General Jackson’s troops.”

Ashby took the note from her and scanned it, his weary eyes growing wider. “Good God,” he repeated. “I need a pen and paper!” The host nodded and disappeared further into the house. “Thank you, Miss Belle, for this information. But you should be getting home now. I’ll take it from here.”

Now that the excitement of reaching Ashby had worn off, so had Belle’s adrenaline and she was anxious to head back to the warmth of the cottage. She took her leave of Ashby and then remounted her horse. She had not gotten very far in her journey when it began to rain. A crack of lightning lit up the landscape around her. That it was void of Yankees was the only pleasant thought Belle had as a loud boom of thunder quickly followed. The next time lightning flashed, Belle caught sight of a rifle barrel staring her down. She stuck her hand into her pocket, but her pass was not there. She was too fatigued to remember the countersign, and felt panic mounting as thunder sounded again, closer this time.

“Let the boy pass,” a deeper voice commanded. Belle glimpsed an officer standing behind the soldier. “I know him.”

The soldier turned to give his reply, but Belle had already started galloping away. When the first light of dawn arrived, Belle was asleep in her bed, dreaming of the praise she was sure to receive from Stonewall Jackson himself once he caught word of her bravery that night.

Chapter 23

Hattie

January 1862

Hattie and Timothy Webster met in the office early to go over their mission before they left for Richmond at the end of January.

“Mr. Webster—”

“I suppose you ought to call me Timothy now since we’re supposed to be married.”

“Timothy, then. What exactly is the nature of our mission?”

He reluctantly related the real reason that Hattie was to accompany him. When he wasn’t infiltrating the Order of the Knights of Liberty, Webster had become a trusted Rebel courier and frequently made trips from Southern locales such as Memphis and Fredericksburg, bearing correspondence for Copperheads up North. On his most recent trip, he had journeyed from Pinkerton’s office in Washington City back to Virginia. He stopped, as he frequently did, at a hotel run by John Miller, a known Rebel sympathizer. Miller arranged for a canoe to ferry Webster across the Potomac. Two women and three children had also paid to cross, but the canoe could not dock and Webster carried all of the passengers and their baggage through the freezing cold water to get to the boat. The canoe trip took over three hours, all of which Timothy said he spent trying to huddle against the wind in his wet clothes. In addition, once they got across to Virginia, they discovered that the landing spot had been destroyed by Union boats, and Timothy and the rest of them had to sleep on ground covered by frost. “As you can imagine, the experience triggered a drastic effect on my own health.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. That was a kind thing you did, bringing the women and children to the boat.”

He gave her a half-smile. “I had to keep up my guise as a Southern gentleman.”

Hattie returned his grin. “Something tells me that you would do the same thing under your own identity.” She straightened her face back into operative mode. “What will be our assignment in Richmond?”

“You will do your best to ferret information from the Southern belles you encounter. As for me, it will be more of the same. I’ve been entrusted by several high-ranking Confederates as a courier. That allows me both to travel throughout the South as well as pass on those same messages to the Boss,” He tugged his uniform sleeves down. “On my previous trip to Richmond, General Winder asked me to carry messages back to his son in Washington City.”

Hattie’s brow furrowed. “The son of the Richmond provost marshal is in the Union army?”

Timothy nodded. “General Winder confided in me that he wants him to desert as soon as possible. He’d have him stay in jail the duration of the war, or,” Timothy smiled at the recollection, “he said he’d rather his son suffer death in the most dishonorable way possible than serve the United States in a war against the South.”

Hattie shook her head. She was still sometimes taken aback by the contempt the rebels held for their former country. “Do you think he will desert?”

Timothy scratched at his beard. “I don’t think so. I think the younger Winder ultimately will remain true to his country, despite the discord with his father. Besides, his salary as captain is the only income he can provide for his wife and son. He’s approached McClellan and asked to be relocated to California. Pinkerton, however, wants him arrested—he says there is no parallel short of that penultimate traitor, Benedict Arnold.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far—it sounds to me like the son wants to please his Confederate father and his country, but can’t do both. Benedict Arnold committed treason for a more nefarious purpose. Besides, is there any evidence that he will give up information on the Union?”

“No.” Timothy reached for something under his desk. “Not yet, anyway. But if anyone knows how to supply counterintelligence, it’s Winder.” Timothy replaced his stovepipe hat with a wider-brimmed one.

“What is that?” Hattie asked, pointing to his new headpiece.

“It’s a secession chapeau.”

“A what?”

“A Confederate officer’s hat. My contacts in Memphis bought it for me.” He handed her a carpetbag. “Did the boss tell you how we are getting to Richmond?”

“He mentioned something about hiring a boat to take us across the Potomac.”

“Yes.” His blue eyes flashed with an emotion Hattie couldn’t discern. “I don’t suppose he mentioned your disguise, though.”

“Disguise?”

He nodded at the carpetbag and Hattie took out the contents: a man’s shirt, pants, and overcoat.

“There will be fewer questions about two men crossing than a man and woman. Once we get to Fredericksburg, you can change and we’ll take the train into Richmond.”

“How will we pass through the lines?”

Timothy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was a pass signed by the Confederate secretary of war, Judah Benjamin.

“My, you have indeed infiltrated the enemy government.”

Instead of replying, he tipped his Southern-style hat to her.

Hattie and Timothy set off for Leonardtown, Maryland, arriving at a boarding house kept by a contact of Timothy’s named Mr. Miller.

“Just so you are aware,” Timothy said, his hand on the door of the carriage, “he’s pretty vocal about his secessionist viewpoints. I usually stop to chat with him, but, circumstances being as they are,” he nodded toward her masculine garb, “I will try to avoid that today.”

Hattie picked up her carpetbag.

“Mr. Webster!” A short man with a balding head greeted them. “You’ve brought a companion.”

“Yes, Mr. Miller, this is Mr.—”

“Lawton,” Hattie supplied. It was the first name that popped into her head.

“Ah, nice to meet you.” Hattie felt a tingle of nerves as his eyes traveled up and down her form. She pulled her kepi hat down a little further on her forehead. She was regretting her and Timothy’s decision not to glue any facial hair on her, for that way she could have at least hid a bit of her face.

Luckily Mr. Miller was distracted by the appearance of another man. The newcomer was tall, with a heavy beard and mustache. The man’s eyes darted to Hattie first and then to Timothy before he turned to Mr. Miller. “Can I speak to you in another room?”

As the two men walked through a door off the lobby, Hattie raised her eyebrows at Timothy. He scratched at his beard and then shrugged.

When Mr. Miller came back alone, he told Timothy that the man asked the quickest route to Richmond, and Mr. Miller supplied that Timothy might be able to help.

“He seemed to be quite nervous, wouldn’t you agree?” Timothy asked.

Mr. Miller shrugged. “He has cause to be, I suppose.”

Timothy tilted his head. “A Yankee deserter?”

Mr. Miller leaned forward, Hattie and Timothy following suit. “He says he worked as a surgeon for the Union army, but he’s a Southerner and quit his commission in order to join our side.” Hattie straightened, trying not to cringe at the words, “our side,” as Mr. Miller continued, “He also mentioned that he is carrying messages for Judah Benjamin and, accordingly, is anxious to deliver them as soon as possible.”

Timothy nodded. “He can accompany us if he wants. What’s his name?”

“He said it was Dr. Gurley.”

Hattie could almost see the thoughts churning in Timothy’s head. She knew he wanted to get his hands on those messages for Secretary of War Benjamin and wondered what his plan would be.

“I will make the arrangements to get you all to the boat tomorrow,” Mr. Miller added.

“Thank you,” Timothy replied. Hattie echoed the sentiment.

Mr. Miller pulled out his ledger. “Separate rooms then, gentlemen?”

“Yes, please,” Hattie was eager to get to her room, if just to take the bindings off her chest for a few minutes.

“I think I will take a short walk before dinner,” Timothy patted his stomach. “It helps me work up an appetite.”

“Would you like company?” Hattie asked after Mr. Miller had handed them their room keys. She figured Timothy’s “walk” had something to do with Dr. Gurley’s dispatches.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Timothy replied as the two walked out of the lobby. “I’m sure you’re probably tired after a long day of traveling and would like to… freshen up?” He whispered the last two words and Hattie smiled at him gratefully.

Mr. Miller formally introduced Dr. Gurley to Hattie and Timothy at dinner.

“Rest assured Mr. Webster here is quite familiar with the countryside and will help get you to Confederate territory safely,” Mr. Miller said, rising from the table.

“Whatever your reasons are for wanting to get to Richmond,” Timothy added as Mr. Miller left the room.

Dr. Gurley’s eyes wandered about the room before returning to Timothy. “Thank you.”

Miller appeared, brandishing a bottle filled with amber liquid and four glasses. “Kentucky bourbon,” he stated. He poured a glass and then handed it to Dr. Gurley. “The best, although now it’s hard to come by down South.”

As he began to pour the other three, Timothy advised him to serve just a bit to Mr. Lawton. He rattled the ice in his glass and then pointed at Hattie, intimating that “Mr. Lawton” had trouble handling his alcohol. Miller filled each one to the brim anyway.

Dr. Gurley drank the glass in one gulp and then set it on the table. “Indeed it is good bourbon.” He rose and nodded at Hattie and Timothy. “I will meet you two gentlemen on the morrow, then.” He tipped his hat to the landlord. “Mr. Miller, thank you for your hospitality, but I must be heading to bed now.”

“G’night, Dr. Gurley,” Mr. Miller replied, pouring himself another shot. “You two need to drink up, now,” he said, waving his glass at Hattie.

She took a cautious sip. The bourbon tasted faintly sweet, but mostly it burned as she forced it down her throat.

Mr. Miller was well into his third glass when Timothy finished his first one. Hattie’s was still nearly full. She gave an apologetic smile to Mr. Miller. “I’m trying to take it easy.” She had just gotten the words out when Dr. Gurley burst back into the room.

“I’ve been robbed!” a hatless Dr. Gurley shouted, his face gone pale. “Someone broke into my room!”

“Now, sit down, Doc,” Miller said, kicking out the empty chair.

Gurley remained standing. “My room’s been ransacked, but the only thing taken was the dispatch to Mr. Benjamin.” He glared at the hotel keep. “What kind of place are you running here, Miller?”

Miller poured him a refill. “Clearly whoever it was knew that you had information for the Confederate government. You’re lucky they didn’t arrest you for deserting.”

Dr. Gurley’s eyes shifted guiltily to Timothy, who raised his glass of spirits at the elder man. “It don’t matter to me what your circumstances are, but at least you had the guts to leave them abolitionists.”

Gurley turned his glance to Hattie. She murmured in agreement.

Timothy continued in sotto voce, “When you arrive in Richmond, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Benjamin and you can tell him personally of whatever was in those papers.”

Dr. Gurley fell into his chair, taking a long gulp of bourbon. “I didn’t actually know what was in them. They were given to me by the secessionists who brought me here. As they were sealed, I didn’t open them.”

Timothy waved his hand. “Perhaps the people who gave them to you had second thoughts on your loyalty, you once being in the Union army and all, and retrieved them themselves.”

Hattie hid her smile by taking another sip. Although Timothy’s reasoning made no sense, it seemed to reassure Gurley, who finished his second glass. Her partner’s lack of concern meant that he knew the whereabouts of those papers. Not only had he prevented their arrival in Richmond, there was no way for the Confederate secretary of war to receive his message. She wondered who had broken into Gurley’s room, however, as Timothy had not left the table all night.

She had no further chance to reflect, however, for Timothy soon rose from the table, claiming that he had to get a decent night’s sleep for their journey tomorrow. “And you men should do the same,” he told Hattie and Dr. Gurley.

Dr. Gurley was already in the lobby when Hattie arrived the next morning. He made a few expletives as he checked his bag, probably making sure the papers were really gone.

He stood up. “Oh, Mr. Lawton, I didn’t know you were behind me.” He made no apologies for his bad language, and Hattie wondered if he would be rightfully embarrassed had he known he’d spoken such obscenities in front of a woman.

She offered her condolences for the theft of his papers as Timothy entered the room. “If you want to stay and see if Mr. Miller will investigate, you can. But my companion and I must leave today.”

Dr. Gurley gave his bag a small kick. “No, no, that’s okay. If the message was that important, the secessionists will find another way to get that information to Mr. Benjamin.”

The trio took the coach to a house owned by a Mr. Gough, whom Timothy appeared to know well. Mr. Gough invited them in for supper, telling them that, weather permitting, he could take them across the Potomac that evening. Hattie looked anxiously at the gray clouds gathering above them.

Mr. Gough was evidently not so concerned about the possible storm, for, after a hearty supper, they boarded his boat. Hattie curled into a corner—the rest of the deck was crammed with boxes of various sizes. Mr. Gough told them they contained medicine, weapons, and other goods that were getting harder to come by in the South because of the Union blockade.

It took several hours to cross the wide Potomac and they reached Virginia around midnight. When they arrived at the spot that Timothy named as Monroe’s Creek, they were greeted by a Confederate officer. He nodded at Mr. Gough, obviously familiar with the man. Timothy produced the pass from Secretary Benjamin and handed it over. “I’m a courier. And these are my associates, Mr. Lawton and Dr. Gurley.”

The man nodded and handed back the pass to Timothy, who pocketed it. Timothy glanced up and down the creek before asking, “Where are all the rest of the docks?”

“We had orders to destroy all docks and boats anywhere there were no pickets placed. It’s to prevent the slaves from running away—a fortnight ago we captured more than a dozen trying to escape.”

Timothy nodded.

The soldier helped them carry the boxes of supplies to the home of a Mr. Woodward, a partner of Gough’s who obviously played a part in his shipment of Union goods into Rebel territory. They slept for a few hours in their clothes, and at dawn, parted ways with Dr. Gurley. Woodward promised to secure the deserter a pass to board the train to Richmond.

Timothy and Hattie started off on foot for the station. The morning was cool and cloudy but mercifully it was not raining. After about half an hour of walking, Timothy stopped at an abandoned farmhouse. “You’ll be wanting to make the transition to Mrs. Webster before we get to Fredericksburg.” His eyes flashed again. Hattie had the brief notion that Timothy’s eye color changed with the territory—she could have sworn they were blue when they left the Union, but now they appeared as gray as the Southern sky above them that morning.

Hattie had never been so grateful to don a corset and petticoat in her life; no matter how constraining she’d once thought they were, they were nothing compared to the bindings she had worn to keep her curves hidden under her jacket and pants.

“How did you manage to confiscate Dr. Gurley’s papers?” she asked when she came out of the farmhouse.

“I have another contact who travels in and out of the lines. I took the chance that he was in Maryland and found him on my walk. It was he that snuck into Gurley’s room.”

“Is your contact another Pinkerton operative?” Hattie paused at a fork in the road.

“Not exactly,” he replied, motioning her to follow him down the path on the right, “but I’m confident he will get those papers to McClellan.”

They arrived in Richmond at nine o’clock in the evening. The first thing that Hattie noticed when she disembarked was the pungent odor of tobacco that hung over the city. They hastened to the Monument Hotel, where they were to stay for the duration of their mission. A military officer came to Webster’s side, watching intently as he wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. T. Webster” in the registry. Webster placed his hand on Hattie’s elbow and stepped back as another man who had also been a passenger on the train carefully signed the registry. As Webster picked up their baggage, Hattie noted that the military officer was copying the names from the registry onto a ledger.

Just then another man dressed in a gray suit entered the hotel lobby and, after casting his eyes around the room, walked up to the fellow train passenger. He whispered something into the passenger’s ear. The newcomer’s eyes kept darting around the room, Hattie noticed. She cast her own eyes downward, but his gaze did not seem to linger upon her. Finally, the two men left the hotel. Hattie was standing close enough to the door that she could watch them walk hurriedly down the street, the train passenger’s arms behind his back.

After the men were out of sight, Hattie turned to Timothy to inquire, “What was that about?”

He walked toward the stairs. “I believe it means that man is under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Hattie stumbled a bit on the first step. “For what reason?”

Timothy paused to gesture toward the lobby, and presumably, the registry. “My suspicion is that he signed a home address from the North.”

Hattie took a deep breath. “Is that enough to warrant his arrest?”

Timothy was occupied with unlocking the door to their room and did not reply until they were inside and the door had been shut. “You have to remember that we are amongst the enemy, and most of the people around here would hang any Northerner on sight.”

Though Hattie’s stomach was a ball of knots, she was determined not to let her partner know of her apprehension. Her eyes surveyed the room from the desk and chair to the large wardrobe in one corner of the room to the lone bed. Timothy saw her gaze and gestured toward the bed. “It is yours.”

“No.” Hattie replied. She was under no false notion that her duty was as important as Timothy’s. She was only there as his accomplice and that did not necessitate a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. Still, Timothy insisted and built himself a nest on the floor out of extra blankets he found in the wardrobe. Hattie lay awake long after Timothy’s snoring commenced, listening to the sounds from both inside the room and outside, wondering just exactly what she had got herself into.

Chapter 24

Loreta

February 1862

It was becoming increasingly apparent that if the South was going to achieve independence from the Union, it would be through a long and bloody war. The terrifying scene at Ball’s Bluff had made even Loreta think twice about whether she could continue on as a soldier, but she was still determined to prove herself worthy in the cause for Southern independence. Upon hearing that the Federals were attempting to capture river ports in Tennessee, Loreta, accompanied by Bob, headed that way.

By the time Loreta and her slave reached the Cumberland River, Fort Henry had already been captured by the Union. Everyone knew Fort Donelson would be the site of the next attack and Loreta and Bob were immediately put to task constructing fortifications for the purpose of defending the river. It was tough work conducted in brutally cold conditions, but most of the Rebels were in good spirits, confident that they would be able to defend the stronghold in the way that those at Fort Henry could not. For her part, Loreta was pleased to come upon her old friend Major Bacon, toiling away a few men down. They’d exchanged pleasantries, filling each other in on their adventures since Martinsburg. Major Bacon stated with pride in his voice that he had recently become engaged to a young woman from Leesburg. Loreta wished them good tidings before the hard work made it too difficult to talk much more.

By late afternoon, the Union gunboats were visible on the river below them. “Massa Henry, them Feds look to have quite a large force,” Bob gasped out before tossing a shovel full of dirt behind him.

Loreta dug her blade into the ground. “Indeed Bob, but they haven’t met as fine and gallant fighters as our forces here.”

Major Bacon, obviously overhearing their conversation, ventured to say, “Those Feds need this position. They will stop at nothing to gain it. And the darkey’s right,” he said, nodding at Bob. “The odds won’t be in our favor.”

“Still,” Loreta stood up, “There’s not much we can do now but make this the most impregnable fort those blue bellies have ever seen.”

Loreta’s enthusiasm waned as the evening wore on. Both Bob and Major Bacon were much better excavators and each could toss two shovels of dirt for every one of hers. The Battle of Manassas, her first battle as Harry Buford, had taken place on a pleasantly warm day in July. She’d been naïve and eager, and hadn’t yet experienced the horrors of war seen at Ball’s Bluff. Now that thirst had been replaced by misgivings. It felt unseasonable, that war shouldn’t be conducted in winter time, and as her comrades continued building the fortifications, she had a feeling that she was being shut in a prison from which there was no escape.

Finally, she cast her shovel aside. Even Loreta was willing to admit there were some, though few, things that men could do better than women and digging trenches in a ground white with hoarfrost was one of them. She righted herself, clutching her aching back with her blistered hands.

“Hey, what say you?”

Loreta glanced back to see a young man standing behind her.

“Tired much?”

Loreta dropped her hands by her sides. “Just winded.”

“I won’t tell General Floyd you’re shirking your duties if you do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Go on picket duty for me tonight in the trenches. I want to take French leave and go see my girl in town.”

Loreta nodded.

It turned out Loreta was even less suited to lie in the trenches in the freezing cold than she was at digging. This she blamed less on the fact that she was a woman and more that she had grown up in semi-tropical climates: first Cuba, and then Texas and New Orleans. But Loreta’s pride would not grant her permission to give in, despite the storm that formed overhead, causing the snow and sleet to come in horizontally, stinging her face. She endured, convincing herself that she was no better than the other men in the trench. Their moans turned into cries and then shouts, as the soldiers begged for water, for medicine, for anything to take their minds away from the wind and biting cold.

Loreta folded her arms around her and bent her head, trying to escape the wind. She focused her mind on the stories of her childhood heroines, most of all Joan of Arc. It was Joan’s doing that she was there. All of her life she tried to find an opportunity to prove herself and could scarcely believe it finally had presented itself. She thought that perhaps she would have been a good wife and eventually mother, had William lived. But he hadn’t and there had been nothing holding her back from becoming a soldier. She’d been fortunate to be at the right place at the right time to participate in the Battle of Manassas.

Not so fortunate now, though. Loreta came crashing back to a sorrowful reality of aching limbs. Her body seemed to be frozen everywhere. The minutes stretched into hours and the memories of her husband seemed like a thousand years ago. She felt like lying down and giving in to the cold and the wind, wondering if eternity would be warm and sunny. Just when she thought she would totally succumb to her misfortune, the soldier she had relieved returned and she was able to climb out of the entrenchment to seek shelter.

The next day, Valentine’s Day, Loreta found herself in the midst of yet another battle. The air was thick with bullets humming fast and furious, severing tree branches, shattering fence rails, and slamming into wagons. Soldiers to the right and left of Loreta fell to the earth. When she heard a bullet whizz by at close range, she thought that the end had finally come and searched herself for the telltale sign of blood.

But the words, “I’ve been hit!” belonged to Major Bacon.

Loreta tried to catch him as he fell, but his solid body was too much to bear. She sank to the ground with him, her clothing stained with his blood.

“Damn the Yankees! They have killed me,” he gasped.

“No, my friend,” Loreta replied, touching the hole in his uniform in nearly the center of his chest, knowing that a Minié ball must have lodged in his heart. “You will live to see yet another dawn.”

Bacon’s body went into convulsions and then he was still. Loreta sat beside him for an immeasurable amount of time until she became aware of the chaos around her. At the whoosh of yet another bullet, Loreta realized she must leave her fallen friend in order to save herself.

Chapter 25

Hattie

February 1862

Timothy woke Hattie up early the morning after they had arrived in Richmond. The dark circles had disappeared from under his eyes and his countenance seemed refreshed. Hattie felt just the opposite. In silence, they riffled through their respective bags, pulling out their attire for the day and then parted to dress in the hall bathrooms. They re-adjourned in their room before heading downstairs for breakfast. Timothy dug something out of his bag and held it out to Hattie.

“What’s this?” she asked, accepting the object, which appeared to be a brooch. “Oh,” Hattie said as recognition stirred a desire for her to fling it at the wall. The black and white cockade had come to be an unofficial badge that secessionist women wore in support of their cause.

“If you are to be successful in the role, you must look the part,” Timothy said as he adjusted his string tie in the mirror.

After breakfast, Hattie and Timothy went out for what would appear to observers as a leisurely stroll to the post office. Hattie’s grip tightened on Timothy’s arm as she noticed a man in a Confederate officer’s uniform on the other side of the street. Timothy seemed to take no notice of the man as he began whistling, slowing their pace. A few moments later, Timothy stopped to peer into a store window. Hattie looked to see if the man had passed them, but he had also paused, standing parallel to them across the road. Timothy pulled Hattie into the store.

“Is he following us?” she asked once the door had shut. Timothy looked at the clerk, who was writing in a ledger and paid his new customers no heed. Timothy held one finger up to his lips briefly before nodding. The two operatives stalled in the store for a while, Timothy plopping hats on Hattie to try on. They would have made for a passable married couple had anyone else been in the store or the clerk actually noticed them. After approximately fifteen minutes, Timothy declared that they must be going. The clerk finally looked up, seemingly startled that he had customers. Timothy tipped his hat and the clerk followed suit.

Outside, Hattie noticed the officer was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper. She tried to convince her racing heart that this was a perfectly normal thing to do on a pleasantly sunny day. Timothy turned her back in the direction in which they had come. Hattie avoided glancing backward until an intersection gave her the opportunity to do so, at which she spotted the man a few paces behind them. She was now positive they were being shadowed. Timothy must have recognized this fact as well though his face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking.

Timothy led Hattie back to the dining room of the hotel, where he ordered her a sherry and himself a whiskey. He lit a pipe and opened up the paper as Hattie gazed around the nearly empty room. After a few minutes, three men in Confederate uniforms entered and took seats at the bar. Their conversation was loud and easily overheard.

One man, clad in an extravagant officer’s coat with gold lace detail said, “I agree with you in principle: it will not do to let a Southern man set foot on Kentucky soil until the Northern troops disregard the neutrality of that State.”

Hattie refrained from wrinkling her lip. She immediately hated everything about the man, from his gaudy get-up, to his large stomach that he seemed content to fill with just liquor, to the fact that he seemed to thoroughly enjoy listening to himself talk. But most of all, she hated that he was a Southerner.

At this, Timothy carefully folded his paper and got up to saunter toward the bar. “Pardon sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your comment. Will you permit me to ask you a question?”

Hattie sipped her sherry as she watched the trio of officers turn toward Timothy, expressions of mild curiosity on their faces, as the shortest man replied, “Why of course.”

“Do you not suppose,” asked Timothy, “that Kentucky will allow the Northern army to march through the state without instigation?”

“Not by a jug-full,” the older man in the garish uniform responded. “The moment that blue devil Grant crosses the Cumberland river, Kentucky will rise in arms in Southern solidarity.”

“And if she doesn’t,” Timothy mused heartily, “she will prove herself unworthy of any true Southern man’s respect!”

At this, the older man’s face lit up. He placed his hand on Webster’s shoulder as he asked, “May I inquire from where you hail?”

“I was born in Tennessee and raised in Maryland,” Webster stated evenly. “I’ve newly arrived to your fine city direct from Baltimore.”

This seemed to please the men as they repeated “Baltimore!” and reached to shake Timothy’s hand in turn. Hattie marveled at the ease at which Timothy had inserted himself into the welcoming arms of the enemy.

“I am always glad to meet a Baltimorean,” the old man added, “Despite Maryland’s poor decision not to secede, I know there is many a true Southern man in that city. May I now inquire of your name, sir?”

“Timothy Webster.”

“And a devilish good name at that,” the old man said. “My friends call me Doc Burton.” He gestured to his companions. “Allow me to introduce you to Colonel Dalgetty and to Captain Stanley of the Arkansas Rifles.”

As if he suddenly remembered her, Timothy indicated Hattie. “And that’s my wife, Harriett Webster.”

Hattie raised her cup of sherry as Doc bowed toward her. Timothy turned back to the trio. “Gentlemen, I am pleased as pie to know that there is still hope for the fair state of Kentucky.” He raised his glass. “To the health of Kentucky!”

One of the other men echoed the gesture, saying “Death to the Yankees!” Webster met each man’s glass with what must have been forced enthusiasm, although Hattie couldn’t discern anything amiss from her vantage point. She raised her glass again in solidarity, but the men paid her no heed as they clinked their glasses together. “Down with the rebels,” she said to herself.

Timothy invited Doc and his companions to dine with him and Hattie. As they were digging into their afternoon meal, Hattie noticed a new man enter the room. She covered her gasp of recognition with a sip of her sherry. Now that she caught a closer glimpse of the man who had been following them, she realized that it was the same one who had arrested the Northern man in the hotel lobby the other night. Hattie’s eyes followed him as he went to the bar.

“That fellow is one of the safety committee,” Doc commented casually as he refilled his glass.

“Is he looking for someone in particular?” Hattie asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

“I reckon,” replied Doc. “He’s always looking for someone. And, thank goodness he is—he does a great deal of good for our cause. A Union man stands no chance around here if the safety committee spots him. They’ll hang ‘em just on suspicion.”

Hattie gave Doc a flirtatious smile. “Indeed, Mr. Burton, I believe in hanging every Union man that comes skulking around these parts. And without a trial.”

Timothy shot her an appreciative look from across the table, but Hattie could detect something else lying below the surface. Fear perhaps? Her heart was still racing and it seemed as clear as the crystal on their table that the man from the safety committee was following them.

“Doc.” Timothy leaned in. “Will you introduce us to that man? I’d love to show my appreciation.”

Doc gave a loud whistle. When the man at the bar looked over, Doc beckoned him to their table.

“Burton,” the man said in a gruff voice. “How goes it?”

“Not bad, not bad. I wanted to introduce you to my new friend. This here’s Timothy Webster and his wife—”

“Harriet,” Timothy supplied.

The man tipped his hat to Hattie and then Timothy. He looked to be in his late 30s. With his dark hair and eyes, he might have been attractive but for a large paunch above his belt. “How do you do, Mr. Webster?”

“I could be better, considering I’ve heard the Yanks are crawling all over Tennessee as we speak.”

“Is that so?” the man replied.

“Tim here’s originally from those parts,” Doc put in. “He’s just returned from Baltimore.”

Hattie watched the man’s face for any hint of recognition, but his expression was inscrutable. He met her eyes. “And where do you hail from, Mrs. Webster?”

“Kansas.”

“Ah.” Again the man gave no hint as to what he was thinking.

Doc laughed. “I know you too well, Wes. But I’m going to vouch for my new friends here. Just because they’re new in town doesn’t mean they’re Northerners.”

The man attempted a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No?”

“C’mon,” Doc replied. “Take a break from your duties and sit down with us. You’ll see you couldn’t be more wrong if you think these two are spies.”

The man did as he was bid, introducing himself as Captain McCubbin of the Confederate Military Police.

“Is there an active Union underground of information in Richmond?” Timothy asked.

“Yes,” McCubbin replied, helping himself to a bite of chicken with his fingers. “We are working to uncover them, but they seem to be highly organized and elusive.”

Timothy nodded. “Those blue devils usually are.”

McCubbin swallowed his meat before replying. “Indeed.” He stood up from his chair. “I must be going now. Duty calls.” He reached out to shake Timothy’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Webster.” He tipped his hat to Hattie. “Mrs. Webster.”

“G’night, Captain,” Hattie replied, discreetly wiping sweaty hands on her skirts as the man left the room.

Hattie soon excused herself as well. When she got back to the room and shut the door behind her, she took a deep breath. It had been a close call, but it seemed they had convinced McCubbin of their authenticity. For now, at least, Hattie told herself as she undressed.

Chapter 26

Mary Jane

February 1862

Jefferson Davis had initially been appointed president under a provincial government, but last November, he and his vice-president, Alexander Stephens, were elected for a term to last six years under the Constitution of the Confederate States of America.

Mr. Davis’s official inauguration speech was scheduled for February 22, George Washington’s birthday. The day dawned gray and thunderous, fitting weather for such an occasion, at least in Mary Jane’s opinion.

Mary Jane was not invited to attend the ceremony, but Mr. Garvin, as the Davises’ coachman, accompanied Mr. Davis and told Mary Jane afterward how the muddy streets were filled with people. “Businesses had been ordered to close and the trains ran overtime. It seemed all of the Confederacy had gathered at the Washington Monument in Capitol Square to witness their President be sworn in.” Mr. Garvin went on to tell her that Mrs. Davis had been dismayed by the arrangements he had made for her arrival. He’d ordered four more Davis servants to walk beside the carriage, two on each side, dressed in black suits and white gloves.

“As though it were a funeral?” Mary Jane asked.

Mr. Garvin grinned. “When Mrs. Davis demanded to know why they walked so slow, I replied, ‘That’s how we always does it for funerals and sich-like,’—as if I didn’t know the difference.”

“What did she do?”

“She told the men to go back to the house and change their clothes before resuming their normal tasks.”

“Was she angry?”

“Nah. I think Mr. Davis was amused, but it seemed to dampen Mrs. Davis’s spirits.”

“Did Mr. Davis say anything about slavery in his speech?”

The smile disappeared from Mr. Garvin’s face. “No. After he accused Lincoln of being barbarous for imprisoning what he called ‘peaceful citizens and gentlewomen’ for opinion’s sake, he then stated that the Confederacy has made no act to impair personal liberty or freedom of speech.”

“A lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Indeed. But the Southern crowd seemed pleased—their ending applause was louder than even the storm.” Mr. Garvin heaved a heavy sigh. “And now the Confederate Government is official.”

“But at least they suffered a great loss with Fort Donelson.”

“Yes.” A hopeful spark gleamed in Mr. Garvin’s eyes before it extinguished as abruptly as it had appeared. “I heard that the Confederates have been driven out of most of Tennessee.”

Mary Jane clasped her hands together. “Praise the Lord the same will happen to Richmond soon.”

Mr. Garvin nodded before bidding Mary Jane goodbye.

That evening, the Davises hosted a reception. The mansion’s front hall overflowed with well-wishers waiting for their chance to speak to President Davis. Mary Jane’s job was to escort them as quickly as possible into the west parlor, where they were introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Davis by the President’s staff. After Mr. Davis greeted them warmly and his guests expressed earnest wishes for the welfare of the Confederate States, they were then escorted through the central parlor back to the hall and out of the mansion. The Armory Band was stationed on the lawn and filled the air with the notes of Confederate pride songs such as Dixie and Maryland, My Maryland.

Chapter 27

Hattie

February 1862

Timothy soon became a fixed part of the Richmond Confederate Contingency. He wined and dined with important Confederate leaders in an effort to continue the guise of Rebel courier. He’d tour the surrounding camps with his secessionist friends, returning to the hotel late at night to fill out detailed reports regarding troop numbers and movements. He always informed Hattie of the information he’d gleaned.

“What about you, Hattie?” he asked as he was preparing to meet some of his Rebel friends, including Doc Burton, for drinks. “Have you been able to gather anything?”

“Not anything of use. These women will gossip about practically anything, such as getting new fabric from the blockade, the high prices of food, even the weather, anything but the war.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Is that so different from Chicago?”

“From the women I knew, for sure.”

“I know you were great friends with Miss Warne.” Hattie felt a tightness in her chest upon hearing Kate’s name. “Did you socialize much else?”

She sat on the bed. “Not really. I leased a room in a boarding house, but I didn’t really talk with the other boarders often.”

He settled into the desk chair. “Pinkerton hinted once that you had an intriguing back-story. I’ve come to realize that we know very little about each other.”

“What of your family?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I do know that you are a master at changing the subject. I have a wife, Charlotte, whom I’ve been married to for over twenty years, and two children: one son and one daughter. My son is almost 18 and wants to join the Union army, but Charlotte won’t think of it. She says it’s enough to fret over losing one man in the war.” He sighed. “But of course there are plenty of wives and mothers who are worried about multiple loved ones… on both sides.” He stood up, placing his customary hat on his head. “I’d better leave for another suffering dinner with those secessionists.” He shot her a grin. “Although I’d probably find your conversation much more entertaining. Maybe someday you’ll tell me about your background?”

“My story is not that interesting.”

“Oh, but I’m sure that it is. There must be some explanation for the sadness behind those brown eyes.”

Startled at his insight, Hattie cast those same brown eyes downward. “Mrs. Atwater invited me to dine with her and a few other wives tonight.” She’d managed to garner the friendship of Mrs. Atwater, the wife of Captain Atwater, who was also staying at the Monument, but, as she told Timothy, hadn’t been able to pick up any intelligence of worth from her or her associates.

That night proved to be no different. Hattie met up with Mrs. Atwater and her companion Mrs. Mary Chesnut, whose husband was an aide to Jefferson Davis, in the dining room.

As they were served dinner, Mrs. Chesnut told them that last week her husband had two of their slaves arrested for stealing whiskey, but when he’d then heard that they had spent the next few days lying on a cold prison floor without blankets or suitable covering, asked that they be released. She glanced about the room before leaning forward. “He then told the slaves to escape and even gave them money for shoes to run away with.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Atwater put a hand to her mouth. “What did you do?”

“I told him that he just aided in a felony, but he replied, ‘Woman, what do you know about law?’” Mrs. Chesnut gave a tinkling laugh and Mrs. Atwater joined in.

“Did you hear whether the slaves made it to freedom?” Hattie asked.

“No,” Mrs. Chesnut returned. “John hired two more to take their place, so I suppose all is well.”

Mrs. Atwater wiped her mouth with her napkin before replying, “I’m surprised more darkeys don’t try to escape, what with the Yanks so close and all.”

“You’d think, to hear all those abolitionists talk, all the Negroes in the South would be marching over the border. But we’ve barely lost any,” Mrs. Chesnut replied.

Hattie pushed her plate away as Mrs. Atwater harrumphed, “They expect from us Southerners a virtue they themselves never exhibited. The Northerners sold their slaves down river to pick more cotton for their mills.”

“And they expect their freed colored to work and behave as a white man would,” her friend added.

“But of course we know that will never happen.” Mrs. Atwater set her fork down. “Why, Mrs. Webster, is something wrong with your food? Your face has gone terribly white.”

“I think something at dinner did not sit quite well with me.” Make that multiple somethings. She removed her napkin from her lap and rose from the table. “I think I will retire to my room and hope that I feel better in the morning.” She walked off, part of her regretting that she would have no chance to glean anything of value from the wives. But the other part could not stand to listen to their hateful conversation anymore.

“Anything new to report?” Timothy asked when he returned to the room that night.

Hattie sat up in the bed, carefully pulling the sheet over her chemise. “Besides the prejudice these women exhibit to the very source of their livelihood? No.”

“I’m sorry.” Timothy sat down in the desk chair to remove his boots. “I can’t stand their talk any more than you. But the good news is that I’ve been given a pass to head south to Kentucky. I should be able to pick up a good amount of information on Confederate movements, as well as the state of the railroads down there.” He began undoing his tie. “Will you be okay here on your own?”

Hattie nodded.

Timothy retreated behind the wardrobe to change, as was their custom. He returned with the blankets and pillows he used to make his roost on the floor. “About your background—”

Hattie reached over to turn out the light.

Timothy’s voice had a hint of resignation. “G’night, Hattie.”

She lay back on the pillows. “My husband beat me.” As comfortable as she had gotten with Timothy, she felt better about talking with the light off, especially as she would not have to see the sympathy that was sure to form in Timothy’s kind eyes as she told the story of her marriage and how she came to be under Allan Pinkerton’s employ.

“I’m sorry, Hattie,” Timothy stated when she finished. “But I am grateful to your brother for rescuing you. There are many in this world who have no choice but to endure that kind of cruelty.”

“I know,” Hattie said softly.

As she tried to fall asleep that night, she couldn’t help but wonder about the fate of Mrs. Chesnut’s escaped slaves. She did agree with one thing those women had spoken about: she too was surprised that more slaves didn’t try to escape over the border.

Timothy left early for his journey the next day. Hattie went down to have breakfast in the lobby, where she noticed Mrs. Atwater was reading the Chicago Tribune.

“Why do you read such Northern trash?” Hattie asked her.

“Because I find it amusing to read the slander they report about us Rebs,” she told Hattie. She tapped a headline regarding possible Southern movements. “Besides, this here tells us that there are spies in our midst.”

“Spies?” Hattie asked, her heartbeat accelerating.

“Oh yes, there are spies everywhere, how else would they know what type of defenses exist in Richmond?” She leaned in conspiringly. “Do you recall Mrs. Morton’s story?”

Hattie shook her head.

“They were living in Washington City when the war started. Mrs. Morton was under suspicion of being a Southern sympathizer, can you imagine? They set that rat Pinkerton onto her.”

The mention of her boss jogged Hattie’s memory: Pinkerton had Scully and Lewis investigate the house. Although they didn’t find anything incriminating, the government exiled the entire family anyway. The Mortons evidently had relocated to Richmond.

“But enough discussion about the war.” Mrs. Atwater placed a gloved hand over Hattie’s. “I know that Mr. Webster will be out of town these nights. My husband and I are hosting a tea this evening and would love for you to attend.”

Hattie’s smile was authentic. For weeks she’d been attempting to infiltrate the ranks of Richmond society. So far the ladies had proved unfruitful, but perhaps there would be something to be gained from associating with the fine Southern gentlemen of the Confederate capital.

Hattie took great care in dressing for the tea, choosing her best petticoat and dress, a green and yellow striped calico print. After arriving at the Atwaters’, Hattie soon realized that having tea was really a euphemism for downing bourbon aperitifs. When Mrs. Atwater introduced Hattie to her husband, Hattie could tell from his lingering gaze that he would be easy enough to charm. She waited until he was on his second glass of bourbon before inquiring about his purpose in Richmond.

“I oversee the Tredegar Iron Works,” he replied. He took another swig of bourbon. “Of course, I’d rather be at the front, killing Yanks, but duty necessitates.”

Hattie knew that Tredegar was the largest iron manufacturer south of the Mason Dixon line and assumed that it supplied munitions to Confederate troops. “Oh, I’d love to see where our Rebel guns are made,” she said sweetly, adding an eye bat for effect.

He placed an arm across the fireplace, causing him to be closer to Hattie than polite society would approve of. “Of course, I’d be happy to escort you. Would tomorrow work for you, knowing your husband is away on business?”

“That would be delightful,” Hattie stated, taking a casual step back.

Atwater dropped his arm as his wife sauntered over. “Caroline, I’ve just invited Mrs. Webster on a tour of the iron works.”

Mrs. Atwater placed a hand over her bosom. “Why, Husband, I’ve been asking you to take me on a tour for weeks now.”

Hattie reached out to squeeze Mrs. Atwater’s hand. “I wouldn’t dream of going without you.”

Atwater cleared his throat. “It’s settled then. Tomorrow morning at nine, we will pick you up at the Monument and proceed to Tredegar together.”

Hattie straightened her shoulders. “Wonderful.”

But when Captain Atwater met her in the lobby of the hotel the next morning, he greeted her with sincere apologies that he had been summoned on another mission. “To see a test of an underwater boat, what they’ve been calling a submarine,” he added.

“Oh, I’m sure I would enjoy that very much,” Hattie replied.

Atwater’s eyes lit up. “Would you? Mrs. Atwater had no interest and insisted on staying home.”

Hattie clamped down her obvious enthusiasm at seeing the Confederate secret weapon. “Well, that is as long as there would be no danger.”

“None at all,” Atwater assured her. “And I’m sure there will be other ladies present at the waterside.”

Hattie seated herself in the carriage across from Atwater and one of his servants. Atwater asked Hattie several questions about her background, which she answered as best she could while the servant remained silent, his eyes cast downward.

When they arrived at the designated spot on the James River a few miles south of Richmond, Hattie noted the abundance of men in Confederate uniforms. As Atwater had predicted, there were quite a few well-dressed women milling about. A weather-beaten dinghy sat in the middle of the flowing river in front of them.

The crowd hushed as a man in civilian clothes stepped onto a platform. He introduced himself as William Cheeney, and began informing the crowd of what they would see. He gestured to a floatation device located near the shore and told them that the submarine was just below. The float had been painted a dark blue, “to match the surface of the water,” Cheeney explained. Hoses affixed to the device would supply air to men while they were in the submarine and also while they were submerged outside of the boat. According to Cheeney’s description, the submarine would be directed to approach an enemy ship. The navigators—a crew of only three—would then leave the vessel suited in full diving gear and attach explosives to the side of the target. At first, Hattie felt relief: the whole thing sounded far-fetched—like something out of a novel. Cheeney directed their attention to the barely discernible floating apparatus, which had now reached the dinghy in the middle. Cheeney explained that the divers were attaching underwater magazines containing gunpowder. Assignment completed, the crowd stared in bewildered silence as the float moved away from its mark.

Hattie was still watching the maneuverings of the floating device above the submarine when she heard a deafening sound. To the crowd’s delight and Hattie’s secret horror, the dinghy had exploded. Cinders of what had once been wood and cloth drifted toward the astonished onlookers on shore while the remains of the dinghy sank into the river.

After the roar of the crowd died down, Cheeney explained that the underwater vessel was a prototype. A larger submarine was nearing completion and would soon be targeting the federal gunboats that guarded the mouth of the James River. “The South will be able to move freely, trading cotton and tobacco with England, without the fear of Northern blockades.”

Hattie bit the inside of her lip as she realized the lethal implications these submarines could have on the Union. If they took out the blockade, the Confederacy could then turn their weapons of destruction up river to Washington City. She had to somehow pass this information up North, but how? Timothy had already left on his courier mission. She was so deep in thought that she did not notice the gray uniformed man shaking hands with Atwater. He lifted his chapeau off his head as Atwater introduced him. “Mrs. Webster, may I present Major Lawton.”

Hattie could not prevent her mouth from dropping open in recognition. The man, formerly known as Captain Lawton, the one who featured a prominent place in Hattie’s dreams, bestowed a dazzling smile. “Mrs. Webster?”

Hattie recovered herself as best she could and offered her hand. “Indeed.”

“Have you two met before?” Atwater asked.

Major Lawton’s hands were soft as he held Hattie’s hand to his lips for the briefest of seconds. “A long time ago. Would you be of relation to Timothy Webster, the Rebel dispatcher?”

Hattie tucked her now free hand into her skirts. “He is my husband.”

“Ah,” Lawton said. The two once staunch abolitionists stared at each other as the Southern sun dropped lower in the sky. Although nearly four years had passed since Hattie had last seen him, he looked as handsome as ever, as if he had just stepped out from her imagination. Hattie tried to read what was written behind Major Lawton’s brown eyes, but he remained inscrutable. Did he know she was a spy? If so, would he give her away? If not, did that mean he supported the Confederate cause?

Atwater, as oblivious to the undercurrents flowing beneath him as the ill-fated dinghy had been a few minutes ago, remarked about the staggering possibilities of Cheeney’s new submarine.

“Indeed, it presents a great threat to the Union,” Major Lawton replied in an ambiguous tone.

Atwater held out the crook of his arm. “I should be escorting Mrs. Webster back to the Monument now.”

Hattie curtsied toward Lawton before allowing Atwater to convey her back to the carriage.

“I look forward to speaking with you again, Mrs. Webster,” Lawton called. Hattie glanced back to see his expression, but he was facing the water.

When she returned to her room in the early evening, she had written page after page of notes and accompanied them with drawings, trying to recall everything Cheeney had spoken about. She concluded by suggesting the navy employ some sort of way to drag the water if the blue floating device was spotted. This would serve to destroy the tubes that supplied air to the men within the submarine.

Hattie met the Atwaters and a few other acquaintances that night for dinner. The talk, of course, centered on the submarine, but Hattie was hardly listening. Her thoughts floated from finding a way to inform Pinkerton about the plans to blow up the federal ships to Major Lawton and what he had been doing on Confederate soil.

They were finishing up the main course when a new man entered the dining room.

“Major Lawton!” Atwater called. “What a pleasure to see you twice in one day.”

He introduced him to his wife. “Major Lawton was at the viewing I was telling you about earlier.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Atwater replied, holding out her hand to Lawton. “The… what did you call it, dear?”

“Submarine.” Atwater supplied.

“Indeed I was,” Major Lawton sat down in the empty chair next to Hattie. “Mrs. Webster, it warms my heart to see you again.”

Hattie met his dark eyes once again, noting in the abundant candlelight that the lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper than she had once drawn. She resolved to fix her sketch when she returned to her room that night. She figured that once again Lawton would be a fleeting presence before he disappeared. Although she longed to explain her presence in Richmond, she knew that doing so would possibly put her, and Timothy as well, in danger. And what exactly was Lawton doing in the Confederate capital, anyway?

The talk at the table turned to war, as it always did once the men got a suitable amount of whiskey in them.

“They say the Feds are concentrating their efforts on Tennessee,” Lawton said. Despite the determined tone of his voice, Hattie had a hard time believing that his convictions could change so easily. She pushed her dessert around her plate with her fork, the fluttering in her stomach from being once again so near to Major Lawton meant that she was unable to eat another bite.

As if one unit, the men rose for their after-dinner cigars. Lawton grabbed for Hattie’s hand and placed something in it as he bid her farewell.

Hattie waited until she was back in her room before unfolding the slip of paper. “I need to speak with you,” Lawton had written. “Do you have a suitable disguise to meet with me? I’ll be on the street bench outside the sweet shop on Main.”

Hattie threw on the male clothing she’d worn to cross the Potomac. She put her ear to the door to make sure the hallway was silent before cautiously opening it and peering both ways. After she was sure the coast was clear, she made her way to the stairs.

If Lawton was surprised to see Hattie dressed in male attire, he didn’t show it as he patted the bench next to him. She sat enough distance away that they would not be touching, but could still converse in low voices. Despite their earlier relationship, she did not fully trust that he was not a Confederate, and she also did not necessarily trust herself in keeping her cool.

Lawton began by saying, “We have to get information to Washington City about what we saw today.”

“You are not with the Southern cause, then?”

Lawton held his hands out, palm up. “How could you believe that is so? Did I not risk my life and limb to help John Brown and your brother cross the country and rescue twelve slaves from a life of torture?”

“And myself.”

He relaxed his arms. “Yes. I do not forget the reason you ran.”

She nodded. The tone of his voice was even, holding no hint of emotion that she could pick up on.

“And I am familiar with your new husband’s underground activities as well,” he continued.

“If that’s the case, I suppose you also know he is not my husband.”

Lawton grinned, his teeth bright in the lamplight of the street. “I have met the real Mrs. Webster. Charlotte is a devoted wife, though perhaps not as pretty as you.”

Hattie chose to ignore the compliment. “I’ve made sketches of the submarine. I have contacts in Washington City.”

“Yes, we must get the plans to Pinkerton. He’ll be able to pass them on to General McClellan.”

“How did you—”

“I told you, I’m familiar with the Union Underground. I’m also aware that Timothy is currently away on a mission. In his absence, I must return through the lines tonight if we are going to get those papers into the right hands. Where are they now?”

“No.”

Lawton clearly did not expect this reply.

“Mrs. Webster. Carrie—”

Her given name sounded foreign to her. “It’s Hattie, now,” she corrected him. She’d changed it upon arriving in Chicago, lest her husband come looking for her.

“Hattie then. Do you not trust me?”

She gazed at him. He looked as sincere as ever, and she knew he was the same person that saved her from an abusive marriage all those years ago. But Hattie had also been treated cruelly by the most important men in her life: first her father and then her husband.

His expression was still inscrutable, but there was a tenderness in his voice as he spoke. “You know I was there when Aaron was shot.”

Hattie took a deep breath at the mention of her brother’s name. “No, I was not aware of that.”

“I was. I even attended the hanging. He died like a man.”

Hattie nodded, never having believed Aaron would act any other way when faced with death. “How did you escape?”

He shot her one of his easy-going grins. “I have my ways. But Hattie, if you think I would ever abandon the cause those men died for, that your brother died for, then you don’t know me at all.”

Hattie, thinking again of Aaron and his blind, if not foolhardy, devotion, blinked back tears.

“Hattie…” Lawton reached out a hand as if to touch her, but then thought better of it and dropped his arm by his side. “You must believe me.”

She finally consented. “All right, Major Lawton, you’ve convinced me.” She stood. “Now we need to figure a cover for two men, neither of whom are her husband, arriving at Mrs. Webster’s hotel room in the dead of night.”

“Hugh,” he said in a barely discernible tone, causing Hattie to lean in toward him. “Pardon?”

There was that grin again. “Now that I’ve officially earned your trust, you can call me Hugh.” He got up from the bench and laid a jocular arm around her shoulders. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” he declared loudly. He leaned heavily on Hattie, his lips next to her ear. “And that’s my real name,” he whispered.

Hugh kept up the ruse of being drunk as Hattie escorted him to the hotel. Luckily there was no one around. Once they’d arrived at her and Timothy’s room, Hattie handed over her intelligence on the submarine.

“These are fantastic,” Hugh said, looking over her sketches.

“It’s a living,” Hattie replied.

“You do a great service to your country, you know. I’m sure Pinkerton and McClellan will agree when I deliver these.” Hugh put his hand on the door.

“Thank you.”

He looked for a moment like he would much rather have stayed. “Hattie—”

She drew in a deep breath. “You’d better go now if you want to get through the lines before morning.”

He nodded. “I hope someday to meet you again. Perhaps not with you under the guise of Mrs. Webster, though. And perhaps not with you dressed in men’s clothing.”

For one brief moment, Hattie let go of her reserves. She walked over to Hugh and undid the tight chignon she’d worn under her kepi before embracing him. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his hand in her hair. After a moment entwined, he pulled away with a sigh. “Till we meet again,” he said and then closed the door behind him.

Hattie, blinking back tears, retrieved her sketch book and began a new drawing, this time incorporating the look of love that Hugh’s eyes held before he walked out of her life again.

Chapter 28

Belle

March 1862

Belle threw herself into the Front Royal social scene. She quickly recognized that the women there were not her biggest fans, though she continued to tell of her adventures despite their lack of enthusiasm. The midnight rendezvous with Colonel Ashby had increased her already overflowing confidence in her abilities as a spy. When she heard about a position for a courier in Winchester from her cousin James, Belle volunteered straightaway. She went into her aunt’s hotel to locate her latest pet, Lieutenant Hasbrouck, a tall, thin redhead.

“We are friends, aren’t we, Lieutenant?” Belle demanded when she caught sight of him.

“Why, of course, Miss Belle. Why do you ask?”

“Auntie has asked that I pay a visit to one of her friends in Winchester who has fallen ill.” Belle placed a pale hand on the man’s sleeve. “Will you accompany us through the lines?”

“Today?”

“I’m sure Colonel Shields will grant you permission if you tell him it is a favor to me.”

Lieutenant Hasbrouck agreed and went off to find his superior.

Lieutenant Hasbrouck had been assigned some business and disembarked from the carriage near the federal camp outside of Winchester before the carriage continued with Belle and Mauma Eliza to town.

Winchester was a contentious area and frequently vacillated between rebel and federal control; it had once changed hands thirteen times in one day! The town was currently under Union control, but Belle was pleased to see that the women of the town refused to bow to their authority. Despite being outlawed, they continued to wear secession cockades and “Jeff Davis” bonnets, gingham hats that had been supposedly designed by Varina Davis herself. The Union soldiers didn’t like them because the wide brim concealed most of the wearers’ faces from their would-be Yankee accusers. Belle even spotted one woman, after a Union officer passed her on the street without tipping his hat, spit on him. The Yankee went about his business, not noticing the wad of spittle that dripped down the back of his coat. He had to zigzag most awkwardly in order to avoid being targeted by women evacuating soiled chamber pots onto the street.

Belle was not sure who or what her mission was supposed to involve, but James had arranged for her, accompanied by Mauma Eliza, to meet her contact at the home of Mrs. Winslow, an old friend of Belle’s mother.

The woman, her daughters, and other neighbors of obvious secessionist sentiments were in the living room, repairing Confederate uniforms.

“Rumor has it that Stonewall Jackson is on his way toward Front Royal,” one of the ladies commented.

“Front Royal?” Belle asked. “I just left there.”

The woman nodded. “Lord knows we wouldn’t mind him returning here and freeing us from these Yanks.”

The other women murmured their agreement and Belle spent a pleasant enough evening sewing and chatting about the Southern cause. No other visitors came, and Belle went to bed wondering how she would complete her mission if she didn’t know exactly what it entailed.

The next morning, she rose early. The house was quiet and she was surprised to find Colonel William Denny standing in Mrs. Winslow’s kitchen. Colonel Denny was familiar with both Belle’s father and cousin and Belle had become casually acquainted with him.

He bowed. “Miss Boyd.”

“Colonel Denny,” Belle replied, a question in her voice.

He bent over to retrieve something from his pack. “I need you to take these letters to the Confederate army outside of Front Royal. This package,” he continued, passing a brown parcel to her, “is of great importance.”

Belle stacked the letters and the parcel in a picnic basket.

“Lastly,” Colonel Denny said, “it is imperative that this letter gets to Stonewall Jackson as quickly as possible. It needs to arrive carefully and safely to him or another high-ranking Confederate. Do you understand?”

Belle bowed her head. “I do and will obey your orders with great haste.”

Colonel Denny tipped his hat to her before exiting the house.

Before she and Mauma Eliza left, Belle took stock of the information Colonel Denny had passed her. She folded the most important one, the letter to Stonewall Jackson, into a tiny square, intending on keeping it in the palm of her hand. The large package seemed too conspicuous in her basket, so Belle gave it to Mauma Eliza to enfold it in her skirts, knowing that the Yanks would never search a darkey.

Belle was too preoccupied with arranging Colonel Denny’s missives to pay much notice to the servant who had entered the living room, ostensibly to dust, but who also watched the exchange between her and Mauma Eliza.

Belle’s next task was to arrange a way to return to Front Royal as she had gotten word that Lieutenant Hasbrouck had been detained on his business. She and Mauma Eliza went to the florist shop, where Belle purchased a fine bouquet to send to Winchester’s provost marshal, Colonel Fillebrown, whom she had heard was susceptible to flattery. She wrote a message asking if he might pause his grand duties to write out a pass for Belle to get through the lines. The pass came via Fillebrown’s aide-de-camp in less than an hour, accompanied by a note from the colonel himself thanking Belle for the sweet compliments.

Belle and Mauma Eliza secured a carriage and had made it as far as the picket lines outside of town when a repulsive-looking Yankee with greasy black hair and bad teeth stopped them. “We have orders to arrest you.”

Belle’s fingers tightened around the letter in her palm, but she forced herself to swallow back her fear. “On what reason?”

“We’ve heard that you have suspicious letters on your person.”

Belle blinked hard, suddenly recalling the servant in Mrs. Winslow’s living room that morning. The soldier leaned in and gave instructions for the coachman to travel to Colonel Beal’s headquarters.

“Miss Belle—” Mauma Eliza began in a panicked voice as the coachman turned his horses around.

“Shh, Mauma, let me think a bit.” Belle paused before opening the picnic basket, pulling out a rose she had intended on sending to Lieutenant Hasbrouck. She placed the handwritten card with the words “Kindness of Lieutenant H,” under the twine holding together the packet of letters before unfolding the creased letter to Stonewall Jackson.

When they arrived at headquarters, Colonel Beal immediately demanded to see the letters. Without hesitation, Belle reached into her basket and pulled out the packet that Denny had deemed of least importance.

Colonel Beal ripped open the card. “Kindness of Lieutenant H? What is the meaning of this?”

Belle fanned herself with the letter to Stonewall Jackson. “It is for Lieutenant Hasbrouck. It is of no consequence.”

Beal dug his fingers under the twine and pulled. Letters of various sizes and a few magazines spilled onto his desk. He picked up a copy of a rebellious news journal and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

Belle attempted a smile as she fanned herself more rigorously.

“What is that?” Beal demanded, pointing at her fan/ letter to Stonewall Jackson.

“This?” Belle asked. She held up the wrinkled missive, the address facing her. “It is nothing.” She waited for his reply, thinking fast. There was no way she was going to let Beal’s beady eyes note the intended recipient. She would have to rip it up and swallow it the way she’d heard Rose Greenhow once did.

But Beal’s gaze refocused back to the letters scattered on his desk. He picked up Belle’s hastily scrawled card and ordered one of his guards to fetch Lieutenant Hasbrouck.

“What of these traitors?” the remaining guard asked.

Beal threw up his palm. “Be gone with them. What harm could a young lady and her darkey do?”

And with that, Belle and Mauma Eliza left Colonel Beal’s office, Belle clutching her makeshift fan in her hand and the important package still buried within Mauma Eliza’s skirts.

Chapter 29

Loreta

March 1862

After the disaster at Fort Donelson, Loreta made her way to Memphis, Tennessee where she was pleased to encounter the dapper Captain De Caulp once again. He invited Harry to go with him and a few other officers to a local saloon. Loreta decided to use the opportunity to ferret information as to the captain’s romantic notions.

“Why, my intended resides right here in this fair city,” Captain De Caulp announced. “Would you like to meet her? I can arrange for her to be accompanied by a friend if you’d like.”

“A friend for that dandy? What purpose would that serve?” The remark had come from the man on the other side of De Caulp, who had been introduced as General Peters. Loreta knew of his reputation: he evidently had a greater fondness for whiskey than he did his own reputation, and consequently spent more time in the cups than at the front commanding his unit.

Loreta set her mug down on the table, attempting to match the general’s aggressive tone. “You would be surprised at how many girls appreciate a refined man.”

“Are you implying that I am not a refined man?” General Peters rose from his chair with some difficulty and loomed over Loreta.

Loreta had spent enough time amongst the male species to discern that most men with exalted family names who thought themselves great were usually not, and that patriotism was a very thin disguise for egotism. A man who is a true gentleman will continue to act gentlemanly even in the dispiriting midst of warfare, but one who merely claims to be a gentleman will soon reveal the scoundrel concealed within at the earliest sign of strife. Loreta could see that the soldier standing before her would be the latter type—a lackey to his superiors, a bully to those who served under him, a coward during battle, and a thief when given the opportunity.

Loreta did not wish to indulge in his drunken insults, but at the same time, she had no wish to get into a brawl with him. She’d quickly learned at camp, where petty jealousies were even more pronounced than they had been at her all girls’ boarding school, that a bully delighted in antagonizing one he didn’t think would fight back.

Loreta replied, “See here, sir, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, so if you would please go away and let me be. Otherwise I will make it worse for you.”

The general’s eyes narrowed with inebriated passion. “What d’ya mean ‘worse’ for me? I can lick you and a dozen more like you.” He began swinging his arms wildly. Loreta instinctively backed away as Captain De Caulp stepped in. “I think Harry and I will adjourn for dinner.” He grabbed his jacket off the stool. “You men have a good night.” He put a comforting arm around Loreta and guided her out of the saloon.

The simple, nonchalant contact from the captain had a not-so-simple effect on Loreta’s insides. She thought back to her contention that she’d met every kind of gentleman. Scratch that—she never before had met the likes of Captain De Caulp.

After a pleasant supper at a nearby restaurant and the resultant cigars—or cigarette in Harry’s case—Captain De Caulp grew impatient and begged Loreta to meet his intended. Not being able to think of a valid excuse, Loreta finally agreed and the two set off down the boulevard.

When they arrived, a servant greeted them and showed them into the parlor. Loreta took a tentative seat, folding one leg over the other perpendicularly, the way she’d observe other men do at such an occasion.

Two young ladies soon entered. As De Caulp seemed more enthusiastic in his greeting to the petite, towheaded Miss Margaret Miller, Loreta tried to converse with Miss Emmeline Carter, a brunette with large, fawn-colored eyes. Miss Carter soon proved herself very reticent and bashful and, as Loreta herself was far from ease, conversation proved incredibly cumbersome. Soon Miss Carter left the room and returned with a darkey bearing a tray of apples. Loreta was grateful for the distraction, for De Caulp and Miss Miller, who hitherto had been in the corner, deep in conversation, came over to enjoy the apples.

“Let’s see who can eat their apple the fastest!” Miss Carter commanded.

They each began to chew the fruit down to the core. De Caulp was the winner, Loreta noted, wiping juice off her chin with the back of her hand.

“Now we can read our fortunes.” Miss Miller twisted her core in half and then counted the seeds within. “I got five.”

“Oh, that means a marriage is in the works for you, Maggie!” Miss Carter announced.

That’s the most I’ve heard her speak all night, Loreta thought.

De Caulp gave Miss Miller an earnest look, which, Loreta noted, she deliberately ignored, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

De Caulp had three seeds in his apple, which Miss Carter said foretold bad luck. Loreta shifted her eyes to see Miss Miller’s reaction. Instead of looking sympathetically at De Caulp, Miss Miller met Loreta’s gaze squarely. “How many seeds did you have, Lieutenant Buford?” she asked.

“Four.”

She put her hand on Loreta’s arm. “That implies a great surprise is in your future.”

Her forwardness surprised Loreta, but she was quickly seized with an idea and assumed Harry’s best smile before giving Miss Miller a wink.

De Caulp cleared his throat. “Margaret, do you mind if I talk to you?”

Miss Miller gave Loreta’s shoulder a squeeze before dropping her hand. De Caulp attempted to seize it, but she folded her arms in front of her as she followed him into the corner.

“What do you suppose they are talking about?” Loreta asked Miss Carter, crossing her fingers out of sight. Miss Miller certainly did not seem to care as much for De Caulp as he did for her.

Miss Carter, clearly resorting back to her shy ways in the absence of the apple seeds, shrugged.

Loreta sat down, watching the couple in the corner. Miss Miller still had her arms crossed, her head and neck held in a stiff posture. Loreta could hear a pleading tone in De Caulp’s voice but she couldn’t discern what he was saying. His voice rose in protest as he threw out his hands. Miss Miller shook her head.

De Caulp appeared beside Loreta, his voice resigned. “Are you ready to leave, Lieutenant Buford?”

Loreta jumped from the couch. Miss Miller and Miss Carter escorted the two to the door. When Miss Miller bid them farewell, she grasped Loreta’s hand with more strength than their brief interaction had justified and bid her to call again as De Caulp’s frown deepened.

Loreta’s assumption that her ploy had worked was confirmed when she asked De Caulp what was wrong.

“We had a falling out,” he said, a fervent tone in his voice. “She stated she ‘did not, could not, and would not, love me.’” He stopped in the street and faced Loreta. “Do you suppose some other fellow is cutting me out?”

Mainly me, Loreta thought, but she threw an arm about his shoulders. “Don’t spend too much time thinking about one girl, Captain,” she replied. “I’m sure there are plenty of other belles that would fall at your feet.”

“Thanks. And, seeing as we’re friends, you can call me Tom.”

“And I’m Harry.”

Tom nodded. “Ain’t women damned deceitful things?” he continued. “A fellow has to give a girl so much attention, buying her all kinds of little presents. It takes a sight of trouble and women are so fickle a species that it is almost impossible.”

Loreta sighed loudly as a sign of solidarity, but inwardly she was thinking that she would like some male attention and little gifts, especially if they were from Tom. “We ought not to complain about women being what they are. After all, our mothers were women.”

Tom shot a grin her way. “True, true. A good woman is better than the best of us men. I suppose we’ll have to put up with it.”

They’d reached the hotel, and Loreta gave Tom a playful swat. “I wouldn’t give up on all women, just Miss Miller.”

He nodded. “G’night, Harry.”

“Night, Tom.”

As Loreta was making her way back to her room, inspiration again overcame her. Grabbing a quill and a sheet of paper, she wrote Tom a letter from the widow Loreta, stating that she was in the area and remembered the kindness he extended when William died. I’m all alone in a strange city and was hoping to meet up with a friend. Do you suppose we could have dinner? She named a different hotel and suggested that he come by to visit the next day. She sent Bob down to the front desk to have the letter delivered to Tom’s room, making the slave promise not to say who it was from.

Loreta rented another room at the Gayoso Hotel and spent the day purchasing a dress, parasol, and all the trimmings of a well-dressed woman, including the biggest bonnet she could find in order to hide her short hair. The clothing felt foreign and greatly constricting. Loreta summoned a Negro female with hot water so she could bathe and remove her mustache glue. She then used powder to lighten her swarthy complexion. When she was done, the darkey helped her get dressed. “I’ve forgotten how hard it is to breathe in these things,” she gasped as the negress tied her corset.

“Yes’m,” replied the darkey.

“Can you also curl hair?” Loreta asked, patting her short coif.

“Yes’m.”

“It’s desperately important I look my best tonight. I’m about to meet my future husband.”

The darkey said nothing as she got to work, coiling the front of Loreta’s hair with tongs heated over an oil lamp. Loreta gazed in the looking glass, shocked to see a woman staring back. “I’m beautiful again,” she said aloud.

“Yes’m.”

Loreta, who had forgotten the darkey was still there, dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

Tom seemed as equally pleased with Loreta’s appearance when she entered the dining room that night. As he kissed her hand, he stated, “William always talked about his gorgeous wife, but I had no idea his exalted words would be so inadequate.”

Loreta blinked several times, as if to hold back tears. “Oh, my poor William. I’ve been so lonesome and afraid since his death.”

Tom extended a handkerchief to her. “I’m sorry to hear that. I trust his inheritance finds you able to survive?”

Loreta delicately wiped at each eye. “I have enough to get by. My father also put me back in his will after hearing of William’s death, although Lord knows what will happen to his investments now that I’m the only heir.” She carefully sat in the chair Tom held out for her, unaccustomed to the weight of her skirts. “God rest both of their souls. And tell me about you, Captain De Caulp.” She was careful to not call him by his first name. “What have you been doing since last I’ve heard from you?”

He took a seat across from her and began to explain what company he was in and that he was in the area because they were expecting the Federals to make a move.

“The Yankees?” Loreta put a hand over her décolletage, noting that Tom’s eyes followed her movement. “I shall fear for my life.”

“Never. I would never let those blue devils harm a woman.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Loreta put a flattering hand on his arm, searching for a way to change the subject. “Do you have a girl you will write to while you are at the front?”

“I did, but I’m afraid she is unworthy of my love.”

“Oh, how could she?” Loreta dusted off long forgotten powers of coquetry, channeling the masterful Miss Boyd. “I would consider it a most desirable position if I were to be your pen pal.”

Tom’s face brightened. “Would you now? I would be delighted to have a beautiful woman such as yourself to write to. Have you a daguerreotype I could carry around to remind myself of your face?”

Loreta nodded, digging through her reticule to retrieve one. “I’m sorry it’s rather dated—I haven’t found the time to sit for a new one.”

Tom accepted the proffered picture with an eager hand. “Thank you. I could send one of me to your room if you’d like. The talk is that the Union army is planning to attack Corinth, Mississippi, and I will most likely need to leave for the front soon.”

Loreta didn’t tell him that she would have no need for his picture as she intended to fight the Yanks by his side, but she replied, “I shall have a hard time forgetting your face, but please do send one to me.”

Loreta never received the picture as the next day Harry and Tom, accompanied by Bob, set off for the field. Heavy spring rains had deteriorated the roads and their progress was slow.

Loreta’s heart was glad to be near Tom again, and she wished she could reveal herself to him, knowing that to do so would mean giving up her chances at glory. She realized, however, she could get Tom’s true opinion of Loreta. “What did you get up to last night?”

“I met up with an old friend’s wife.”

“Oh?” Loreta put a hint of impropriety in her voice.

Tom glanced at her. “It’s not like that. Her husband died, leaving her a widow. And, from what she says, a hefty amount of inheritance.” He looked wistfully toward the horizon. “I intend to marry her as soon as I am able.”

“You love her?”

“Indeed.”

That was enough confirmation for Loreta and she decided to drop the subject, thinking the more he spoke about her, the more tempted she would be to drop the charade of Harry Buford. They had to halt in a small village called Monterey located halfway between Corinth and their destination: a little meeting house just outside the federal picket lines called Shiloh Church.

Chapter 30

Hattie

April 1862

Timothy returned a few days later. He’d first gone to Fredericksburg to deliver the Confederate messages, making detailed reports on the troops assembled there before crossing the Potomac at Monroe Creek to drop off said information to Pinkerton in Washington City.

“The Confederate troops are in rather dire straits, with sickness and low morale,” he told her. “They’ve passed a conscription law, meaning that Southern men are being drafted. I’ve heard people in Virginia speculate that—with their men gone off the plantation—the slaves are going to rise up in rebellion.”

Hattie sat up in bed, thinking again of Aaron and Major Lawton. “John Brown would finally be avenged.”

“But of course they won’t. I’m surprised more slaves don’t leave, what with the Union army only miles away. I wish they would.”

She gave him a wistful smile. “Someday they will all be free.”

He opened his carpetbag and began to unpack. “Anything of note happen here while I was gone?”

Hattie was pleased to tell him that, for once, she had made her own progress. She filled him in on the submarine demonstration and about Major Lawton leaving to deliver the information to Washington.

Timothy nodded. “I had heard that Lawton was in town. But how did he know to contact you?”

“He’s an old friend of my brother’s.”

“Ah,” Timothy said slowly. “I didn’t make the connection to John Brown before.” He nodded to himself. “Lawton’s a trustworthy man. He’ll be able to get that intelligence to Pinkerton and McClellan. What they do with it from there is not our job, I guess.” Webster’s tone carried an uncharacteristic bitter note to it.

“What’s wrong?”

Timothy sat heavily in a chair. “President Lincoln and General McClellan are at odds with each other. McClellan may be the head of the Army of the Potomac, but politically he is a democrat and, while I wouldn’t say he is pro-slavery, he is not exactly against it.”

Hattie gasped. “How could that be?”

Timothy’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t know. McClellan wants more and more power, but Lincoln, probably rightfully so, refuses to give it to him. And Pinkerton, for reasons still unknown to me, refuses to see the general for what he is.” Timothy paused to take a long sip of water. “McClellan is excusing his lack of offense on the fact that the Union army is outnumbered, but I can’t see how he could possibly think that. In my last report, I put the Confederate forces at around 60,000, yet McClellan claimed they were 200,000, a gross exaggeration.”

“Why are the numbers so off?”

“Either the Boss is amplifying the intelligence we give him, or McClellan is lying.”

Hattie lay back and stared at the ceiling. “Neither way helps our cause.”

“No.” Timothy took a long breath. To Hattie, it was not quite a sigh, more of an attempt to get more air in his lungs. “Despite their radically different views, it seems the Boss will back McClellan right into a Southern victory.”

Hattie watched as he took yet another long sip of water. “Timothy, are you feeling all right?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m just tired from the trip is all. A long night’s rest will set me right.”

“You should take the bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

He set the glass of water on the table and retrieved the quilt he used from the closet. “I would never. You take it. G’night, Hattie.”

“Good night, Timothy.”

Hattie woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of labored breathing. “Timothy?” she called out in the darkness.

“Hattie,” he gasped. “Can you possibly get me a glass of water?”

She retrieved the glass as well as a washcloth, wetting both of them in the hallway sink. When she returned, she knelt beside her partner. “Timothy, you’re burning up!”

“It’s my rheumatism,” he gasped out. “It started after I helped those women cross the river last winter. I guess it’s come back to haunt me.”

Hattie insisted that Timothy move to the bed and he was too weak to argue. She spent the night in his nest on the floor, snatching sleep in between refilling his water glass and re-wetting the washcloth before placing it back on his forehead.

Timothy stayed in bed all the next day while Hattie fetched the doctor, who confirmed what Timothy had told her. “Inflammatory rheumatism. His joints have swelled to the point where it is difficult for him to walk.”

She glanced at the sleeping patient. “Will he get better soon?”

“It is difficult to say.” The doctor picked up his bag. “The symptoms come and go on their own, but it is something that will most likely occur off and on for the rest of his life. The best you can do is keep him hydrated and make sure he gets plenty of sleep.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She escorted him to the door and then grabbed the water glass by Timothy’s bedside. As Hattie left the room, she nearly walked straight into a man standing in the hallway. “Oh, sir, I’m sorry.”

“Mrs. Webster, it is entirely my fault.” He extended his hand. “We’ve met before, albeit briefly. I am Captain McCubbin. I will be your neighbor now.”

“Of course,” Hattie said. He was the same man that followed them around Richmond their first morning. She placed a clammy hand into his.

“Is everything all right?” McCubbin asked as he released his grip. “You seem to be in quite a worry.”

“It’s no matter, really.” She held up the water glass. “I was just going to get a drink for my husband.”

He tipped his hat to her. “I will leave you to it. G’day, ma’am.”

She watched him walk into his room before she retrieved the water.

Timothy woke up when Hattie shut the door behind her. Predictably, he was none too pleased when Hattie told him that a member of the Confederate military police had taken the room next door.

“What do you think that means?” Hattie asked.

Timothy grimaced. “It’s probably a bad sign. Perhaps you should return to Washington City and get help.”

Hattie shook her head vehemently. “I can’t leave you here. We will wait for you to get better and then we will go together.” Her mind drifted to Hugh Lawton. If he were here, he would know what to do, but Hattie hadn’t heard from him since he left Richmond and even Timothy didn’t know how to contact him.

Timothy took a deep breath. “Hattie, just so you know, Pinkerton was afraid this would happen. That’s why he had you come on this mission—to be my nursemaid.”

Hattie picked at a thread on her skirt. “It’s just the same. I’m here now.”

Timothy took her hand in his. His grip was weak, his hand cold. “You are better than that. Pinkerton will see that once he receives the information about the Confederate submarine.” It was obviously painful for him to talk, and Hattie admonished him to get some rest.

“No,” he sighed. “You should be out in the field, not in here taking care of me.”

“You will be on the mend soon,” Hattie promised. “And then we can both leave here and be back on Northern soil.”

Resigned, Timothy lay back. “Just a little longer,” he said before he fell into an unsettled sleep.

But even after two weeks of Hattie’s constant care, Timothy’s health had not improved enough for them to travel. One afternoon, after she’d fallen asleep in a chair with Timothy breathing laboriously beside her, she was awakened by a knock at the door. She opened it to find fellow Pinkerton operatives Pryce Lewis and John Scully. She gestured them inside and then shut the door as quietly as possible.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed with a glance at Timothy’s sleeping form.

“The Old Man sent us here. We haven’t heard any dispatches for weeks.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Hattie said. She moved toward the bed to reposition Timothy’s sheet.

“Ah,” Scully began to laugh. “Are we too busy playing love games to serve our country?” he asked, a condescending tone discernible beneath his Irish accent.

“Hush up,” Hattie commanded. “It’s not what you think.”

“Wha—?” Timothy awoke with a start, sitting up straight in bed. His eyes briefly focused on his colleagues before his gaze grew feverish again. He managed to say, “Pryce? John?” before he fell back onto the pillow.

“Tim,” Pryce began as Hattie soaked the washcloth in a nearby bowl.

“Now do you see why we haven’t been able to communicate?” she demanded. “He is very ill.” She placed the cloth on his forehead before turning to the operatives. “You shouldn’t be here. You are endangering our cover.”

Scully stepped forward, a scowl on his face, but Pryce held up his hand. “The Old Man wanted us to give you this letter.” He handed it to Hattie.

“We’ll take our leave now,” Pryce said with a nod at Hattie.

Just then there was another knock at the door. She glared at her comrades, intending to communicate just how much trouble they’d caused, but they avoided her eyes.

Hattie dropped the letter in a desk drawer before she went to answer the door. “Captain McCubbin,” she exclaimed, a bit louder than necessary. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to check on Mr. Webster’s health.” His observant eyes landed on Pryce and Scully. “Hello, who’s this?”

“Pryce Lewis.” He moved forward to shake McCubbin’s hand as Hattie wondered if it was a good idea to use his own name.

John Scully did the same, stating that they were businessmen on their way to Chattanooga to discuss a cotton contract.

“They are old friends of mine from Baltimore,” Webster added in a weak voice.

“Ah,” McCubbin said, obviously catching Webster’s implication. “In that case, have you gentlemen reported to General Winder?” he asked as Hattie bit down a rush of nerves.

“No, sir,” Pryce replied. “Our permission to travel was granted by Major Beale. We didn’t think it was necessary to report to the provost marshal.”

“Of course it is necessary to report to Winder,” McCubbin stated, spittle flying out of his mouth. “All persons crossing the Potomac must report. I’m giving you official notice.”

“Sure thing, sir.” Pryce nodded at Scully and the two men exited.

They returned less than an hour later. McCubbin had thankfully left after Hattie reassured him Timothy was recovering from a minor illness.

“No problem,” Lewis stated after Hattie had let them back into the room. “Winder told me he was glad to meet any friends of Captain Webster’s.”

“You need to leave Richmond as soon as possible,” Timothy managed to gasp out.

“Boss,” Scully replied. “Lewis just said—” he paused and fell silent as a hard knock on the door reverberated through the room.

Hattie went to the door to find that McCubbin was back. This time he was accompanied by a young man in a Rebel officer’s uniform.

“Sirs?” Hattie inquired.

McCubbin removed his hat. “Mrs. Webster, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Chase Morton.”

Hattie curtsied before inviting them in. “Captain McCubbin has returned, Timothy,” she said.

She couldn’t help notice that Scully was avoiding the rebels’ eyes. He stepped toward the door and put his hand on the knob, as if he couldn’t wait to leave the room. “I must take my leave of you now, Mr. and Mrs. Webster. I can see you have company.” He fled down the hallway, leaving the door open behind him.

The room fell into a shocked silence until finally Pryce spoke. “I apologize for my companion’s rudeness.” He retrieved Scully’s coat, which, in his haste, he had left draped over a chair. “I shall go find him and admonish him for his behavior.”

“No need for admonishment,” the man named Morton stated. “It is clear from your friend’s reaction that he recognized me.” Morton nodded at McCubbin, who left the room. “And that you recognize me as well,” Morton turned his gaze to Pryce.

Hattie’s eyes met Timothy’s as she handed him a glass of water. She could tell they both were wondering the same thing: who was this Morton and what was his relationship to Lewis and Scully?

“I do not recall ever having seen you before today,” Pryce replied. After months of working with the nearly inscrutable Pryce, Hattie could just detect the waver in his voice.

“You don’t recall raiding my family’s house in Washington and searching through my mother and sister’s things?”

Hattie kept her outward expression neutral, but inside she was fuming. Of course—Morton was the son of Mrs. Morton, the suspected spy that Scully and Lewis had banned from Washington City! Morton would not have forgotten the faces of the operatives who had accused his mother of being a spy and who had searched through his family’s possessions, looking for evidence.

McCubbin burst back into the room, a downtrodden Scully at his side. Another man in a general’s uniform smelling of whiskey entered the room. Provost Marshal Winder, Hattie supposed.

“Ah, Mr. Lewis,” Winder moved forward as if to shake his hand. “How goes Mr. Pinkerton?”

Hattie’s gaze once again connected with Timothy. His was pained with more than fever. They were clearly in agreement that their cover had been blown by Pryce Lewis and John Scully. The rebels escorted the two men out of the room as Hattie and Timothy sat in shocked silence, not daring to say anything in case someone was listening.

McCubbin returned to their room the next morning. He barely murmured a word of greeting to Hattie before he pulled a chair beside Timothy. “Strange events that occurred last night, wouldn’t you say, Webster?”

“Strange?” Timothy paused to cough. “I don’t quite get your meaning.”

“Those men, are they friends of yours?”

“I would say more acquaintances,” Timothy corrected.

“Spies are more like it. Can you believe it?” McCubbin’s gaze was locked on Timothy’s, waiting for any sign of betrayal. But Timothy, even in his poor health, gave no sign of recognition. “They were here to deliver a letter. Did they give it to you?”

Timothy’s gaze focused on Hattie. “Wife, do you know where that note was?”

She got up to retrieve it, trusting that Timothy knew what he was doing. Hattie handed it over to the detective, who pocketed it and then, after a terse goodbye, strolled from the room.

After he left, Timothy fell back onto his pillow, his reserve spent. “Hattie,” he gasped, “You must leave as soon as possible.”

“I will not.”

His breathing grew even more difficult. “We are in grave danger. You need to leave Richmond before the axe falls.”

“I can’t.” She placed her hand over his waxy, cool one. “We must remain here and hope for a favorable outcome.”

Scully and Lewis were put on trial for sedition against the Confederate government. Webster was summoned as a witness and gave testimony from his bedside, stating that both men had been friends of the Southern cause and were not Union spies. But they were found guilty, anyway. Hattie read aloud a newspaper with the headline “Yankee Spies to be Hanged” to Timothy. The article contained both facts and fiction about their apprehension, stating that “the proof of their connection with the secret service of the enemy is most positive.” Because they were both British subjects, they were appealing to their government, banking on the Confederacy’s determination to gain favor with England to stay their execution. But, as the article claimed, “this will avail them little.”

“Now will you leave?” Webster asked when she finished reading.

Hattie was about to refuse again as their door burst open. She rose from her vigil at Webster’s side. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am Philip Cashmeyer,” the man replied. He shook out a paper. “Under the orders of General Winder, you are both under arrest. I am to convey you to Castle Godwin.”

The silence in the room was deafening. Hattie refused to give into her instinct to cry out her denial. Instead, she said in a voice as calm as she could manage, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. But to take Mr. Webster now would be the death of him. As you can see, he is in no condition to travel.”

“I’m sorry as well.” Cashmeyer’s gaze dropped to the floor. His obviously apologetic manner revealed that he was one of the rebels whom Timothy had cultivated a friendship with. “My orders were to retrieve him, dead or alive.” He whistled and two Confederate officers immediately appeared in the doorway, their bayonets directed at the inhabitants of the room.

“My wife is innocent of all charges. You cannot mean to condemn her to my fate,” Timothy declared in a halting voice.

“Nonsense, Husband,” Hattie moved toward him. “I intend to accompany you.”

Cashmeyer nodded. “My orders are for both of you.”

“What are the charges?” Timothy demanded.

“I’m afraid I am not privy to that information,” Cashmeyer replied, opening the door. Hattie bent forward to help Timothy to his feet as Cashmeyer and the soldiers watched.

Chapter 31

Loreta

April 1862

General Sidney Johnston ordered his Confederate army of Mississippi to attack the Union army of the Tennessee stationed at Pittsburg Landing on April 6th. The Yankees were not expecting them. As the Rebel army rushed out of the woods into their encampment, men half-dressed in blue uniforms sleepily reached for nearby rifles. In only a few minutes the Confederates took possession of the camp and Loreta sat down to consume a still-hot breakfast that a Federal officer had been forced to abandon.

She had just finished eating when Tom De Caulp came upon her. “Well, Harry, now that you have been fortified with a healthy breakfast, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

Loreta could feel her face grow hot and put the bowl down. “Sir, I am anxious to do my share in battle, and request to be placed where there is ample chance of combat.”

Tom nodded. “There’s still plenty of fighting to be done and we will wait to see what action we can bring about.”

In short time, the command was given for them to advance and Loreta experienced an unfamiliar anxiousness. She had never worried about her own fate in battle before, but for the first time, she fretted for the safety of another. She forced herself to bury her feelings of uneasiness so that she could fight with even more vigor than ever. Though Tom couldn’t have known the man beside him was the same woman he’d pledged to write to, Loreta was determined to win his praise.

The Confederates rushed through the lines with unfaltering perseverance. To Loreta, it seemed they cut the Federals down as methodically as a mowing machine sheared grass. Before long, much of the enemy lay on the ground in every position imaginable. The wounded who could still speak begged the assiduous rebels for help, to no avail. Loreta glanced down as she passed over a deceased Yankee, his eyes wide open, staring at eternity.

Upon spying a crowd of Confederates gathered around a fallen man in an officer’s uniform, Tom shouted at one of the men standing helplessly, “Who lies there?”

“General Johnston,” the soldier replied.

“Is he dead?”

The man merely shook his head and waved at them to continue on.

In the late afternoon, a rider came up to Tom shouting “Halt! We have orders to halt!”

“Halt?” he repeated. “Who gave this order?”

“General Beauregard, sir.”

“Where is he stationed?”

“Shiloh Church.”

Tom scratched at his beard. “Is the general aware that the Yanks have been pushed all the way back to the landing? One more blow and this will be another victory for the rebels.”

The man turned his horse and called, “These are the orders, sir,” before riding off.

Tom shot a bewildered look at Loreta, who shrugged.

They retreated back through the Union camps, which were nearly abandoned. After Tom’s men took prisoner the few Yankees they found lingering, the men in his unit began rummaging through the cache left behind, confiscating boots, clean shirts, and even Federal dollars, which were plentiful in the tents.

Loreta sat by the campfire to eat her second ample meal of the day.

“You Rebs don’t know what you have in for you.” Loreta looked up to see that the voice had come from an exceedingly dirty Yank in an equally soiled uniform. He sat nearby on the ground with his arms tied behind him.

“Is that so?” Loreta spoke with a mouthful of gruel. “What say you?”

“I say nothing to slaveholding coots.”

A plan popped into Loreta’s head. She set her bowl down. “If you must know, I own no slaves. They forced me into the army. The first opportunity I have to desert, I will.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Or if they take me prisoner, I’ll be glad to pledge an oath to Union.”

The Yank smiled an oily grin. “You might have such an opportunity sooner than you think.”

Loreta picked up a loaf of bread and walked closer to the man. “How so?” She broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into the man’s mouth before tipping her canteen toward him.

Water and crumbs dripped from the man’s mouth as he told her that the Feds were expecting General Buell to arrive that night with reinforcements.

Loreta did not bother to reply. She dropped the bread beside the soldier and immediately went into Tom’s tent. “Sir, I have information from one of the prisoners that the blue devils are expecting more men to arrive this evening.”

Tom sighed. “I knew it was a mistake not to press forward.”

“Sir, with your permission, I’d like to get closer to the Union lines to try to get an idea of their movements.”

“Harry, while I commend your fortitude, that’s an exceedingly dangerous proposition. The colonel would never agree to it.”

“The colonel does not have to know.”

Tom finally consented, knowing that if the rumor was true, the Confederates would possibly lose their advantage.

Loreta approached the riverbank by keeping close to the ground and frequently pausing when she heard a noise, at times crawling under bushes to avoid being seen. As Tom had predicted, the Feds crowded at the landing above had no means of crossing the river, and, had the Rebs pursued them, could have pushed their advantage and caused a repeat of Ball’s Bluff. It angered her that General Beauregard had allowed the opportunity to inflict another crushing defeat upon the enemy slip by.

Loreta watched in disgust as a steamboat arrived with fresh bluebacks. She crept on her elbows and knees to get a better view as yet another boat appeared and more enemy troops unloaded. She was close enough to smell the steam and hear the bells directing the troops to disembark. She was about to report back when she saw a smaller boat pass by. This one only had two officers in it. She shielded her eyes against the moonlight to get a better view, recognizing one of the men from his picture in the newspaper articles on Fort Donelson. She could hear the pitch of their voices, but the splashing of the oars and the chirping of the crickets beside her made it difficult to discern what they were saying. Loreta grabbed her pistol and took aim. General Ulysses S. Grant had been declared the hero of Fort Donelson, and half of her wished that he not be declared a hero ever again.

But the other half of her would not let her pull the trigger. It was too much like murder. She watched as the boat floated out of range. When the general boarded one of the gunboats, Loreta rose from her position, her knees aching, her shoulders lowered in defeat.

Tom was predictably disappointed to hear about Loreta seeing the Yanks’ reinforcements arrive, but he convinced her that she could not go to headquarters with her report, assuring her that General Beauregard would be well aware of their arrival. “You should get some rest now, Harry. Something tells me tomorrow will be a difficult day of fighting.”

Loreta left, her reluctance doubled—not only was she upset that she couldn’t tell the general what she saw, but also because she would have given anything to be able to linger in Tom’s tent. But she knew that Tom was right: she risked being arrested if any high-ranking officer knew that she’d been behind enemy lines without the general’s permission. Not to mention that would put Tom in danger for having given his friend Harry consent to do so.

Loreta tossed about all night. Her agitation was soon replaced by regret that she couldn’t bring herself to shoot General Grant.

Loreta rose at dawn to the ominous sound of Federal gunboats firing. The Union army, which had been nearly annihilated just the day prior and who should have retreated in defeat according to the rules of war, managed to recover its lost ground and assume the offensive. By two o’clock, Loreta knew the day had been lost.

“It is useless now,” she confessed to Tom as they withdrew into the woods. “We should have pursued them yesterday.”

“It is not up to us, we were following the general’s orders.”

“Indeed. Soldiers may lose their lives, but generals lose the war.” Loreta had not sooner gotten the sentence out when a Minié ball hit the ground beside Tom. Time seemed to slow as she watched her beau’s body rise into the air and then land nearby with a sickening thud.

“Tom!” she screamed with a woman’s voice, rushing to his side. He was still breathing, but barely. “Tom, Tom, Tom,” she repeated as she checked for bullet wounds.

His eyes stared up at the sky. “Harry, you’ve got to get out of here.”

“Not without you.” She attempted to lift him to his feet, but he was considerably heavier than her.

“My leg is broken,” he gasped. “I can’t walk.”

Loreta looked back to see bluebacks advancing on them.

Tom turned his face to the side. “Harry, you’ve got to go.”

“Drop him and run!” another Confederate called. “The Yanks are coming. He’s as good as dead anyway.”

When Loreta refused, the man grabbed her arm, jerking her away from Tom. When she glanced back, she saw Tom raise his hand briefly before letting it drop again.

Although the Yanks were victorious, they did not push the Confederates back much further than Shiloh Church. The battle was over by dusk, and Loreta resolved to go back to find Tom. She found Bob at camp, who had managed to confiscate a horse. The steed carried a branding of “US” on its quarters and the saddle was made of fine leather—an officer’s horse.

“I found him in the woods without a rider,” Bob stated.

“Thank you, Bob.” Loreta mounted him, accepting Bob’s proffered lantern, and filled her canteen before going back to where she had last seen Tom. As if to add to the day’s miseries, the sky opened and rain began pouring down. The bodies in the field lay so close together that Loreta had to tie her new horse to a tree and walk among the slain, searching for her beloved. Occasionally she would come upon a man who was still alive and, after offering him water, called out to the ambulance corps, “Over here!” The men with stretchers would eventually arrive and carry the wounded off. They were Confederate, but Loreta noticed they would occasionally pick up Union men as well.

When her canteen was halfway empty, she resolved to save the rest for Tom. She heard a woman’s voice and marveled that they would send nurses to the battlefield, but as they crept closer, Loreta saw they were ladies in civilian clothes. Like her, they shone their lanterns onto to reveal the faces of the bodies as they stepped over them.

Loreta thought she had an inkling of where they had been when the Minié ball hit, but with the rain and the darkness, she could not get her bearings. It was as if she were trying to find a four-leaf clover in a field of grass. She was exhausted from the battle and after an hour of searching in the pouring rain, had to force herself to quit before she became yet another body on the ground. She had just started for her horse when she heard one of the ladies emit an unearthly scream. Loreta watched as the woman sat down on the muddy ground with a dead man’s head in her lap and cried, “Oh my Samuel, my poor husband.” She stroked his hair as she repeated, “My darling,” over and over. Her companions rushed over to kneel beside her, wrapping their arms around the anguished woman. Loreta could stand it no longer and mounted her horse, vowing to return once again in the morning to search for her own loved one.

Chapter 32

Mary Jane

April 1862

Mary Jane had just arrived at the Big House for the day’s work when a courier ran into the dining room. Jefferson Davis was already seated, ready to receive his breakfast.

“Shiloh is lost!” the courier shouted. He bent over to take in a breath before continuing, “Our troops are retreating.”

Mr. Davis stood up. “How can that be? News last night was of a sure victory.”

“Sir, General Sidney Johnston… was,” the courier gulped. “Lost.”

“Lost? As in taken prisoner?”

“No sir.” Mary Jane raised her eyes to see a forlorn look on the young man’s face.

“As in dead, sir. And the number of lost troops is the greatest we’ve seen. On both sides, it appears.”

Mr. Davis sat down and buried his stricken face in his hands. The courier left him alone. Mary Jane, unsure of what to do, fetched him a cup of coffee.

He looked up at her when she put the saucer and cup in front of him. “Has Mr. Harrison awoken yet?”

“No suh, I don’t believe so.” Burton Harrison was Mr. Davis’s personal secretary and had a room on the third floor of the mansion. “Do you want me to rouse him?”

Mr. Davis nodded and Mary Jane went to find Mr. Garvin in order to get Burton Harrison presentable.

Chapter 33

Loreta

April 1862

After yet another sleepless night, Loreta rose to find that the Confederates had been ordered to retreat back to Corinth, Mississippi. Loreta volunteered for burial duty, thinking that it would give her one last chance to locate Tom’s body and give him a proper goodbye. But still she could find no trace of him.

They dug large trenches with garden hoes and laid the boys on top of one another. There was no time to dig individual graves, nor were the gravediggers in the right state of mind to do so. One of them carried a small notebook and would copy down names of any soldiers that were recognized by their comrades, but most of them went into the ground unidentified. They were covered by as many blankets as could be found, and, after a brief prayer, the men commenced covering them over with soil.

Presumably the Feds were burying their own as well, but every once in a while, a shot rang out. As no bullets landed, at least not near the diggers, Loreta did not pay much attention to the gunfire. But when they had nearly finished their mournful duty, a shell landed behind Loreta, and she was thrown to the ground.

A nearby soldier helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

Loreta glanced down, noting the man who had been next to her had been propelled into the mass grave. He made no motion to get up. Another soldier commented that “he’d thought they’d been done but this new one needed more dirt.”

Loreta felt sick to her stomach. At first she assumed it was from the shock of what just happened, but then she realized her right arm had gone numb. The soldier who had picked her up noticed as well and helped her back up on her horse, and then began leading it back to camp. The next hour was agony—every time the horse made a sudden movement, the pain in her arm heightened. As they neared, Loreta’s anxiety grew. She knew that she would need to be examined by a surgeon, who would possibly discover that Harry Buford was not who he said he was.

By the time they reached camp, Loreta’s arm and wrist were so swollen that the surgeon had to cut the sleeve off her coat. He brought a vat of cold water for her to soak her wounds in, but it gave little relief. The surgeon pulled it out to examine it, Loreta gasping in pain. He gingerly held her wrist in his hands and turned it over.

“Such delicate bone structure,” he said, looking up from his attendance into her face. “Your mustache seems to have come loose as well, Lieutenant.”

Loreta could tell by the tone in his voice that he had discovered her secret. At that point all the fortitude and valor that Harry had exhibited in the last year had disappeared. All she wanted to do was to allow her arm to heal, and if she had to do that as a woman, then so be it.

“All right, you’ve discovered my secret,” she told him. “That doesn’t change the fact that I am wounded.”

The doctor sat back for a moment. “How did you come about—”

“Please,” Loreta commanded, her voice shaky with pain.

The doctor shook his head, obviously disagreeing with her choice to deceive the Confederate army, but his duties came first. “Your shoulder has been dislocated and much of your hand and arm, including your pinky, has been lacerated from the shrapnel.”

“Tell me you won’t amputate it, sir.”

“The wounds will not require amputation.” The doctor managed a tiny smile. “I’m sure you would have come up with quite a story, however, if you were a woman with an amputated arm.” He applied dressings to the open wounds and then put her arm in a sling. “I believe that will do it for now,” he said, rising.

Loreta got painfully to her feet as well. Despite his words, she did not fully trust that the doctor would not reveal what he’d discovered. Not to mention there was nothing keeping her there now that Tom was gone and she had been wounded. “Please sir, is there any way you can secure a pass for me to travel to New Orleans? I want to go home.”

“New Orleans is quite a long way from here. I suggest you stay in Corinth until you are healed.”

“Sir, I need to get away as soon as possible.” She gave him a pleading look, hoping to appeal his sense of chivalry.

It seemed to work as he nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

In her haste to leave the area, she temporarily forgot about Tom. She fell asleep on the train, the sheer exhaustion of the past few days overcoming the pain in her arm. She awoke when the train arrived at Grenada, Mississippi, and disembarked, still in her now ruined soldier’s uniform. The station was in a state of chaos, with people waiting to receive the wounded or corpses that had been managed to be removed from the battlefield.

“Please sir,” a woman touched her good arm and shoved a tintype of a young man in Loreta’s face. “Do you know my Bernard?”

As Loreta shook her head, she was accosted by many more women carrying pictures of men of various ages. The pain in her shoulder mounted as Loreta had no choice but to witness the grief of these poor souls upon not hearing news of their loved ones. She guessed that some of those boys being inquired about were back in Shiloh in the mass graves that had been hastily dug and she was filled with shame and sorrow. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing past the crowd, cradling her bad arm close to her.

Chapter 34

Hattie

April 1862

Hattie and Timothy were conveyed to Castle Godwin, a former Negro jail in what was called “Lumpkin’s Alley.” They kept up the ruse of being married, and were allowed to stay together, sharing their second-floor cell with a few other men and women who had been accused of passing information to the Union.

Timothy was charged with being an enemy alien to the Confederate States and of lurking around their armies and fortifications. He was put on a trial, which lasted a few days. Because of his poor health, he only occasionally attended in person. He was there the day that Lewis and Scully testified, telling Hattie that Lewis had insisted he had never met Webster before the incident in the hotel room. Scully, however, had made a full confession, including identifying all of them as Pinkerton operatives. “Including you,” he told Hattie with a sigh.

She nodded, knowing that even the Confederates would not execute a woman. Timothy, however, was another story. On Friday, April 25, Timothy was escorted from his cell by armed men as Hattie looked on helplessly. When he returned at dusk, thrown back into the room by the same men, he related to Hattie that he had been taken to City Hall where the official verdict of his case had been read to him. “Guilty,” he said, his voice as stoic as ever. “They sentenced me to death. I’ll be the first spy to hang since Nathan Hale during the Revolutionary War.”

“Oh, Timothy, surely Mr. Lincoln will be able to exchange you for a Confederate spy and you can return home.”

“When they asked me if I had any last requests, I asked to be shot by a firing squad instead of dying a traitor’s death.”

She took his hand in his and they sat in silence. After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality probably less than an hour, a guard entered. “I’m here to move Mr. Webster to the condemned cell.”

Hattie rose. “Oh, please, sir, can he not stay here?”

The man held the cell door open. “I have my orders.”

* * *

The days, the last of Timothy’s life unless Hattie could help it, dragged by in a monotonous blur. Even his Rebel guards managed to take pity on them and allowed Hattie into his cell for a few minutes a day. She tried her best to clean it, but the smell of decay and dying men was not something she could wash away. Every night she prayed for her friend, but she searched her mind for something more she could possibly do to save his life.

Chapter 35

Mary Jane

April 1862

Mary Jane was dusting the bronze busts in the hallway when Mrs. O’Melia answered the door. The man standing there introduced himself as a prison guard. “I bring a request to Mr. Davis from a Mrs. Webster, held of late in Castle Godwin.”

Mary Jane was aware the Websters were a husband and wife team that had been arrested on suspicion of betraying the Confederate government.

Judah Benjamin had just exited Mr. Davis’s office and overheard. “You can tell that damned traitor that the President of the Confederacy is too busy plotting the Union demise with Bob Lee to pay the wife of a Union spy any heed.” He marched past the bewildered prison guard, who then cast a helpless look at Mrs. O’Melia.

Mrs. O’Melia’s face softened in sympathy. “That poor woman,” she muttered to herself. She tapped a hand on his chin before telling the guard she’d be right back. She disappeared into the interior of the house and came back a few minutes later with Mrs. Davis.

“How can I help you, sir?” Mrs. Davis asked.

“Ma’am,” he bowed. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I brought a missive from Mrs. Webster, a prisoner who pleas to save her husband.” He handed a piece of paper over to her.

Mary Jane moved her dusting to just inside the central parlor so she could read the expression on Mrs. Davis’s face. She read the letter quickly before handing it back to the guard. “It’s a terrible fate to suffer, but it’s also a terrible thing they’ve done, spying on our government like that.”

“Yes’m,” the prisoner guard agreed. “I understand.”

“In this case, I don’t think I can offer much assistance. Matters of state are first men’s work, and then God’s.”

“Thank you anyway, ma’am.” The guard tipped his hat and then left.

Miss Lizzie had been incensed upon hearing of the arrest of Mrs. Webster and a few other “good ladies of Richmond” who were being held prisoner. “It’s no good, I tell you Mary Jane, no good at all.”

Mrs. Thompson, the seamstress, paused in her examination of a crumbling hem. “If they are arresting women now, it will only be a matter of time before they get to us.”

“Nonsense,” Miss Lizzie snapped. “What right do they have to suspect an old spinster, a widow seamstress, and a servant?”

“Slave,” Mary Jane corrected her. “I am not paid for my services.”

“Not in money.” Miss Lizzie raised her eyebrows. “What news do you have for us today, Mary Jane?”

She told them of the prison guard’s visit.

“Typical,” Miss Lizzie shook her head. “If Varina Davis had any sense, she would have divorced that traitor long ago.”

Mary Jane, thinking of Jeff Davis’s ill health and daily anxieties, did not reply.

“I hear that they are going to make a public spectacle of the hanging,” Mrs. Thompson stated.

“A warning to the Richmond Underground,” Miss Lizzie added.

Mrs. Thompson nodded. “They’re building the gallows on the city’s former fairgrounds at Camp Lee.”

“That poor Mrs. Webster.” Miss Lizzie nodded resolutely. “I must pay her a visit and offer her my service.”

Chapter 36

Hattie

April 1862

They allowed Hattie to say goodbye the morning of Timothy’s execution. Timothy’s form had grown even more ashen and gaunt than it had been before the trial. She hugged him to her, careful of his frail body. She tried not to let him see the tears that had formed, wanting to show him that she could stay strong, even in this, the face of his death. “I’m sorry,” she said once she was sure her voice would be steady.

“Me too,” Timothy said. “I’m sorry you are being punished.” Hattie had been found guilty of “conspiring with an alien enemy” and was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment. She attempted a smile. “It’s all part of the job.” She’d meant it to be funny, but, after the sentence left her mouth, she realized her mistake.

When Timothy didn’t reply, Hattie’s next words caught in her throat. “I will send word to your wife as soon as I can.”

“No.” Timothy’s words were firm. “Not until after you’ve been released. You cannot compromise your identity as Mrs. Webster.”

Hattie nodded, wondering if his family had any notion as to what had happened. What was going to happen. It was possible they had no idea their husband and father was about to be put to death. Perhaps they were under the impression that Webster was still undercover, working to expose Confederate plans in favor of the Union. If only…

Timothy must have caught sight of the wistful look on her face. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m not afraid to die a martyr to my country. Have you ever passed through a tunnel under a mountain?”

Hattie nodded, thinking of the time she’d accompanied Lincoln on his journey, before the war began, when she had been filled with hope and ambition.

Timothy continued, “My passage, my death may seem dark and ominous, but beyond is light and bright.”

Hattie lost the battle with her tears. They slipped down her face as she thought about the great man the Union would lose when Timothy died.

“Mr. Webster?” a voice inquired. Both Timothy and Hattie turned to see a brawny man dressed all in black beside the open cell door. “I am Captain Alexander. I’ve come to escort you.”

Timothy used the crutch they had provided him to get to his feet, carefully balancing himself as he leaned in to Hattie. “Tell Major Allen that I can meet death with a brave heart and a clear conscience.” He kissed Hattie on the forehead. “Goodbye my friend.”

Captain Alexander offered Timothy his arm, but he politely refused, instead hobbling out of the room, and Hattie’s life, on his own.

Hattie did not move from her bed all day. In the late afternoon a guard announced that she had a visitor. She sat up in bed and told the guard to allow the visitor in.

Hattie did not recognize the older woman with the crafty blue eyes. “Yes?” she asked, cautious that it was a Confederate woman there to gloat over Timothy’s death.

“I am here to bring news of your husband.”

Hattie stood. “Did you attend his execution? Did they allow him to die like a man by a firing squad?”

“No. He was hanged, and I’m afraid the noose slipped.”

Hattie took in a hopeful breath, but the woman held up a gnarled hand as she continued, “the first time. When they prepared him again, he told the crowd, ‘I suffer a double death.’ But he died bravely, no matter what you might read in the papers tomorrow. They are determined to vilify him as a traitor. They left him hanging for half an hour. When they finally took him down, some of the spectators cut pieces of the rope to keep as souvenirs.”

Hattie nodded, the tears threatening yet again. She wished the Richmonders could have known the type of man Timothy had been. Enemy or not, he deserved as much respect in death as he did in life.

The woman offered Hattie her handkerchief.

“Mrs. Webster, the body of your husband has been brought back to the prison.” Once again the black-coated Captain Alexander had appeared without warning. This time he was accompanied by a large bloodhound, whose coat was predictably pitch-colored. “Ah,” the captain said, turning his eyes to Hattie’s visitor. “Miss Van Lew can escort you to the viewing if you’d like.”

It seemed to Hattie that Miss Van Lew’s eyes turned cold and icy. “That’s quite all right,” she said in a haughty tone. “But I would ask if it would be possible for Mrs. Webster’s sentence to be carried out in my home.”

“I think you’ve done quite enough for our Yankee prisoners of late, don’t you agree, Miss Van Lew?”

“No,” the old woman replied. “It’s never enough.”

Captain Alexander kept his beady black eyes on Miss Van Lew’s back as she left the cell. “Mrs. Webster?”

Hattie followed him to a room in the rear of the prison. Timothy’s lifeless body lay on a table. There were rope burns around his wrists. She reached out to touch one of the bruises on his neck. “I am sorry, Husband,” she said aloud. After a moment, she turned to Captain Alexander. “How will he be buried?”

He shrugged.

“I’m going to purchase him a metal coffin. Could it be arranged for his body to be sent North?”

“I doubt it,” the captain replied. “He angered a lot of higher-ups in the Confederate government in his betrayal. I don’t think they are inclined to do him any favors.”

Hattie sighed, thinking his statement was a testament to Timothy’s skill as a spy: he’d earned their trust and respect, and their resentment was born out of embarrassment. Hattie said one final, tear-filled goodbye to her friend before Captain Alexander escorted her back to her cell.

Chapter 37

Loreta

April 1862

Loreta stayed in Grenada for a few days recuperating until her fever had subsided. The pain in her arm was still overwhelming, but she was resolved to continue on to New Orleans, only stopping for a few hours when the aching became too great to remain on the train.

Loreta felt almost too unwell to keep up appearances, especially considering her uniform had been badly battered and her mustache was the worse for wear. Almost as soon as she returned to the city of her youth, a large man in a police uniform commanded that she come with him, telling her that she was under arrest.

“What are the charges, sir?” she demanded in a tone that she hoped covered her anxiety.

The officer did not reply, and she soon found herself in front of Mayor Monroe, whose squinty eyes were fixed on the arrest papers in front of him. “Lieutenant Buford, you are under suspicion of being, in fact, a woman.” He finally looked up, gazing at Loreta with interest. “You are ordered to change your apparel immediately.”

His pompous manner angered Loreta. “Sir, you will have to prove that I am a woman first.”

Loreta saw with delight that her challenge seemed to disconcert the mayor. He pushed back his wild dark hair, revealing a receding hairline. She took a seat as he left his desk, summoning someone from outside his office. Loreta watched Monroe scratch at his long beard that was more gray than black as he conferred with the unseen person. He nodded and bid his conspirator adieu before returning. “I’m confining you to prison until we can decide who you really are, once and for all.”

Though horrified at the sentencing, Loreta was still unwilling to give herself up as a female, and left the office without another word.

She was taken to the Parish Prison. Luckily a guard summoned the prison doctor, who set Loreta’s arm and redressed her wounds. He was a quiet man and promised not to inform anyone of the fact that she was female, especially after Loreta gave him some money for his services. But a few days later, the local paper printed a story of a woman arrested in a soldier’s uniform. A guard let her read the article, which was almost an afterthought, taking up only a small portion of the interior of the paper. The article did not state either her real name or her alias. She folded the paper, and then looked up, startled.

“Is this true?” she asked the guard, pointing to the headline claiming that Union gunboats had broken through the Confederate defenses on the lower Mississippi.

“That’s the rumor,” the guard replied. “If it’s true, it won’t be long before the Yanks occupy the city. Most of our troops were called to hold the forts. We don’t have much defense left.”

Loreta’s fear of being taken as a soldier prisoner by the Yankees overcame her indignation at Mayor Monroe. She’d been operating under the premise that the best way to keep a secret was to not tell anyone, but perhaps now was the time to reveal. “Is it possible for you to let the Mayor know I’m ready to confess?”

The guard walked closer to her cell and peered at her. “Are you really a woman?”

She nodded, and the guard left immediately. He returned a few minutes later and unlocked her cell, stating the mayor was ready to see her.

Mayor Monroe was sitting behind his desk in the same position as she had last seen him, but this time he held an expectant look on his smug face. “Well, miss, I’m told you are ready to confess.”

Used to spinning stories, Loreta again told partial-truths: that she had decided to pose as a soldier in order to write a history of the war, giving her name as Mrs. Mary Ann Keith. She gestured to her shoulder. “This is from Shiloh, where I fought heroically for our side.”

The mayor waved his hand. “Seeing as how the Union is set to occupy the city at any moment, you are the least of my worries.” He ordered her to pay $10 and not to fall on the other side of the law again.

As Loreta made her way out of the office, Monroe summoned his personal secretary to ask about news of the federal fleet.

Loreta paused in the doorway as the secretary took her former place in front of the mayor’s desk. “I believe they are now making their way up river,” he stated.

“We won’t go lightly,” Monroe declared. “Mr. Baynes, can you see that the flag of the venerable state of Louisiana is poised above the courthouse? I’ll be damned if they try to raise the flag of the Union anywhere in the city.”

“Yessir.” The secretary hurried past Loreta. As she left Mayor Monroe’s office, she couldn’t help admire the man’s tenacity, her punishment and fine notwithstanding.

Now that she’d been released, Loreta pondered what to do. She had no family and no friends left in the city and was still suffering from the pain in her arm. She began walking, her path taking her right in front of her old boarding school. Seized with an idea, Loreta went in, telling the clerk at the desk that she was looking for an old friend. The clerk helped her locate Nellie Jones, the girl she had stolen William from all those years ago.

Loreta headed straight to the address the clerk had given her and knocked at the door. If Nellie was surprised to see her old roommate in a soldier’s attire, she did not say so. She’d probably read the newspaper and connected it to Loreta. Nellie had always been quicker than most of the other girls at their school.

“I need you to lend me a dress,” Loreta stated simply.

Nellie agreed, as long as Loreta left her steps immediately and never contacted her again, adding, “You needn’t worry about returning the clothes—I have much more appealing ones.”

When Nellie returned from the inner reaches of the house with the requested clothing, she asked, “Whatever happened to William, anyway?”

“He died,” Loreta said, accepting the dress. “G’day, Nellie.”

“G’day, Loreta Velazquez. Or Mary Ann Keith. Or whatever your name is.”

Loreta headed to a nearby boarding house and secured a room, registering herself with her real name to avoid confusion with the newspaper article. The hotel clerk glanced up from the registry to Loreta’s battered uniform, his eyes narrowing at the dress stuffed under her arm. Loreta pulled out a wad of money and threw it at him before heading upstairs.

“I hope you enjoy your stay, Miss Velazquez,” the clerk called out in an astonished voice.

Loreta changed into Nellie’s dress, the garment again feeling foreign. She pulled on a battered bonnet as she heard shouting in the hallway. Opening the door, Loreta inquired of a young man outside what was happening.

“The Yanks are coming!” he replied.

Loreta shut the door to finish dressing as quickly as possible and then headed to the levee.

She had never seen such a sight as the one that greeted her when she arrived at the banks of the Mississippi. Hundreds of wagons, carts, and boards with wheels—anything that could be rolled along—stretched along the horizon. They were stacked with bales of cotton. Slaves hurriedly unloaded them and then threw them into a pile. They then made a teepee of pinewood surrounding the cotton and poured a bucket of whiskey over it before lighting it. Loreta watched as they worked tirelessly, sweat pouring down their black faces. She could feel the heat from the flames from her vantage point and could only imagine how hot it would be in the midst of the burning piles. Like hell itself. Still the slaves worked, and she wondered what for—the Yankees represented their salvation and here they were, endeavoring to burn the material that they themselves had labored over picking and what the Yankees would give anything to procure. Once they ran out of land for the burning piles, they began to pile the cotton on flatboats and lit the cotton on fire before pushing the boats out into the water to drift down the Mississippi. A funeral pyre consisting of thousands of precious dollars in both cotton and liquor.

Through the blaze and smoke, the federal fleet made its way into view. The gunboats that had fought their way past Fort Jackson and St. Philip were even grander than the ones that Loreta had glimpsed at Shiloh. One by one the vessels dropped anchor. The water outside the levees was higher, elevating the ships to a level in which their guns could point downward at the city streets. The sight gave her a greater understanding of both the federal government’s power and the weakness of the Confederacy. “They can fire at any building at will,” Loreta said aloud.

“Or they could just destroy the levee and flood the city,” another curious observer replied. “I think our game is all but lost.”

“Not yet,” Loreta said as she started away, a trace of Harry’s swagger still visible underneath her skirts.

Even though her identity had been discovered and she could no longer fight, she still longed to do her part to win independence for the South. It was true the Yanks had greater power, but perhaps there was more than one way to win this war. She reasoned that her greatest success thus far had been that she had been under the guise of Harry Buford for over a year, and, save for her confession, no one but the doctors had discovered her true gender. And, having some expertise at being in disguise, she focused on a new tactic: becoming a spy.

Chapter 38

Belle

May 1862

Belle awoke one morning a few weeks after her Winchester adventure to a commotion below her window.

Mauma Eliza informed her that it was the Yankees that were making all the “fuss in de street.” Still clad in her chemise, Belle rushed to the window. Indeed, the avenue was filled with men in blue coats. She was about to run outside when Mauma Eliza stopped her with her thick arm, hollering to put some clothes on.

Belle impatiently posed at the bedpost while Mauma Eliza tugged at her corset strings. “Can’t you go any faster?” Belle demanded.

“No, Miss Belle. Why are you so anxious anyway?”

“I need to find out where those Yanks are headed.”

When Belle was finally dressed and out the door, she ran into the hotel and found a Yankee scout she’d become friendly with.

“What’s happening?” she cried.

“The Rebel army is approaching,” the scout replied. Belle managed to refrain from crossing herself as he continued, “No one had any idea Stonewall was so close.”

I did. Belle remembered the talk in Mrs. Winslow’s sewing circle.

“He’s supposedly less than a mile outside Front Royal.” The man nodded his head toward the chaos outside. “Colonel Shields has ordered his men to burn the depot stores.”

“What if the rebels arrive before you can burn them?”

“Then we fight,” the man said, the muscles underneath his mustache twitching. “If, God help us, we retreat upon Winchester, we’ll burn the bridges after we cross them.”

A man entered the lobby just as the scout was leaving. Belle was dismayed to see that it was Charles Dunham and could not keep her lip from curling. She had met the reporter for the New York Herald shortly before her Winchester trip and found him to be extremely repugnant, as if Dunham’s only joy in life was to insult young Confederate women.

Belle pushed past him to leave, but he stopped her by grabbing her arm. “What’s the matter, Miss Boyd?”

“Nothing much to speak of,” Belle edged out of his grasp and made to leave. But she paused at the threshold to tell him, “The rebels are coming and you best prepare yourself for a visit to Libby Prison.”

Dunham’s face went white before he rushed to the staircase.

Belle knew she should get back to the cottage and prepare, but she couldn’t help herself. She slowly walked up the hotel stairs to stand outside the Yankee reporter’s room. She spotted him hurriedly throwing papers into a bag. “Where are you planning to go, Mr. Dunham?”

He glanced up. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s best if I skedaddle now.”

Belle’s gaze fell on his room key, still stuck in the door. Dunham’s focus had returned to his packing. Stealthily, Belle closed the door and turned the lock before dropping the key into the pocket of her apron.

As Belle headed outside, she saw a few men she recognized as Confederate sympathizers standing in a huddle, jeering at the few Yankees who were still on the street.

Belle approached them. “Is there one among you who would be willing to relay information of the Yanks’ plans to General Jackson? It is of vital importance.”

Each man refused to meet her eyes. “Sir,” she said, turning to Mr. White, a man she knew to use any opportunity to denigrate the Union. “If we don’t pass on this intelligence, Stonewall might run into a Yankee trap.”

“Indeed, it is of great consequence,” Mr. White concurred. “But if any of us were to be caught by the Yanks, we would be hanged.”

“A small sacrifice for the greater good of our country,” Belle replied as she narrowed her eyes.

“So says the lesser of the sexes,” another man hooted. “Why don’t you go yourself?”

“I will,” Belle said before turning on her heel. The dress Mauma Eliza had put on her that day was royal blue. Yankee colors, Belle thought, as she ran in the direction where Stonewall Jackson’s troops were supposed to be coming from. She had not gotten very far when the gunshots began to sound. The Union soldiers had erected artillery on the hill just outside of town and were lighting cannons pointed at Main Street. When Belle spotted the gray uniforms of the Confederacy advancing on the other side, she realized she was trapped between the two armies. The rebels on the front line took aim and began to fire. Belle felt the bullets whizz past her ears but she kept her pace until she felt a tug on her skirt and glanced down, expecting to see a stray dog nipping at her heels. Instead she was confronted by a large hole in her petticoats: a bullet had penetrated her skirts, but, luckily, had not reached her person.

Belle ran faster as renewed adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had not another thought but of her mission to reach General Jackson. As she got closer to the Confederate line, she tore her bonnet off her head and waved it in a circle, calling for the rebels to press toward town. The men started running forward, shouting triumphantly, some of them cheering her by name as they passed her.

Belle paused, watching the men heading toward Front Royal. There did not seem to be as many of them as she had thought. She sank to her knees, fearing that she had just sent them toward their deaths. There was no time to delay, Belle reminded herself as she rose. She continued, a bit slower this time, toward the hilltop on the outskirts of town where the gray coats had seemed to be emerging from. Presently, Belle heard hoofbeats and looked up to see Henry Kyd Douglas, a native of Martinsburg only a few years older than herself, approaching.

“Good God, Belle, you look a fright.”

“Henry,” Belle gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Tell Stonewall to charge down the hill and he will be able to capture every last Yankee haunting Front Royal.”

“Are there so many Yanks in the town still?”

Belle opened her hands as though counting and flexed her fingers several times instead of replying. Hundreds.

Henry caught her meaning and tipped his cap. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He turned his horse around. “Aren’t you just the girl to dare to do such a thing!” He shouted this last remark over his shoulder as he began galloping back in the direction he’d come from.

“Remember, should anyone ask, you did not meet with me today!” Belle called to Henry’s retreating back. She blew a kiss into the air in Henry’s direction. In short order, she heard the unworldly Rebel yell sounding as more men headed in the direction of the town. Belle ducked behind a tree as she heard the beats of dozens of horses, watching as the Confederate cavalry rode right past her.

Belle sat under a tree to rest her throbbing legs for an hour or so. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, she headed back to the nearly empty town, her steps much more labored than they had been when she had set out that morning. A few federal officers still roamed through the Fishback hotel. Belle kindly offered them some lemonade and inquired if they had any news. Sadly, they did not.

In the end, the Confederacy was, once again, indomitable, and the Union retreated, attempting to burn the bridges exactly as the Yankee scout had declared they would. However, the Confederate cavalry reached the bridges in time to save them from becoming uncontrollable conflagrations.

Henry Kyd Douglas arrived on horseback with his regiment to declare any remaining Federals in Front Royal prisoners of the Confederate army.

“Henry!” Belle called as she caught sight of him. He stopped his horse in front of her.

“I have something for you.” Belle stood on her tiptoes to pin a bright red rosette to his coat. “The color is the blood red of succession,” she told him, “and it looks quite fair on you.”

“And I have something for you too.” He passed her a sheet of paper before he rode off.

Belle quickly scanned the note and then held it against her heart before she read it again, slower this time, mouthing the words. It was addressed to her and written by none other than Stonewall Jackson:

Miss Belle Boyd,

I thank you, for myself and for the army, for the immense service that you have rendered your country today.

Hastily, I am your friend,

T. J. Jackson, C.S.A.

The short note became Belle’s most valued possession.

Chapter 39

Loreta

May 1862

Loreta scoured the papers, reading with glee the exploits of Mayor Monroe, her recent nemesis, when he was asked to surrender the city. Monroe had declined, professing his loyalty to the Confederate States of America. He’d also refused to lower the Louisiana state flag from the courthouse, the same one he’d ordered raised in Loreta’s presence. Federal naval officers had then been ordered to take it down and raise the Union flag in its place.

Loreta’s next order of business was to befriend Eugenia Phillips, a Richmond exile who was known to have conspired with the legendary Rose Greenhow. When Loreta informed Eugenia that she too wished to become a spy, the older woman broke into a wide smile and told her that they could use her now more than ever.

Accordingly, Loreta began accompanying Eugenia to dinners and balls, borrowing fancy gowns from Eugenia’s adult daughter. At one dinner, Eugenia introduced Loreta to a civilian friend of hers, Mrs. Taylor, a widow who was anxious to return to England but was currently staying at the same boardinghouse as Loreta.

“This whole war is having the most turbulent effect on my nerves,” Mrs. Taylor told Loreta, taking a casual sip of sherry.

“Have you heard about poor William Mumford?” Loreta asked.

Mrs. Taylor shook her head.

“He pulled down that wretched Stars and Stripes from City Hall, intending on returning it to Mayor Monroe.”

“But a mob ripped it to shreds,” Eugenia added. “That beast General Butler arrested him and now he’s in the Parish Prison, awaiting trial.”

Loreta did not think it was necessary to add that she had recently spent time there as well.

“But that’s not the worst thing General Butler has done since he’s come to power,” Eugenia continued. “Have you read his latest proclamation?” Both ladies shook their heads and Eugenia called in her servant to fetch it. “Officially it is known as General Order #28, but Butler’s calling it ‘The Women’s Order.’” Eugenia cleared her throat and then read aloud:

As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subjected to repeated insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of New Orleans, in return for the most scrupulous non-interference and courtesy on our part, it is ordered, that hereafter, when any female shall, by word, gesture, or movement, insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States, she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the town plying her avocation.

“Can you believe it?” Eugenia asked, putting the paper down. “He hints that we are not ladies at all.”

“What a barbarian,” Loreta replied. “He’s likening us to prostitutes and practically giving permission for his soldiers to rape the women of New Orleans.”

“Oh my, oh my,” Mrs. Taylor said, fanning herself with her napkin. “This is just terrible. Now I know I must return to England as soon as possible.”

“They are just idle threats,” Eugenia said. “They cannot possibly enforce such sadistic treatment of women.” She ended the night by inviting both women to a party she was giving the next day.

“Aren’t they giving a procession for a fallen Union soldier tomorrow?” Loreta asked. The route would take them right under Eugenia’s balcony in the French Quarter.

“Indeed they are. You should probably reschedule,” Mrs. Taylor told her hostess.

Eugenia gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “There is no need for that. This is New Orleans, after all. It is rare for a day to go by without some sort of procession.”

Accordingly the women met again at Eugenia’s apartment the next day. Eugenia insisted on hosting tea outside on the balcony.

The newest gossip was over Mayor Monroe’s arrest for protesting Butler’s order.

“At least someone is willing to defend our honor,” Loreta commented, remembering the mayor’s determination.

“Honor?” another woman sneered, turning to Loreta. “Aren’t you one to talk, going about parading as a soldier.”

Loreta was about to deny the accusation when Eugenia threw her head back and laughed. “Loreta, was that you? I never put the two together.” She put a gloved hand over her chest, catching her breath, before looking at Loreta with admiration. “I was right, we could use women like you.”

Loreta straightened the hem of her dress. “It was nothing, really.” She had started to tell of her battle adventures, but Eugenia’s black servant appeared on the edge of the balcony. “I’s sorry to inarupt but Mrs. Phillips, there be some men lookin’ for you’s at the door.”

“Did you tell them I’m occupied at the moment?”

“Yes’m, but they’s insistin’.”

Eugenia rose. “I’m sure I won’t be long.”

But the men were already making their way through the living room. “You are all under arrest,” one of them declared.

Loreta’s heart sped up when she recognized the speaker as the detested General Butler himself.

“Whatever for?” Eugenia asked, stepping forward.

Butler walked over to her and stared her down, his droopy eyes and triangular mustache giving him the appearance of an old, overweight beagle. “You women are breaking the law.”

“By having a party? Are you going to outlaw having fun in our fair city now?”

“You were laughing during a funeral procession,” Butler sneered.

Eugenia returned his glare with a bewildered look until understanding dawned. “I was laughing at something one of my companions said.”

“You can tell that to the judge.” He put his hands on his wide hips. “I know exactly who you are, Mrs. Phillips. I will imprison you for now, but I expect that either you or Mrs. Greenhow will be my undoing and will someday be responsible for my murder.”

“You are wrong on that account,” Eugenia spat back as one of Butler’s soldiers began leading her out. “We usually order our Negroes to kill our swine.”

Loreta could not contain the giggle that slipped out and, consequently, while Butler consented to let the other women go, she was also placed under arrest.

Loreta was none too happy to be back at the Parish Prison, but the assistant provost marshal, who was tasked with arraigning her, treated her kindly.

He introduced himself as Deputy Steward. “I don’t agree with Butler’s proposition,” he told her helplessly, “but I have my orders.”

Loreta had absolutely no desire to go back to jail, and pretended to be a devoted Federalist. “I did not know what Mrs. Phillips stood for when I accepted her party invitation. Had I known about the funeral procession, I would have stood at street level to pay my respects to our fallen soldier.”

Steward grabbed a napkin to wipe up the tea he had dribbled at Loreta’s declaration. “Is that so? It is rare we get women in here expressing Union sentiment. They’d rather spit on us in the streets.”

“Oh no, sir. I was happier than a clam to see the federal flag being raised once again in New Orleans. It won’t be long before the Stars and Stripes wave from every rooftop in the South.” Loreta reached behind her and crossed her fingers, hoping the movement would suffice for retribution if she ever had to confess to denouncing the cause that she loved.

Steward tilted his head. “Have you taken the oath to the Union?”

Loreta had not and did not intend to. She changed the subject instead. “You see, I am of Northern birth—my father was from New York—and, as I was caught down here with the blockade, could not return.”

“Have you any family?”

“No sir,” Loreta replied truthfully. “I am a widow.” She then told him that her husband had been an Englishman and left her with a large sum of money and property. “But those wretched rebels robbed me of everything.” She reached into her reticule and drew out a handkerchief. She studied the officer as she dabbed at her eyes.

Her crocodile tears had the desired effect. Steward got to his feet, saying, “I think I can convince General Butler to drop the charges against you.” He left the room and returned a few minutes later.

“Mrs. Phillips is to be brought to Ship Island for her indiscretions, but I have better news, for you, Mrs…” he glanced down at his paperwork. “Williams. General Butler has agreed to release you as long as you promise to be more considerate when out in public.”

“Oh, yessir. Thank you.” She rose to leave.

“And Mrs. Williams, don’t hesitate to call on me if there is ever any way I can help you.”

“Thank you again, sir,” she said, leaving the office feeling light on her feet. Not only had she avoided arrest, but she’d managed to make the assistant provost marshal as an ally as well. She was sorry that Eugenia was to be imprisoned, but she knew that her friend would have approved of Loreta’s manipulations for the cause they shared.

Loreta ran into Mrs. Taylor in the lobby of their boardinghouse the next day. After exchanging what little information they had about Eugenia, Mrs. Taylor informed Loreta that she had secured passage to return to England. Struck with inspiration, Loreta asked if she could borrow her foreign identification papers.

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Taylor asked.

“They would assist me a great deal.” She told Mrs. Taylor of her latest plan, brought on by a letter she’d received that morning from one of William’s old comrades, who was now a surgeon in Mandeville, located on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. Loreta leaned in. “It is still under Confederate control and Dr. Childs told me that his hospital is low on medicine, especially quinine. As summer is almost upon us, he is worried that the malaria epidemic will wipe out the few Confederate soldiers they had left in the area. If I had your papers as authentication, I could secure a pass to Mandeville.”

“But I don’t understand how you would be able to help the situation there.”

Loreta glanced around the lobby before whispering, “The federal hospitals have plenty of quinine. I could use the provost marshal’s recommendation to get a job as a nurse.” She left the rest of the plan up to Mrs. Taylor’s interpretation.

Mrs. Taylor nodded as she dug through her carpetbag. She handed Loreta a certificate that gave her place of birth in England and her address at the boardinghouse.

* * *

In the next few months, Loreta managed to make a few trips back and forth across Lake Pontchartrain, and even once to Mobile, delivering the much-needed medicine and conveying Confederate correspondence. She was pleased that once again she could help the cause, although she knew that to do so under Butler’s beagle snout was inviting a great amount of risk.

With that mindset, she assumed she’d been caught when Dr. Childs presented her with a letter addressed to his hospital, but with Loreta’s name on it. “What is this?” she asked, flipping it over. The return address was in Memphis.

“I’m not sure, I didn’t open it,” Dr. Childs replied.

Loreta’s trepidation at being found out quickly turned over to joy. “It’s from Tom!”

“Tom?”

“Major De Caulp.”

“Why is my old commanding officer writing you?”

“He and I…” Loreta did not feel like trying to explain the situation to Dr. Childs. Clearly Tom had wanted to get in contact with her and used any New Orleans connections he could. “I must go to him.”

Dr. Childs took the letter and scanned it. “Most of Tennessee is under Union control now and it’s probably only a matter of time before Memphis falls. It’s highly unlikely you could get a pass to go there.”

Loreta felt her heartbeat, which had been hammering away at the astonishing news, slow. It seemed desperately unfair that, now that she knew her beloved was alive, she would be prohibited from seeing him. She thought for a moment before asking Dr. Childs what they did with the uniforms of the soldiers who have perished at the hospital.

He knitted his eyebrows. “We try to return them to the families of the deceased, provided we know where to send them. The others we store. Ailing soldiers often request replacements, especially the boots.”

“Where do you keep the extras?”

Dr. Childs led Loreta to a basement storeroom. She dug through a pile of old uniforms until she found a coat and pants that would fit her frame. Dr. Childs sighed. “This should be where I tell you to not do this, but even I can see any effort I would make to prevent you from leaving would be futile.”

“Indeed,” Loreta replied, shouldering the uniform. “This whole time I thought that Tom was dead. Nothing you or anyone else could say would prevent me from going to him. Not even General Butler or the United States government can stop me now.”

Chapter 40

Mary Jane

June 1862

The Confederate White House had been quiet these past few days. Rebel intelligence had informed the government that General McClellan was continuing his offensive by marching his army through the peninsula formed by the York and James rivers. For a few days in early June, it seemed that an attack on Richmond would be imminent.

“Let them come,” Miss Lizzie had stated at the seamstress shop. “I have prepared a room for General McClellan to stay if he so chooses.”

Mary Jane could not help but smile. “What about your sister-in-law, Mary? Something tells me she would not be so pleased to have McClellan as a houseguest.”

Miss Lizzie shook her head. “Mary’s gone. She’d said that she didn’t want her children raised by ‘damned Yankees,’ and took the girls to her family’s estate.”

Mary Jane’s mouth dropped open. She recalled Miss Lizzie’s nieces, two sweet young girls who definitely had not inherited their mother’s disposition.

“But John brought the girls back to the Church Hill house, and now I help supervise them.”

“Do they know of your secret room?”

“Not yet. But perhaps someday I will fill them in on all that happens in our home.” Miss Lizzie waved her hand. “And now, Mary Jane, what of the going’s on in the Davises’ home?”

Mary Jane had not much to report besides the changing of Judah Benjamin’s title from Secretary of War to Secretary of State.

Mrs. Thompson looked up from her sewing. “Why’d Davis do that? I thought he doted upon that old Jew.”

Mary Jane bristled, wishing that derogatory term hadn’t slipped so easily from the seamstress’s tongue. “When they were debating over the Conscription Act, Benjamin suggested that the Confederate army employ slaves as soldiers. He thought they could win their freedom by serving the South. It was vastly unpopular, and although many in Congress called for Benjamin’s complete resignation, Mr. Davis wouldn’t hear of it.” Despite herself, Mary Jane had looked favorably upon the portly Mr. Benjamin. He often tried to distract the president with his humorous outlook on the blunders of the Confederate generals of late. All but those of Bob Lee, who had taken over the Army of Virginia after Joe Johnston had been wounded. Both Benjamin and President Davis had nothing but praise for Lee, calling him the Confederacy’s most able general.

“They have no choice but to keep soldiers in their army by force,” Miss Lizzie stated.

“Indeed,” Mary Jane agreed, scooping up Mrs. Davis’s newly hemmed dress.

When Mary Jane returned to the house, she found Mrs. Davis in a state of panic.

Mrs. O’Melia confided that a courier had come, informing the Davises that their plantation in Mississippi had been raided, their possessions stolen and their remaining slaves confiscated.

“Disaster follows disaster,” Mrs. Davis muttered as she sat in the snuggery. She began rocking as Mrs. O’Melia and Mary Jane exchanged frightened looks. “First the death of our great friend and loyal commander, Sidney Johnston, and then the evacuation of my family from New Orleans, and now this.” She reached over to touch the satin drape. “McClellan might as well come now and finish the job. This dreadful way of living depresses me more than I can say.”

Mr. Davis entered the room. “Winnie,” he said sharply.

His wife stopped her murmuring and looked up. “What is it, Jeff?”

He sat down next to her and clasped her small hands in his large, thin-fingered ones. “If our cause succeeds, we shall not mourn over personal deprivation any longer.”

“You’re right, of course Husband,” Mrs. Davis replied, retrieving her hands from his grip. “Someday we Southerners will all laugh at how vain we were.”

Although Mary Jane knew that Mrs. Davis had a different definition of vanity than herself, the slave couldn’t help but hope that Mrs. Davis was right.

Chapter 41

Belle

June 1862

Although Belle’s feat at the Battle of Front Royal further solidified her heroism in the South—the papers there hailed her as the “Secesh Cleopatra”—she made an enemy of the Northern newspapers, and especially Mr. Dunham. After Belle had locked him in the hotel room, he attempted an escape through the window but the Rebel army caught sight of him shimmying down a drain pipe and captured him. When he spotted Belle on the street, he threatened her, saying it was her fault he was now a prisoner and that he’d make her rue the day she did that to him. As General Jackson considered him an “innocent journalist,” he was released only hours after he’d been taken prisoner. When Dunham returned North, he wrote an article in which he called her an “accomplished prostitute who’d passed the first freshness of youth.”

Rumors had been circulating for weeks that Lincoln had finally persuaded General McClellan to take action and Stonewall Jackson had therefore abandoned the Shenandoah Valley to try to recapture the Virginia Peninsula.

The new Federal commander in Front Royal, General Nathaniel Banks, also decided to establish his headquarters at her aunt’s hotel. Belle intended to weave him under her spell much like she had his counterpart, General Shields. She took careful care getting dressed before she went to call on him for the first time: accessorizing her dark green dress with a hat covered in Confederate buttons and her gold palmetto pin at her breast, a nod to South Carolina, the first state to secede from the Union.

Her plan appeared to work; after they exchanged pleasantries upon meeting, Belle asked if the general could grant her a pass to travel to Alabama to visit her cousin.

The general tilted back and let out a big belly of a laugh. “But what would Virginia do without you?”

“Why General, whatever do you mean?”

“How can your native state do with your absence? We have heard about your daring during the Battle of Front Royal and beyond. It caused the defeat of my own army, but it still was admirable.”

Belle fluttered her lashes. “So you will grant me a pass.”

“Of course not,” the general replied, turning back to his papers, the genial facade disappearing. “I would prefer to keep you in your aunt’s cabin where I can watch over you.”

Belle, at first not sure if she’d heard him right, folded her arms across her chest, but the general refused to look up. With a harrumph, she left his office.

As she navigated the brick walkway back to the cabin, she reflected on the conversation. She supposed she couldn’t blame the general; after all, she was a great danger to his army, perhaps the greatest of them all.

Now that she was stuck in Front Royal, at least for the time being, Belle resumed her role of being a flirtatious spy and managed to coax a Union private to give her a pistol. He told her he was an admirer of her courage in defending her mother from the German. Belle planned on presenting it to Stonewall Jackson when she had the chance.

Although she had her share of admirers and hangers-on, she recognized that some of the men who pursued her might have ulterior motives. She confronted such a man one day as she was waiting on a bench for the Union provost marshal, intending to inquire about another pass. Although his face was much less worn than her father’s, the man’s uncombed hair and beard were a premature gray. His eyes, which kept darting around the room, looked to be black as pitch, however.

Belle had seen him a few times previously about town. Each time had resulted in an admonishment from General Banks about leaving the cabin without his permission.

She acknowledged the black-eyed man with a slight nod. “I suppose you came to report me again.”

“Miss Boyd.” His low voice contained a hint of an English accent. “Are you aware that we have a mutual friend?”

“I’m sure you mean General Banks.” Her own voice carried more than a hint of accusation.

He smiled an oily smile. “I was referring to Eugene Blockley.”

Belle searched her memory. “The shoemaker?”

The man nodded before bidding her adieu, leaving Belle wondering as to his purpose in mentioning Blockley, whom she knew vaguely. He owned a shop in Front Royal, but, upon thinking more about it, she recalled seeing a man who resembled Blockley on the street during her trip to Winchester. After she was once again denied a pass, she left the office feeling slightly worried that Banks, Blockley and now this other man might be tailing her.

The next morning, Belle sat by the window in the cottage’s parlor, warming herself in the June sun. She caught sight of a Confederate soldier standing next to the provost marshal’s tent. She grabbed her white bonnet before strolling into the courtyard and venturing over to the handsome soldier to inquire his name.

He bowed. “C.W.D. Smitley.”

“My, that is quite a mouthful.”

The Rebel man smiled. His neatly trimmed brown beard had hints of red that glimmered in the sun.

“Are you trying to get a pass?” Belle asked, nodding toward the tent.

“Indeed. I’ve just been paroled, and now I’m hoping to head south to Richmond.”

“Good luck. I tried to get a pass just the other day, to no avail.”

“Well, let’s hope I’ll be more fortunate than you.”

Belle fiddled with the ribbons on her bonnet. “When would you leave?”

“Not until late this evening.”

“In that case, you must dine with my aunt and me tonight.”

“I’d be honored.” Smitley tipped his hat.

“Will six o’clock give you enough time to pack? We’re just in that cottage over there,” she said, pointing.

“Six o’clock will be perfect.” Belle thought for a moment she saw his eyes twinkle, but then decided it had just been a trick of the sunlight.

After getting word that General Banks was out on duty, Belle decided to call on the Dahl women to invite them to dinner. She chose these particular sisters for a few reasons; besides the fact that Emma, the older one, was betrothed to a Confederate soldier, they were both plain-looking and dull in personality. They also usually complied with whatever Belle commanded.

Sarah Dahl, who was a year younger than Belle, answered the door.

“What happened to your maid?” Belle asked.

“She ran away.” Sarah opened the door a little wider. “Are you even supposed to be wandering about town?”

“Probably not. Listen, Sarah, this is important: I want you and Emma to come to dinner tonight. And make sure you ask plenty of questions about what happened during the Battle of Front Royal.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I think everyone in the town has that story memorized.”

“Maybe so,” Belle admitted. “But not Mr. Smitley.”

“Oh?” Sarah peered down at Belle. “Who is this Mr. Smitley? Is he handsome?”

Belle waved her hand. “Just do as I asked, if you don’t mind. And tell Emma to do the same.”

Sarah gave a deep sigh before agreeing.

“Six o’clock,” Belle reminded her before Sarah shut the door.

As soon as Belle returned to her room, she scrawled a missive to Stonewall Jackson, updating him on the Union’s command of Front Royal. She called Mauma Eliza in to help her get ready.

Mauma Eliza’s eyes widened upon spying the white muslin dress that Belle had laid out. “Lawdy, Miss Belle, this here an evenin’ gown. I thawt y’all was just havin’ dinner.”

“Yes, Mauma,” she replied, fingering the blue ribbons on the dress. “But clothing has a great deal to do towards making us all appear what we would like the world to take us for. I may be a spy, and perhaps a tomboy, but I’m also a young woman now.”

Mauma Eliza eventually complied, muttering under her breath how folks have too many other things to be worried about than their clothing.

Dinner went exceedingly well, with Sarah and Emma Dahl playing their parts to a tee. Not only was Belle able to brag of her exploits in front of Mr. Smitley, but the Dahl sisters were so monotonous that Smitley’s eyes barely fell on them.

When Mauma Eliza began clearing the meal, Belle pulled Smitley aside to ask if he would be able to deliver a letter to General Jackson when he set out on his journey.

Again, that twinkle appeared. “I will do so with utmost fidelity,” Smitley replied. He peered over Belle’s shoulder. “In fact, I should be going soon. It’s getting dark, which is the best time to slip through the Union lines.”

“Will you call on me when you return?” Belle asked with a little sway in order to show off the fullness of her skirts.

“Of course.” He again tipped his hat and then returned to the dining room to take his leave of Belle’s other guests.

After the Dahl sisters had left, Mauma Eliza demanded to know what she had given “dat man.”

“A letter for Stonewall. He’s on his way to Richmond.”

Mauma Eliza grasped Belle’s arm. “Miss Belle, that man ain’t no Confederate. I seen him talking to dat Union man with da black eyes. He’s a spy.”

“No, Mauma,” Belle insisted. But her blood turned cold as she recalled the odd twinkle to Smitley’s gaze. She shook off Mauma Eliza’s hand. “Mauma, quick, we have to send a message about him.”

“How?”

Belle put her arm under her chin and thought. “Through the underground, of course. But we can’t use you this time. Send George in.” Mauma waddled off as Belle sat down to write a letter to Henry Kyd Douglas of the Confederate cavalry. She described Smitley’s coloration and build, whom he claimed to be, and his intended destination. She folded the note several times and then held it in her hands for a moment, wondering how to disguise it. She opened a desk drawer and dug around, her fingers closing in on an old pocket watch of her uncle’s. After a moment of thought, she used her knife to open it and remove its innards, replacing them with the folded note. The watch didn’t quite close, but someone would have to look really close to realize that. Belle knew that George would be unlikely to be questioned since the Yankees assumed all darkeys were on their side. She instructed George to have Douglas read the note on the spot and send her a reply.

Belle spent the next few days feeling as though she were one of the ill-fated coils she’d removed from her uncle’s pocket watch. Ever since the confrontation with the man with the black eyes, Belle had been nervous about getting caught. Now there was a letter addressed to Stonewall Jackson carrying intelligence that was probably at this moment in Union hands. Every day that went by was agony as she waited for the coil to spring out of control.

Chapter 42

Loreta

June 1862

Once again dressed as Harry Buford, Loreta managed to make it through the Union lines to Memphis. The going was rough—at times she found herself crawling through the underbrush, brambles scraping at her face and hands. When she finally reached Confederate lines, she found a picket and told him she had escaped from a New Orleans prison camp. He whistled at the officer in charge, who rode out from the woods and dismounted, scanning her very closely. Loreta stood as tall as she could while knowing her masculine appearance was scanty at best. She tried smoothing her mustache, but touched only skin and realized she’d must have lost her fake facial hair somewhere along the way.

She decided to appeal to the officer’s basest desires. “Sir, I’ve been walking since last evening without food or sleep. I’d love some breakfast.” She pulled out the flask of whiskey Dr. Childs had given her before she left. “Would you like a drink?”

The officer’s eyes widened as he accepted the flask. He took a long drink before handing back the practically empty bottle. He then motioned for Loreta to follow him, leading her through the woods to their camp. Breakfast had already been set, and the captain offered Loreta a place at the table. The meal was as meager as Loreta’s threadbare uniform, but it was the most she had to eat in days.

After breakfast the other soldiers, having heard the news that Loreta was an escaped prisoner, plied her with questions. She filled them in on the capture of New Orleans and what she had seen of their troops on her recent journey. She then showed the captain her arm and told him she was in need of medical care. He directed her to the hospital. Loreta, eager to see Tom at last, even if it was as Harry Buford, set off accordingly.

It had not just been a ploy to be under the same roof as Tom. Although she would have marched through hell to be near him once again, the arduous traveling had taken its toll on Loreta’s injuries, and, after a brief examination, Dr. Hay admitted her to his ward.

After she was settled, her arm re-wrapped, Loreta inquired after Tom.

“You must have some rest,” Dr. Hay chided her.

“No, I must go to him now.”

Dr. Hay indicated the room next door. “He is there, but he too is sleeping. If you give me your name, soldier, I will convey your message.”

Loreta had nearly forgotten she was still dressed as Harry. “Tell him his old friend Lieutenant Buford is next door and is eager to pay his condolences at his earliest convenience.”

Loreta tried to console herself that it would only be a matter of time before she could lay eyes on her long-lost love again, but it was of little help since even then she would not be able to express the depths of her feelings as Harry Buford.

When she was finally permitted to go to him, Captain De Caulp seemed quite glad to see his friend. “Harry, my brother in arms,” he said weakly.

Loreta rushed to his bedside, trying not to cry. She touched his hand for a brief moment and wished she could hold it in hers. “I thought you had died.”

“I almost did. I was parched for water and shrapnel had hit here,” he indicated a spot to the right of his chest with shaking fingers. “And my leg was broken. But they were not mortal wounds and I lived to see more days.”

“How did you end up here?”

“A cavalry regiment nearly trampled me after the retreat was called, but I managed to cry out. A good Samaritan Yank picked me up on his mount and took me back to the Union camp. I never caught his name,” he said with more than a trace of regret. “In the morning I was well enough to escape and found a Confederate camp, and they brought me here.”

“Are you well healed?” Loreta thought she might know the answer, based on Tom’s frail frame and the nearby tureen filled with both pus and blood.

“Mending every day,” was Tom’s meek reply.

“And what of your lady friend? Does she know of your fate?”

“I have written to all of the contacts I know in both New Orleans and Memphis, begging them to tell her I’m here.” He turned to face the wall. “I’m not sure why she does not come to me.”

Loreta’s fragile heart nearly cracked as she realized he was crying. She sat silently until Tom composed himself, wiping his eyes with his sheet and turning back to face her.

Despite his obvious sorrow, Loreta wanted more confirmation that he was truly hers. “You are still in love with her?”

“Yes, I’m still hoping to marry her as soon as we are in contact again. As soon as the doctors pronounce me safe to travel, I will find her.”

“Have you heard that New Orleans has fallen to the Union?”

“I know.” Tom took a deep breath. “I would rescue her from the heavy jowls of General Butler himself if need be.”

“I think you’ve done enough fighting for the present. You deserve to have all the rest you need.”

“I don’t plan on leaving the army unless it is necessary for my health, and even then it would be with great reluctance.” He began coughing. Loreta held the tureen under his chin but he waved it away. “I am determined to get married, even if it costs me my commission. Each day that goes by that I don’t see her, the hole in my heart grows deeper.”

Loreta’s voice was so choked with emotion she could hardly utter her next words. “What if you could see your lady right now?”

The color seemed to immediately return to Tom’s cheeks. “I would give everything I own. Indeed, I would steal the stars from the heavens if I could see Loreta again.”

Just hearing her name from Tom’s lips filled Loreta with a strange combination of glee and anguish. She got to her feet, bidding him goodbye before he could see the turmoil his words had caused. She hurried back to her room hoping he was too drained to notice how abrupt her departure had been.

Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring the floor in front of her and she stumbled the rest of the way to her bed. Although they were tears of joy, the doctor thought that Harry was in great pain and forbade him to leave the room for at least a day.

Loreta tried her best to soothe her aching heart, telling herself that it would not be long before their union and she would never have to feel that degree of angst again.

After she awoke the next morning, she penned a letter to Tom from Loreta, stating that she had arrived in Memphis and would see him as soon as possible. She asked Dr. Hay to deliver the letter right then. She gave Tom a few minutes to process what she had written before entering his room again.

Upon spying her at the door, he spoke with renewed energy, “Ah, Harry, look here.” He waved the note. “She has come, my friend, she will be here soon.”

Loreta entered. Her face was red and her hands were shaking, but Tom did not seem to notice. She was convinced that his love was wholehearted, but that did not mean he might not forsake her when she told him the truth of her identity. She had spent time enough among men to know what their true opinion of a woman’s place was, and it certainly was not on the battlefield.

She had been resolved to tell him, but now that the time was upon her, she scarcely knew how to begin. She pulled a chair next to his cot, speaking low for fear that others might hear. “Captain, before your sweetheart returns to you, I have something to tell you.”

Tom gave her a startled look, evidently fearing whatever it was she had to say would burst his bubble of excitement.

Loreta removed his letter from her coat pocket. “I believe this belongs to you.”

He turned the paper over with obvious confusion. “I sent this in care of my beloved. However did you get it in your possession?” He gave her a weary look, probably wondering if he’d lost another girl to the likes of Harry Buford.

“Captain, you said last night that each day you don’t lay eyes on Loreta, the wound in your heart gets more severe.”

“Yes,” he replied with a touch of impatience.

“Well, I’m here to say it’s at least one day less than you think.”

He continued to stare blankly, obviously not comprehending Loreta’s meaning.

She reached over and took the tintype of herself out of his bedside drawer. “Take a good look at that and tell me if you haven’t seen someone that looks like her in recent days.”

He touched the picture tenderly, still not understanding.

Loreta’s heart was nearly ready to burst. “Do you not think the picture holds a bit of likeness to your friend Harry Buford?”

Finally his face was filled with understanding. He looked deep into her eyes before sinking back to his pillow, gasping for breath.

“Tom?” Loreta begged. “Are you okay?”

He held up a finger, still trying to get air, and then rose up again. “Can it really be possible?”

“Yes.” Loreta grabbed his hand. “It is me, your Loreta, in the flesh and blood. It was I who fought by you at Shiloh, whose heart broke when she saw you fall. I am here now and I won’t ever leave you again.”

His silence was so prolonged that Loreta feared that she had lost him by confessing. “Do you despise me now that you know my secret?”

“No,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I love you more for what you have done for our country.”

Tears again filled Loreta’s eyes.

He put his hand under her chin, turning it upward so she could meet his eyes. “Is it really possible that you have been so far from me, yet so near as well?”

“Yes, my love,” she checked to make sure that no doctors were near. “I love you, Tom.”

“We will marry straightaway then,” he whispered. He was breathing heavily again, and, despite her elation at his reaction, she reminded herself that her beloved was still sick. She did not want her revelation to cause any more toll on his health than was strictly necessary. “Please get some rest.” She held his hand to her lips and kissed it. “We can talk more in a few hours.”

“Yes, my love,” he whispered before succumbing to slumber.

Loreta breathed a deep sigh of relief as she went back to her chamber. It had all felt like a dream: she had a new fiancé in whom she had confided her secret and who loved her more rather than less for it.

Doctor Hay was in the room when she returned. She held up her hand before he could again admonish her for getting out of bed. “It is fine, Doctor. I am much on the mend. In fact, I think I’m ready to be released.”

The doctor shook his head. “No, lieutenant, I think you could use a few more days. Are you so inclined to get back onto the battlefield you would put your health in danger?”

Loreta hid a smile. “I don’t think my beloved would approve of me going back to the battlefield so soon. Or ever again, for that matter.”

He gave her a searching look. “The Confederate army has instituted dire consequences for deserters.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor. I’m not talking about deserting, necessarily.” She changed the subject. “How do you like Captain De Caulp?”

“I think he is a fine gentleman. Why do you ask?”

“I was with him at the Battle of Shiloh, where he behaved like the hero he is.”

“Ah,” Dr Hay replied. “I knew you were acquainted, but didn’t know you had fought together. That explains your close relationship.”

Loreta smiled again to herself, thinking that it didn’t quite explain it, but the doctor’s answer was satisfactory. “Do you think he will be well enough to be released presently?” She held her breath, knowing that Dr. Hay would probably not consent, but he surprised her by agreeing.

Dr. Hay flipped through some paperwork. “He had a hard time recovering at first, especially with the onset of his illness, but, providing nothing occurs to threaten his health as of late, I think he should be ready in a few days.” He eyed her carefully before consenting, “If it pleases you, I can write your discharge papers now.”

“Oh, yes, that would indeed please me greatly. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Good luck, soldier.”

Chapter 43

Belle

July 1862

Belle, still too anxious to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, was sitting out on the balcony of the cottage when she heard hoofbeats of what seemed like dozens of horses. She got to her feet to watch the soldiers in bluecoats approach. The officer in front raised his sword and the squad halted. The chirping of birds and the panting of the horses were the only sounds as the men stared up at Belle. A carriage was brought from the back of the hotel to the front of the cottage, but still no one said anything. She sighed, guessing that the carriage was probably meant for her.

“Miss Belle,” Mauma Eliza called from below. “de Provo’ is here and dere’s two older men wid him.”

Belle’s knees were weak. The hammering of her heart caused her to feel off balance and she grasped the railing as she made her way downstairs.

She immediately identified the men standing in the front room as Front Royal’s provost marshal, Major Maginnis, and Major Francis Sherman. The man on the other side of Maginnis turned. Belle’s gasp was audible as she saw the other man was the one with the black eyes. He pulled a letter from his coat pocket and flipped it open, holding it just in front of Belle’s face so she could read it:

Direct Cridge to come immediately to Washington and bring with him Belle Boyd in close custody, committing her on arrival to the Old Capitol Prison. Furnish him such aid as may need to get her safely here.

It was signed by C.P. Wolcott, the Union’s assistant secretary of war.

Belle met the man’s black eyes. “I suppose you are Mr. Cridge?”

“Yes.” He tucked the letter back into his pocket. “I work with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

“Never heard of them,” Belle swished past him to sit down on the couch, hoping her heartbeat wasn’t audible to the rest of the room.

“But we’ve heard of you,” Cridge said, seating himself opposite of her. “Allan Pinkerton has got quite the file on you already. And he’s informed Mr. Stanton, the secretary of war, of your… actions,” he paused and raised a sleek eyebrow, “Surely you’ve heard of Mr. Stanton?”

Belle nodded.

“He has advised us to imprison you.”

“On what charges?”

Cridge stood. “It was I who sent Smitley to incriminate you. Now if you will excuse me, I must gather some more evidence.”

Belle rose as well, realizing that there were papers that could be construed as traitorous in her room. “Sir, please permit me to make sure the upstairs is in suitable condition for a gentleman.” She spat out the last word so Cridge would not mistake that she thought him the furthest thing from. Cridge did not reply and Belle rose, hurrying to her room. She could hear the detective’s heavy shoes pounding up the stairs. He entered the room right after Belle, pushing past her to search through her drawers, tossing out undergarments and petticoats, before heading over to her desk. Belle was relieved to notice that it was empty of most of her dispatches—Mauma Eliza must have gotten rid of them while they were talking downstairs. After briefly examining the pistol given to her by a Union soldier—the one she was planning on presenting to Stonewall Jackson—he pocketed it along with other various papers.

Satisfied, Cridge turned to Belle. “You must be ready within the hour for the journey to Capital Prison.”

Mauma Eliza made a low noise from the hallway and held a handkerchief up to her face.

Belle adopted a pleading tone. “Can my maid accompany me?”

“You mean your slave? No.”

Mauma Eliza’s cries grew louder and she enveloped Belle in her enormous bosom.

“Within the hour,” Cridge restated as he left the room.

“I’ll be alright, Mauma.” Belle freed herself from her embrace. “Come, help me pack.”

They hurriedly threw the garments Cridge had strewn around the room into Belle’s trunk and then headed back down the stairs, Mauma Eliza openly weeping the entire time. Belle said a tearful goodbye to her before Cridge motioned for the soldiers waiting outside to load Belle’s trunk onto the awaiting carriage. Soldiers and Front Royal citizens crowded the courtyard and the walkway. Some of their faces appeared sympathetic while others looked downright hostile. “Serves you right,” Belle heard Mr. White—the same self-proclaimed Confederate who’d refused to deliver her message to Stonewall Jackson during the Battle of Front Royal—say. Although she felt like breaking down into tears, Belle steeled her heart, not willing to betray any scrap of emotion to her hypocrite neighbors and the enemy soldiers. She took her place inside the carriage while Cridge installed himself in the driver’s seat. Belle heard the crack of the whip and they began to rattle away. Belle moved the curtain back, hoping for one more glance of Mauma Eliza, but the cavalry had surrounded the carriage on both sides. There must be at least 50 of them! Belle marveled. Was she that much of a threat?

Maybe they were so numerous because the local Confederate cavalry were at this moment planning to rescue her. Their fearless leader, Turner Ashby, had been killed in June and perhaps they were hoping to exact revenge by attacking Belle’s escorts. The thought briefly cheered Belle and prevented her from completely breaking down. Her sorrow eventually turned to anger as she recalled that Cridge never replied to her inquiry as to what she was being arrested for. Wasn’t this the Union that was so anxious to fight for the rights of slaves, and yet here they were, imprisoning her without the due process of a hearing or trial?

The conveyance halted. In her past exploits, she had grown quite familiar with the terrain surrounding Front Royal and recognized that they were atop a high hill on the way to Winchester. She saw a familiar tree, but the limbs Belle had once appreciated for their sturdiness seemed to be reaching out to her. A tree suitable for hanging traitors, Belle thought before she pulled the curtain shut.

The carriage and its cavalry escorts arrived at General Julius White’s headquarters outside of Winchester just before dark. Cridge escorted Belle into General White’s tent. The general bowed deeply as Cridge left.

“What do you intend to do with me?” Belle demanded.

“Tomorrow you will travel to the commanding officer in Martinsburg, and he will know more of your fate. You will be able to rest here tonight.”

“I have acquaintances in Winchester. Surely you will permit me to stay with them?”

“Oh no, Miss Belle,” White replied, not unkindly. “I cannot consent to that.”

“I’ve never slept alone in a tent, and here I would be at the mercy of your men. How can I endure such a punishment in the hands of my enemies?”

“Rest assured your ladyship will be in perfect comfort and security.”

Belle wrinkled her nose, trying to think of another reason she could not stay, but gave up.

General White then led her to a dinner table decorated with fine silver and china. Too fine for an army. Belle examined a porcelain plate depicting Daniel Boone as she recalled stories of Yankees looting goods from Rebel homes. She did not have much of an appetite and picked at her food in silence.

After the plates had been cleared, General White summoned for a servant to show Belle to her tent. She hadn’t had much sleep for days, and now that the axe had fallen and her fate had been somewhat decided, Belle was able to fall into a deep sleep.

She was awoken in the night by what sounded like musket shots. A bugle resonated in the distance, soon accompanied by drum beats. Belle lit a candle and opened the flap to the tent. The camp was in chaos as officers, half asleep and tugging at their suspenders, mounted horses and rode to their posts. The Confederate army is here to rescue me!

Belle was gleeful as she took in the scene. A man rushing by shouted at her to put out her candle. “We don’t want to signal the rebels!”

Belle ducked back into her tent, and briefly considered not putting out the light, but eventually consented. She did not want to make it worse for herself if the rebels were not actually coming.

And indeed, they didn’t. In the light of morning, General White informed Belle that a cow had wandered away from its farm. A soldier, not being able to discern the shape, commanded it to halt and then fired when it didn’t obey. Other sentries had followed suit, hence the multiple gunshots Belle had heard. When they discovered the sentries’ mistake, the other soldiers had all retired to their tents. The offending soldier had been assigned to carry a heavy log around camp all the next day.

“And what of the cow?” Belle asked.

“The cow was returned to his farm, unscathed,” the general replied.

After breakfast, Belle was again commanded to return to the carriage and Cridge took his place at the helm. When they arrived in Martinsburg in mid-day, Belle asked the commanding officer there if she could visit home. The officer seemed to be considering, but Cridge replied, “Impossible.” He turned to the officer. “This girl is a known spy and will only cause more trouble if left alone to her own devices.”

“But this is my hometown,” Belle protested. “My family is here.”

Cridge sneered. “I know. I will be paying a visit to your mother’s house myself, to see if you have any more evidence hidden away.” He turned back to the officer in command. “See to it that she has a tent. The train pulls out at two in the morning.”

Not long after Cridge departed, another carriage pulled up and a woman in full mourning dress got out. Despite the heavy black veil disguising the figure’s face, Belle recognized her walk. “Mother!” she cried, forgetting herself and where she was.

“My dear child,” Mother replied after a long, heartfelt embrace. “What is to become of her?” she asked the commanding officer.

“She will lodge here in a tent for a few hours before the train leaves for the Old Capitol Prison in Washington City.”

“Won’t you please allow her to come home for a little while?” Mother begged.

The officer hesitated. “I cannot allow for that. I suppose I can send guards to a hotel and you may stay with her there.”

“Oh, thank you, kind sir,” Belle replied.

Chapter 44

Loreta

July 1862

Loreta rented a room in the Gayoso Hotel, the same hotel that she and Tom had dinner at so long ago, so she could make preparations for their marriage. Both of them wanted a small, quiet affair, especially considering the circumstances. Not to mention Loreta’s recent arrests, which she held back from telling Tom for the time being. They did inform Dr. Hay of the circumstances in order that he could be a witness. The doctor was not as surprised as one might have predicted, confessing that he knew something was “off” about Loreta.

Loreta purchased several dresses as part of her trousseau, choosing a smart gray dress trimmed with blue ribbon to wear during the ceremony. They were married in the parlor of the Gayoso in front of a few soldiers from the hospital. In the end, the couple declined to consummate their marriage that night, thinking it wisest to wait until Tom had recovered a bit more.

The morning after the ceremony, they were just about to depart for breakfast when there was a knock on the door. Loreta opened it to find the desk clerk.

He seemed agitated as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ma’am, we are evacuating the hotel. The Yankees are marching toward Memphis as we speak.”

“The Yanks are coming?” Tom asked, coming to the threshold. “But we just got married.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Union army doesn’t wait for a convenient time to invade.”

Tom nodded as he shut the door. He began packing his army-issued knapsack.

Loreta asked him to untie her corset.

“Why?”

“So I can put my uniform on.”

“Loreta, you are a married woman. You can no longer keep up the guise of being a soldier.”

She turned to face him. “I’m going with you. We are going to fight side by side just like we did at Shiloh.”

“I was almost killed at Shiloh, remember?”

“And you are still not quite recovered. I can make sure you are protected.”

“No. You have served your country well enough, but we both know what life is like in camp. You cannot continue to risk endangering your reputation, nor mine.” The corners of his mouth turned upward, lessening the sting of his words. “I’ll fight twice as hard this time, for the both of us.”

“What will become of me?”

“What about your family?”

Loreta shook her head. “I can’t go back to New Orleans.”

“And your inheritance?”

Loreta shook her head again. She’d spent the last of the money William had left her on her trousseau, and her father had written her out of his will a long time ago.

Tom sat on the bed. “You will go to Richmond. I have a house there. It’s not large, but it is comfortable. You can make it into a home so that when I return we will live out our lives together.” He patted her hand. “And we can finally be together the way God intended.”

Loreta assented, seeing it futile to argue now that Tom was officially her husband. It was true she should not be living a soldier’s life anymore. She helped him to finish packing and kissed him goodbye before shoving the rest of her woman’s clothes into a carpetbag.

Chapter 45

Belle

July 1862

Belle did not have much recollection of departing from her mother nor the train ride to Washington City. She vaguely recalled Cridge sitting across the aisle from her, but not much else. She remained in a sort of half-awake state, doing the minimum to get by, but not much else. All she could think about was how she was leaving her family and friends, her material pleasures—indeed, everyone and everything that she loved, to the will of the enemy.

Belle had once spent a winter in Washington City, and the city had changed little, despite how much the country around it had. The Capitol building was still unfinished and Belle recognized many of the beautiful houses which she had spent time in as a debutante.

The jail of Belle’s final destination had once housed members of Congress during their sessions. Now the brick exterior hid its inmates: smugglers, blockade runners, and political prisoners alike. And a Confederate spy, Belle thought to herself upon arriving.

She was immediately presented to William Wood, the superintendent of the prison. Belle found him to be a short, ugly man in an ill-fitting uniform. “So this is the celebrated Rebel,” he confirmed with a flash of his strange hazel eyes. “I am beyond pleased to welcome a woman of your reputation.”

Belle nodded, unsure of how to interpret his statement.

He continued, “Whatever you desire, ask and you shall have it.”

Belle curtsied and thanked him, thinking perhaps prison life wouldn’t be as horrifying as she predicted.

Wood led her to her cell, informing her that Rose Greenhow’s old cell was on the floor above hers. He promised Belle that she would most likely not be there for long, especially if she became a model prisoner. He placed a small pamphlet on the bedside table before leaving, shutting the door gently behind him.

Belle picked up the pamphlet and traced her finger over the title: Rules and Regulations of the Old Capitol Prison. She flipped through it, her eyes falling on a tenet stating she was to have “no communication whatsoever with fellow prisoners.” She let the document flutter to the floor before glancing up at the cracked ceiling. She’d read of Rose’s imprisonment—the Virginia newspapers had carried stories of starvation and mistreatment of Mrs. Greenhow for months. Belle had thought she’d receive similar treatment, and hoped the Southern newspapers would also make her a martyr. She had not been prepared for a somewhat kindly superintendent and a room that was not so different from the one in her aunt’s cottage. But perhaps if she did not act the “model prisoner,” she’d receive harsher treatment.

She heard the march of boots outside her door. Finding it unlocked, she opened it to see a sentry standing adjacent to her quarters. “Sir,” she commanded.

“Yes, Miss Boyd?”

“I’d like for this fireplace to be lit.”

“But it’s the middle of July.”

“Superintendent Wood told me I could have whatever I desired and I desire a fire to warm my chilled bones and brighten up this dreary room.”

The soldier looked up and down the empty hall. He sighed to himself before entering and did as Belle wished.

“Anything else?” he asked in a sarcastic tone when he had finished.

“I would like a rocking chair.”

The soldier shook his head as he left. Belle went to the window, noting that it offered a view of Pennsylvania Avenue. She recognized one of the houses across the street as belonging to John Floyd, the secretary of war under the previous President James Buchanan. During the winter she had spent in the city, Belle had attended many a party at that house, bedecked in beautiful dresses with her hair neatly pinned. Compared to her memories of the boisterous parties, at which her voice was probably the loudest of them all, the room seemed eerily silent, the crackling of the fire the only other sound besides Belle’s own breathing. The silence was mercifully interrupted when the rocking chair was delivered.

Belle expected a meager dinner of bread and water, but the meal included fresh vegetables as well as meat and potatoes. After dinner, Superintendent Wood knocked on her door. He was accompanied by a man he introduced at Lafayette Baker, who called himself the chief of detectives.

Belle invited them to sit before stating, “I thought a man named Pinkley was the head of the Union secret service.”

“Pinkerton?” Baker waved his hand. “No. He’ll be lucky if he’s not kicked out of Washington City entirely for all the mistakes he’s made. I’m authorized under Secretary of War Stanton.” He unfolded a small notebook and leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve come to get you to make a full confession of what you’ve done to our cause. As we’ve got plenty of proof against you, you might as well acknowledge what you’ve done.” His voice held the twang of a frontiersman.

“Sir,” Belle said. “I have nothing to say.”

“Ain’t you tired of your prison already?”

Belle shook her head. “I will make my statement when you have informed me on what grounds I have been arrested and given me a copy of the charges against me. But not until then.”

Baker dumped a document on her lap. Belle picked it up, holding it between two fingers. It was a copy of the Oath of Allegiance to the United States of America.

Baker began to expound on the implications of Belle’s supposed crimes and finished by saying the South’s cause was hopeless. “Won’t you now take the oath of allegiance? Secretary Stanton has sent me here to ensure that you do.”

Even through Belle’s anger, she saw that the men had left the door standing open. She thought of Rose’s time in prison, and how her vocal denouncement of the Yankees had ended up in the paper. Seized with the sudden desire to emanate her idol even more, Belle declared loudly, “Tell Mr. Stanton that Miss Belle Boyd has stated that when she commences the oath of allegiance to the United States Government, her tongue may cleave to the roof of her mouth.” She took a breath before adding, “If I ever sign one line that will show to the world that I owe the United States Government the slightest allegiance, I hope my arm falls paralyzed by my side.”

Baker’s lower jaw dropped. He gave her a long penetrating look with his colorless eyes before stating, “If this is your resolution, you’ll be here until you are dead. Serves you right.”

Belle raised her head and met his gaze. “Sir, if it is a crime to love the South, its cause, and its esteemed president, then I am a criminal. I am in your power, do with me as you please.” Her voice escalated in sound with every word. “But I fear you not. I would rather lie down in this prison and die than leave it owing allegiance to such a government as yours.” It was time for the crescendo. “Now leave the room for I am so thoroughly disgusted with your conduct towards me that I cannot endure your presence any longer.”

“Bravo!” Both Wood and Baker’s heads turned as cheers echoed up and down the hallway. As intended, Belle’s fellow prisoners had overheard her tirade.

Superintendent Wood turned to Baker. “I think we’ve had enough for tonight. The lady must be tired after her long journey.”

“We will continue this presently,” Baker sneered before leaving, banging the door shut behind him.

Belle paced anxiously around the room. She could feel the presence of past senators, who might have stayed in the very room she was now imprisoned in. Perhaps John C. Calhoun had written his statements favoring the states’ right to secede here. Or perhaps Henry Clay had brainstormed the Compromise of 1850 while staring into her fireplace. Some solution that was—by allowing California to join the Union as a free state while at the same time strengthening the Fugitive Slave Act to please the South, it only delayed the inevitable. What if they had decided to fight it out then and there, way back in 1850? The conflict would have been over already, Belle figured, and she’d be married to a nice Southern man, not completing a prison sentence in the Northern Capital. But there’s no use in dwelling on what might have beens.

The combination of her stressful pacing and the activities of the past few days exhausted her. As she lay down in the cramped bed, the earlier exchange with Baker replayed in her head. She was quite pleased with the outcome: though Baker had left furious, Superintendent Wood had appeared bemused. Belle closed her eyes and recited lines from a poem her father used to read to her:

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

A free and quiet mind can take

Those for a hermitage.

Chapter 46

Hattie

August 1862

More and more prisoners taxed the already overcrowded Castle Godwin. At the end of the summer, Hattie was informed that she was being transferred to the newly appropriated Castle Thunder. The latest addition to Richmond’s military prisons was located a few blocks from the notorious Libby Prison and consisted of three buildings. Hattie was installed in the former Whitlock’s warehouse, along with about 100 other female prisoners, mostly women like her who were accused of being spies or “suspicious characters” as well as escaped slaves.

Hattie’s new roommate was a loquacious older woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Francis Abel Jamison of New York. After asking Hattie to call her Frankie, she revealed that she had followed her husband to war and had fought for the Union in the Battle of Bull Run, but after he was killed, she had left the army to become a nurse. Finally, she concluded by stating that she’d been in prison since October of last year.

“Under what pretense?” Hattie asked.

“I was still in male disguise, so they arrested me.” She puffed out her chest. “It took them a while to figure out that I was a woman.”

Frankie could curse like a man and often directed her vitriol at the guards, who were not quite sure what to do with her. Hattie was more amused by her than anything else. As the weeks dragged by, Frankie tried to suss out “Mrs. Webster’s” story, to no avail.

One day as Frankie was telling another one of her stories, a guard dropped a packet on the floor.

Frankie paused her diatribe to demand what was in the packet.

“Letters for Mrs. Webster,” the guard remarked.

Frankie raised her eyes at Hattie. “From your family?”

Hattie shook her head as she picked up the packet and untied the ribbon. There were six envelopes in all, addressed to her at Castle Godwin, and dating back to April.

“Who is Major Lawton?” Frankie asked, picking up one of the envelopes.

Hattie snatched it back. “An acquaintance of my husband’s.”

She easily opened the first one, for the seal had already been broken. The single page inside contained multiple creases, evidence that at least one other pair of eyes had read it. Hattie scanned the letter before letting it drop to the floor. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Frankie picked it up and began reading.

My Dear Auntie,

I am sorry for not writing before, but I was not sure whether you would be able to receive my letters. The Yanks scour all letters addressed to Richmond, especially to prisoners. You’ll be happy to hear that my sister, your niece, Susannah, is on the mend.

Yours affectionately,

Hugh Lawton

Frankie set the letter down. “What’s wrong with that? It sounds like your niece is doing better.”

“I don’t have a niece, nor a nephew for that matter.”

Frankie narrowed her eyes. “So this supposed nephew or, acquaintance of your husband…” She picked up the letter again. “Where have I heard the name Lawton before?” A look of understanding came to Frankie’s face. She went to the door of their room and opened it, looking out to see that there were no guards in the vicinity before she walked back and dug her fingers between her bosom, muttering to herself.

Hattie watched her, bewildered both by the mystery letter and Frankie’s actions. Her roommate finally pulled a tiny bottle out of her décolletage. She put the letter on the desk and turned her back toward the door, blocking what she was doing to anyone outside of their cell. Hattie stood and watched over Frankie’s shoulder as she uncapped the vial and smeared a cream-colored liquid onto the paper. Soon words appeared in the blank space at the bottom of the letter.

My Dear Mrs. Webster,

I have heard about the dire circumstances of Mr. Webster and I want to extend my sincerest apologies. Rest assured that our previous activities resulted in stopping our enemy’s naval attempts. I hope that your fate has not turned you against such future activities, and if not, I look forward to working with you again. I also want you to know that our authorities are attempting to secure your release.

The signature remained unchanged.

Frankie and Hattie turned to each other. “How did you—” they both started at once.

“Well, well, well.” Frankie stated. “You are definitely not what you claim. You were aware of your husband’s activities as a spy for the Union?”

“He wasn’t my husband,” Hattie finally admitted. “And why do you have that with you?” She gestured toward the vial Frankie had curled in her hand.

Frankie cocked an eyebrow. “I too am a Union spy. Sometimes the best way to avoid suspicion is to act as dubiously as you can.”

Hattie didn’t think it necessary to retort that Frankie had apparently done a poor job of avoiding suspicion, seeing as she was currently in prison.

“I’ve heard the name Lawton before.” Frankie whistled a low note. “He’s a fine man, in multiple ways.”

“He’s—”

“I know, I know. He was an acquaintance of the man who wasn’t your husband.” Frankie picked up another letter off the floor. “Let’s see what else he had to say.”

Hugh’s next correspondence contained terse remarks regarding the leadership in Washington City, stating that “the men in charge are never in agreement.” Consequently, he was having a hard time obtaining clemency for Hattie.

“By men in charge he must mean McClellan and Lincoln,” Hattie mused.

“McClellan. What an ingrate,” Frankie said. “And his lackey Pinkerton, he only served to confirm McClellan’s whining.”

“Pinkerton was my boss.”

“That stooge?” Hattie cringed at her coarse words as Frankie continued, “Why’d you work for him?”

Hattie knitted her eyebrows. “You didn’t?”

“Nah. Pinkerton’s not the only one claiming to be in charge of Washington City’s detectives.” She nodded at Hugh’s letter. “And with the kind of mistakes he’s been making, his good friend McClellan shouldn’t be head of the Army of the Potomac for much longer.”

“Pinkerton’s a good man, and a good boss.”

“He might have been a good detective, but he’s terrible at gathering military intelligence.” Frankie paused and tilted her head. “I think someone’s coming.”

Hattie hurriedly gathered up the packet of letters and stuffed them under the mattress while Frankie replaced the vial into its hiding spot between her breasts.

“Dinner is served,” the guard outside called roughly.

“I wouldn’t exactly call a bowl full of boiled beef and month-old bread, ‘dinner,’” Frankie returned, winking at Hattie as she did so. The guard opened the door, stepping aside for a black man to deliver the buckets stocked with their meal.

After Frankie shoveled her food down, and Hattie forced herself to eat what she could, they decoded the rest of Hugh’s letters. They were filled with more updates on the war, filling Hattie in on the progress made in Tennessee and McClellan’s defeat by the newly appointed commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, Robert E. Lee.

“Now there’s a gallant man if I ever laid eyes on one,” Frankie commented.

“Lee? He’s a Confederate.”

“He nearly was Union, and I rue the day he chose them over us. I would have left my husband for him quicker than you could say, ‘Southern gentleman.’ But you’re right, he was on the wrong side of the war,” Frankie added, as if that was the only reason she and Lee hadn’t realized their true potential. “Now about you and Major Lawton…”

Hattie faked a yawn. “The events of the day have me exhausted.”

Frankie waved Hugh’s last letter. “I think I have enough solution left to translate one more.” She accordingly wet the paper and then leaned closer, frowning. “There’s nothing else written.” She tossed the letter at Hattie, who read the visible version.

My Dear Auntie,

As I haven’t heard from you, I can’t help but fear the worst. News from Richmond has become scarce, and I am concerned for your safety. I know that you cannot get word to your family about your welfare, but I wish for you to know that I think about you daily and will be anxiously waiting your release.

Yours affectionately, as always,

Hugh Lawton

His words needed no translation and, after tucking that letter on top of the others under her mattress, Hattie slept well for the first time in a long time, dreaming of the day when she and Hugh would be united at last.

Chapter 47

Belle

August 1862

Despite the ban on socializing, Belle quickly made friends with her fellow captors. The few who hadn’t heard her outburst on that first night soon learned about her through prison gossip, and they slipped her little presents of candy, flowers, and even tiny Confederate flags that had been smuggled into the Old Capitol prison.

In typical fashion, she won the hearts of even her guards: the sentry who guarded her door during the day permitted her to sit in the doorway of her room and sing. The sentry barely batted an eye when Belle sung tried-and-true favorites such as “Dixie” and “Maryland, My Maryland!” Despite the best efforts of the music teachers at Mount Washington, her voice was forever tuneless but she sang as though she was pouring out her soul with every word. Prisoners of both Northern and Southern sentiments seemed to be transfixed by the melancholy sound of Belle’s voice.

The nighttime sentry, however, was not so amused, especially when other prisoners began joining Belle’s singing, shouting the words, She spurns the Northern Scum, at the top of their lungs.

“You girl,” he sneered when his patrolling brought her to her doorway. “Stop that singing.”

Belle rose from her rocking chair conveniently positioned just inside the door. “I shan’t do so and you can’t make me.”

He stared her down. Belle saw that he was a young man, perhaps even younger than herself. She grabbed a nearby broom and swept at the path just recently tread by the sentry, singing the stanza even louder than before.

The sentry walked away, muttering to himself about “damned rebels.”

Belle, being the only woman in the prison, had the room to herself while others shared a cell with up to ten other men. The loneliness began to weigh heavily on her. She was used to gallivanting all over the Shenandoah Valley—remaining indoors was the most torturous part about the prison. She prevailed Superintendent Wood to let her walk in the prison yard accompanied by a guard, but even Wood could not grant her this simple request, claiming it was ordered by the secretary of war himself that she stay confined inside.

The only instances she was allowed out of her room were Sunday mornings, when Wood would pace the hallways, calling, “All ye who want to hear the Lord God preached by Jeff Davis, go down to the yard, and all ye who want to hear the Lord God preached by Abe Lincoln, go to Room 16.” The other prisoners would clamor to be near her in the courtyard, and those that lost out would doff their hats upon making eye contact with her or reach for her hand as she passed by them. Belle would touch them briefly, as though she were a queen walking among her subjects.

Belle’s window faced I-Street. Whenever she heard soldiers marching, she quickly rushed to the window, sometimes interrupting her own singing, to taunt the boys in blue walking by, shouting inquiries as to where they were coming from or where they were off to.

The reply was nearly always the same: “Hush you damned rebel or I’ll shoot you.”

“Then shoot me,” Belle would command. “What are you doing, marching down the street when there’s a war to fight and Stonewall’s waiting for you on the other side of the Potomac?” Sometimes she would instigate things further, telling them that all they had left after being driven out of the Shenandoah by the men of Virginia was to pick on defenseless women. The fact that their abusive and derogatory language was better suited to a brothel than a public street further convinced Belle that these Union soldiers were no gentlemen.

New captives would arrive daily. Their presence was usually announced by one of the prisoners whose window faced Pennsylvania Avenue, shouting “Fresh Fish!” The seasoned prisoners would then all crowd around the window and watch the reoccurring scene of a new enemy of the state being escorted by a sentry or detective into the Old Capitol Prison. One day Belle was astonished to see that the newcomer was none other than Clifford McVay, one of her former beaus from before the war. She’d heard that he’d been wounded during the Peninsula Campaign. His fellow comrades had left him for dead, and, having recovered from his wounds, he became a federal prisoner.

Her favorite sentry happened to be on duty the evening he arrived. As McVay was escorted to the cell directly across from hers, Belle stood in the open doorway and sang “My Southern Soldier Boy” in the most seductive tones she could manage. Belle was pleased to see McVay pause just inside his open door. As she began the final stanza, Belle held up one arm and, with the other, slipped off her right glove and held it between her fingers before dropping it to the floor. She peeked to make sure the guard’s back was turned. As McVay watched, Belle wrapped a note around a marble. She began a new refrain as she bent down, making sure McVay caught a view of her décolletage and then rolled the marble across the hall. McVay stopped it with his foot. He finally broke Belle’s gaze to pick up the note and read it, his lips forming a smile. He winked at Belle as he left his place by the doorjamb just as the sentry passed by. A few minutes later, he reappeared and held up the marble before sending it back across to Belle. Belle unwrapped the slip of paper. She had written, “I’m glad to see you are making a recovery.”

McVay had written, “I’m glad to see you,” in return. He signed it, “Clifford.”

Belle and Clifford continued their marble rolling for the next few nights, their notes becoming increasingly more familiar with each return. It became a sort of game: they’d roll when the sentry’s back was turned. He’d hear it and quickly look for the offending noise, but by then the marble had made it to its destination.

After three nights, Clifford asked Belle for her hand in marriage. Belle refused, and the same the next night. It was a Southern tradition to refuse a man twice before accepting. The morning of what Belle assumed would be the third and final proposal, she demanded an appointment with Superintendent Wood.

“What may I do for you, Miss Boyd?” he asked when she entered his office.

“I am going to be engaged to a Rebel officer and would like to speak with you about my trousseau.”

If Superintendent Wood was surprised to hear of her impending betrothal, his facial expression did not betray it. “Your trousseau?”

“We wished to be married as soon as possible, and circumstances being as they are, it is very difficult to secure proper wedding attire.” Belle handed him a list of her desired items: a gown with white lace and pink ribbon trim, an underskirt with beaded ruffles, and a velvet cloak.

Wood looked over the demands. His hand was placed over his mouth but Belle detected the hint of a smile. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Miss Boyd.”

That night another admiring prisoner sent Belle a sugar loaf. One of her least favorite guards was on duty, but when Belle asked if she could deliver the cone of sugar to Clifford, he gave his consent.

Belle marched across the hall and knocked on the door. Clifford answered. Belle gave him a deep curtsy, rotating her shoulders for optimum décolletage viewing. When she rose, she held out the proffered sugar loaf.

The sentry was immediately at her side. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Giving a gift to my love, just as you said I could,” Belle replied.

As Clifford reached out to accept the sugar, the sentry hit his musket against Belle’s hand, causing her to drop the loaf. Refined sugar sprinkled all over the floor as Belle held up her sore hand to her lips, tears forming in her eyes.

“Keep your hands off of her!” Clifford shouted.

Belle faced the guard. “You said—”

“You did not tell me that he was your love. It’s bad enough there are Rebel scum like you two. The last thing we need is for you to produce more of them.”

Belle started to bend forward to retrieve what was left of the fallen loaf but the sentry blocked her with the bayonet of his musket. “Go back now, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Belle folded her arms over her chest, enjoying loud protests from Clifford and his roommates. The guard pinned her against the wall, his bayonet stuck through the lace sleeves of her dress like a dart. Belle felt a sharp pain in her upper arm. She began to scream, prompting the prisoners to shout even louder. More guards rushed to the scene. One of them shoved her attacker away while another released Belle. She touched her arm where the pain was and her hand came away with blood. Shocked, Belle screamed again. The guard nearest her ripped open her sleeve. Belle tried shoving him, but he was a large, solid man. “Quiet, girl, I’m trying to see where the blood is coming from.”

Belle yanked her arm away and stepped back to examine herself. The bayonet had sliced a small wound shaped like a half moon through her upper arm. The scar that eventually formed after it healed became Belle’s favorite testament to her work during the war.

The next morning, Belle was awakened by Superintendent Wood’s shouting. She tried to focus as she overheard her name.

“What was that?” she asked, coming to the door with a sheet thrown over her sleeping outfit.

“You are to be sent through the lines to be turned over to General Dix starting tomorrow. You’ve been set free.”

“How?”

“Prisoner exchange. Rebels for true union men. Seems the Confederates have one of our women spies among them, so it’s an even trade.” Wood walked off.

“Miss Belle?” Clifford was standing in his doorway.

Belle tightened the sheet around and strolled over. “Yes, Cliff?”

“I never did get to ask you in person to marry me. I was going to ask you agin’ via marble last night but then that,” Clifford’s hands tightened and he took a deep breath. “I was fixing to kill that man if he hurt you any further.”

“Oh no, Cliff. You would have ended up in solitary confinement, or probably worse.”

“Will you wait until I can get out of here? Then we can have a proper wedding.”

“We probably can’t have a proper wedding until after the war is over.” Belle chose her words carefully, not wanting to commit to marriage now that she was going to be set free. Cliff was a handsome, dashing man, but he was still a prisoner and Belle was sure she had many more adventures ahead of her. After Belle left the Old Capitol Prison, she never saw Clifford McVay again.

A crowd of well-wishers and reporters had gathered outside the Old Capitol Prison the morning of Belle’s release. Belle used her now-perfected queenly manner to wave at them as she made her way to her carriage.

“God bless you, Miss Belle,” one woman shouted. She used the hand of the babe in her arms to blow kisses to Belle and the prisoners who had been released with her. The carriage proceeded to the riverboat, the Juaniata, which set sail down the Chesapeake Bay toward Virginia. Belle could see Union ships all down the Bay, preparing an attack on Richmond, Belle assumed. Despite the presence of the enemy all around them as well as onboard, the ex-prisoners on the Juaniata were in a jolly mood and the afternoon and night was filled with singing. Belle joined in many of the songs. When the ship headed up the James River, a Confederate flag proudly waving outside someone’s home came into view and someone called for “three cheers for Jefferson Davis.” Belle’s ebullient calls were louder than any of the men’s.

She stayed in Richmond’s finest hotel, the Ballard House. When she arrived in her room, she found a brown package sitting on her bed. The card on top read, “Complements of Superintendent Wood.” Inside was every piece of the trousseau she’d requested.

Chapter 48

Mary Jane

September 1862

Despite the cheering news of Union successes in the deep South during the early summer, in late August, the second Battle of Manassas ended with a Confederate victory.

The Davises decided to host a ball in honor of the occasion. Mrs. Davis declared that it was important to let the belles of Richmond see that there were still eligible men available. Mrs. Davis’s young sister, Maggie, insisted that there were absolutely no suitable bachelors left during dinner one night. “There are some towns where the only males left are younger than 16 and older than 65,” she stated, twirling a piece of brunette hair in her finger.

“That cannot possibly be true,” Mrs. Davis retorted.

“Yes, sister, you’re right. There is the occasional invalid and amputee to add to the mix.”

Mr. Davis looked up from his plate. “If you had to choose between a man with an empty shirtsleeve and a man who stayed home to grow rich from the war, I would say you should take the hero with the empty sleeve.”

This time Mrs. Davis borrowed sabers from soldiers to decorate the parlor walls, and masked the worn damask couches with bright slipcovers in red and white. She draped every remaining surface with Confederate flags and even commissioned a local artist to draw the Stars and Bars in colored chalk on the linen rug covering the parlor floor.

In a world where unprecedented carnage and destruction had become the new normal, the Southerners’ sense of humanity seemed to be restored, at least for a few hours. As Mary Jane watched the soldiers—many of them in the empty shirtsleeves and legless pants Maggie had predicted—twirl women dressed in patched gowns and homemade palmetto bonnets, she marveled at how careless they seemed, clinging to a past that didn’t want them anymore. Like Nero hosting a ball while Rome burned.

As the night grew late, the dancers completely annihilated the chalk flag: the blue, white and red pigments becoming affixed to the ladies’ slippers and men’s boots and then scattering in a sudden gust of wind.

Chapter 49

Belle

September 1862

Although Richmond held many social and fashionable attractions, Belle longed for home. Martinsburg was again in Confederate hands which meant that travel would be safe enough. She sent word to her father, who arrived promptly to escort her. He had been given leave from the army and indeed he looked sickly: thinner, his age showing with each painful step he took using his new cane.

They arrived back in Martinsburg to the news that Lincoln had issued a preliminary Emancipation Proclamation after the Battle of Antietam, warning the Southerners that the slaves of the Confederacy would be “thenceforward, forever free,” if the states did not return to the Union by January 1.

After reading the latest headline, Belle’s father folded the paper and tossed it across the dining room table. “So the war indeed is about them.”

The weary tone in his voice made Belle’s anger swell. “It was always about them, though the Yanks would have you believe it was about preserving the country. And besides Father, Lincoln can declare everyone free until he is blue in the face. It means nothing to the Confederacy. We are ruled by our own president.”

He nodded. “Indeed.”

Belle set out the next morning for Stonewall Jackson’s headquarters. She wore her favorite riding habit: it was cut close to show off her curves and Rebel gray in color. She carried a gold saber knot intended as a present for the general in her bodice, underneath her palmetto brooch.

Belle rode the eight miles from town, her anxiety mounting. She hoped that General Jackson would remember meeting her as well as praise her for the deeds she had done for the South. After she arrived at camp, she told an aide that Belle Boyd was there to see the general.

More uneasy minutes ticked by until at last Stonewall stepped from his tent. “God bless you my child!” he exclaimed, placing his hands on her head as though he was a priest. “I was horrified to hear of your imprisonment.” His hands dropped back to his side.

“Yessir, although I was happy to serve in the name of the Confederacy.”

“Ah, but Miss Boyd, if our army evacuates the area, you will once again be in danger. Take heed, it will be worse if the Yankees capture you again. You should travel deeper South. Take the time to drink in all of the beautiful scenery our great country has to offer.”

“Will you send word if you have to leave?” Belle asked, hoping to have a place in the general’s thoughts.

“Indeed I will, but you must hasten back home now. God bless you,” he said again.

On the way back to Martinsburg, Belle saw a young soldier painfully stumbling along the road on bare feet. She quickly removed her own leather ankle boots and handed them down to him.

“You’re wasting your pretty boots,” another soldier called. “We won’t be pullin’ them off his dead body to send them back to ya.”

Belle glared at the speaker. “If my shoes rest his poor young feet only a little while, I am repaid.” She turned back to the boy. “You’re not old enough to be away from your mother.”

“Yes’m,” the boy replied. He held up the boots and grinned. “Thank ye, miss.”

Belle rode the rest of the way home barefoot.

A few days later, Belle received a letter from Stonewall Jackson, telling her that Martinsburg was no longer safe for her. He advised her to go visit family further South, signing his letter, “Truly your friend, TJ Jackson.” Belle heeded his advice and left for Knoxville.

Chapter 50

Loreta

October 1862

Soon after Loreta arrived in Richmond, General Winder declared that he was placing the city under martial law. He forbade liquor to be sold, and residents were forced to give up their weapons. He employed a group of men, who quickly became known as Winder’s Plug Uglies, to enforce his laws.

While Loreta was mostly unaffected by these new circumstances, she chafed at life as a housewife. The Richmonders had heard of her arrest and refused to socialize with her, fearing the Plug Uglies would accuse them of being a suspicious person. Consequently, Loreta was relentlessly bored.

Tom’s letters were her only solace. He was posted in Corinth under General Braxton Bragg. At first his descriptions made her miss the action of a soldier’s life even more, but his later writing took on a bitter tone. The recently passed amendment to the Conscription Act, or as Tom called it, the Twenty-Slave Law, had created a lot of tension among the Confederate soldiers, who began referring to the conflict dividing the nation as a “rich man’s war, poor man’s fight.” The conscripted soldiers, forced to battle when they had no wish to do so, were deserting every day. Those that were caught were whipped and sometimes even shot. Tom called General Bragg an “inhumane tyrant,” complaining that none of the soldiers ever had enough to eat and coffee and whiskey had been outlawed. The last letter Tom sent related that the Yankees were advancing toward Corinth and he was worried because the starved troops were in no condition to fight.

And then everything went silent. After not hearing from him for a few weeks, Loreta tried to make inquiries with the Richmond authorities as to her husband’s whereabouts, but could not get any information.

When a uniformed soldier appeared on her doorstep one afternoon, Loreta’s heart leapt into her throat. She invited him in with trepidation, expecting him to tell her that Tom was dead. As the soldier opened his mouth to speak, it seemed to Loreta that time slowed down.

“I’m sorry?” Loreta asked. “Can you repeat that?”

“I am here to place you under arrest.”

It took a moment for Loreta to reset her brain. When she finally replied, it felt as though her mouth was full of sawdust. “Whatever for?”

“You have been accused of being an alien enemy.”

“But I’ve just recently arrived in Richmond.”

“Exactly.”

As the soldier escorted her to the headquarters of the provost marshal, Loreta figured it was just a simple misunderstanding. General Winder was out, so Loreta pleaded with his assistant, playing on the fact that she was an innocent woman.

The assistant marshal laughed. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Mrs. De Caulp. Or should I refer to you as Lieutenant Buford?”

Shocked, Loreta sat back, realizing her fate had been sealed.

They sent her to Castle Thunder. The man in charge there was Captain Alexander, a well-toned brute who had the reputation of favoring prisoners who had the means to bribe him. After introducing herself to the captain, Loreta cooed over his black bloodhound, bending over to pet him.

“His name’s Nero,” Alexander told her, pride obvious in his voice.

“He’s very charming,” Loreta said, straightening and surreptitiously wiping her hands on her skirts. “Now, Captain, I’m here to see about arranging for the finest prison suite you have.”

“I think it can be arranged… for the right price.” Alexander held out his hand.

Loreta turned away, feigning deep anguish. “You don’t understand. My husband’s missing, and I am but a poor woman.”

“And a suspected traitor,” Alexander added.

“Oh, but sir, that is not true. In fact, I’ve risked my life multiple times for the cause.” She relayed her story, from living through moments of near-death on the battlefield, to being a courier in New Orleans, to nearly losing the man she loved.

Captain Alexander finally relented and gave Loreta a private cell. He also granted her permission to roam the prison freely. The first full day she was there, she received an invitation to Alexander’s “citizens’ room.” She entered it to find a sort of game room, complete with second-hand billiard and card tables. She strolled to an empty chair at a poker table and told the dealer to cut her in.

“With what money?” he replied.

Loreta took off her boot and emptied it on the table. A few Confederate dollars and coins came out. She shoved one of the coins into the center of the table and glared at the man who spoke.

He shoved his unruly blonde hair out of his eyes before reaching a thin arm across the table. “Charles Dunham.”

She shook his hand with a touch of Harry’s finesse. “Loreta De Caulp.”

He pointed his thumb at the other men and introduced them before asking why she was there.

“I’m not sure,” she said, picking up her cards. “It could be any number of reasons.” She used the down time in between raising and calling to repeat the story she’d told Captain Alexander.

“Where is your husband now?” Dunham asked when she’d finished.

Loreta looked down at her cards and frowned. “I believe he is dead. His injuries were the type that would have slowed him in battle.” She shoved the rest of her dollars to the middle of the table. “Raise.”

“What was his name?” Dunham asked. He furtively reassembled his cards before putting them face down on the table. “I have a lot of connections and can make some inquiries as to his fate when I am finally released.”

“Captain Thomas De Caulp.”

Loreta watched his lips move as he repeated the name. He looked at his cards again and then sprinkled his own coins into the pile. “I’ll see you and raise you ten more.”

The only other player left in his game put his cards down. “Too rich for my blood.”

Loreta’s hand was terrible, but she had no intention of folding. “I’ll see your ten and I call.” She nodded at Dunham, who flipped an ace over. She revealed a pair of sevens. Although they had both been bluffing, the pot went to Loreta. As she leaned over to collect her money, she couldn’t help notice Dunham staring at her. She dropped her new booty into her shoe before bidding the men good-day.

The next afternoon, Loreta was summoned to Captain Alexander’s office.

“Mrs. De Caulp, can I talk freely?” he asked as he pushed a pile of paperwork aside.

“Of course, Captain,” Loreta said, taking the seat he proffered her.

“I wanted to warn you about the man you’ve been seen with recently.”

“Mr. Dunham?”

Captain Alexander nodded. “Or Sandover Conover, James Wallace, or any of the other aliases he uses.”

Loreta leaned forward. “I don’t understand.”

“The man is a reporter and writes under multiple names. Although he claims he is a Southerner, he writes articles for newspapers on both sides. He’s even used one pen name to outright argue against things he himself has written.”

“Why would he do that?”

Alexander heaved his large shoulders. “Who knows? No one is quite sure to which side he pledges his allegiance. That is, if he has any loyalty at all.”

“I had no idea.”

Alexander reached over to pet Nero. “Neither did General Winder until the Union called for his arrest. Our informants in Washington City passed on his dossier, which included the pen name he uses to write for the Richmond Examiner. Somehow he is able to travel back and forth through the lines indiscriminately.”

Loreta stood. “Thank you for the warning, Captain Alexander. I will be more cautious in my interactions with him from now on.”

Alexander held up his hand. “That’s not the only thing I wanted to speak with you about. I’ve been thinking about what you told me about your exploits in New Orleans.”

Loreta sat down again. “What about them?”

“It sounds to me like you have great talent as a spy.”

Loreta beamed, pleased her work had finally been noticed.

“If you want, I can write you a letter of introduction to General Winder,” Alexander continued. “I believe that you would be a great asset to his core of secret service detectives.”

“Oh yes sir, please do.” Loreta bestowed a wide grin upon the prison commander. “Nothing would please me more.”

Two weeks after Loreta entered Castle Thunder, Captain Alexander came in personally to tell her that she had been released.

Even Nero’s ears perked at Loreta’s sigh of relief. “General Winder must have finally realized he had no reason to keep me prisoner.”

“He’s requested to meet you, actually,” Captain Alexander replied. “He must have received my note.”

“I’ll go right away,” Loreta declared.

Captain Alexander stepped into her cell. “Just be careful, Mrs. De Caulp. The old man has a reputation for being so adept at double-dealings you won’t realize for weeks that you’ve been deceived.”

Contrary to the captain’s warning, Loreta found General Winder to be a rather pleasant looking gentleman, with bright white hair and a kind face.

Loreta curtsied and began to introduce herself, but Winder held up his hand. “No need to exchange pleasantries. I know who you are as surely you are familiar with me.”

Loreta sat down. “Yes, sir.”

His voice was low and gravelly, reminding Loreta of Nero’s growl. “I’m told you are looking for employment.”

Loreta folded her hands. “I am anxious to continue my service to the Confederacy.”

“Is that so?” his gray eyes looked skeptical. “Are you aware that your slave escaped North after Shiloh?”

“Bob?” Loreta looked down and, noticing her knuckles turning white, released her hands and flexed her fingers. “I didn’t know that.”

“And your husband, Mrs. De Caulp. Do you know where he is?”

She looked up. “No, sir.”

The left side of his lip curled. “If you want to prove to me that you are capable of reconnaissance, the first thing you need to do is locate the whereabouts of your husband.”

Loreta nodded and stood, marveling at how quickly General Winder’s pleasant demeanor had completely disappeared. As she took her leave, she realized she was more than a little afraid of him.

Chapter 51

Hattie

December 1862

Hattie's situation in Castle Thunder grew even worse. The prison commander, Captain Alexander, was horribly abusive to those he didn’t favor. Although Hattie and even Frankie managed to stay out of his way, they were forced to witness the wrath of his anger when he ordered men to be hung by their thumbs in the courtyard. At night Hattie would try to cover her ears with a pillow to drown out the screams of men being whipped or beaten.

She wrote to everyone she could think of, from Jefferson Davis to Judah Benjamin to General Winder, to no avail. She even penned a few letters to Kate, knowing that she’d never be able to get them North. As she’d received no more letters from Major Lawton, she feared he had finally been captured, or worse, hanged.

Finally, in December, the captain informed both Hattie and Frankie that their release had at last been secured and that they, along with a few other prisoners, were to be escorted back to Washington City by boat the very next day.

Hattie had never been so pleased to see an American flag as she was when she saw one flapping in the breeze on the boat that would take them across the Potomac.

She spent the entire crossing restless. She’d been in Confederate territory since she crossed the wide river with Timothy almost a year ago. As far as she knew, her friend’s body still lay behind her, buried in an enemy land. Her main objective now that she was free was to avenge Timothy’s death, but she had no idea how to go about doing so. She supposed she would resume her position at the Pinkerton Detective Agency, but, considering that the Confederates knew her as Mrs. Webster, she would not be able to work undercover in the South anymore. Which was just as well, as she was not anxious to go back any time soon.

Frankie soon became seasick and sought refuge below deck. Hattie refused to be confined anymore and relished the cold winter air at the bow of the boat. As they approached land, Hattie, catching sight of people waiting at the wharf, felt lonely: there wouldn’t be anyone there to greet her. She had no family to speak of, and most of her co-workers had been executed or jailed.

But as soon as she disembarked, an almost empty carpetbag in her hand, she saw a familiar figure standing on the dock: Hugh Lawton.

She dropped her bag and ran straight into his embrace. After what seemed like an eternity, he held her at arm’s length. “Hattie, I’m so sorry. I wanted so badly to visit you in prison, but I couldn’t get a pass.”

It was all so overwhelming: finally being back on Union soil and seeing Hugh standing before her, that Hattie had a hard time focusing. “It’s okay, Hugh. I understand.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course not. You could have been killed for associating with a Union spy. There are enough dead and guilty men at my feet. I don’t need any more.” She meant the comment to be light, but her voice choked up at the end.

They began walking down the dock, hand in hand.

“I love you.” He said it so casually that at first Hattie wasn’t sure if she heard him right.

“What?”

“I’ve loved you since I helped you escape from your husband all those years ago.”

She stopped to face him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I knew I was going to go along with John Brown’s raid and your marriage wasn’t officially ended. Once you decided to stay in Chicago, I didn’t know if we’d ever meet again. And then, after Timothy… well, I thought you might hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?”

“I tried to get you out of prison, but I didn’t know how. After we tried… we tried to save Timothy…” For the first time since she’d known him, Hattie saw Hugh’s finely sculpted plaster crack. He enveloped her in his arms, burying his face in her hair. “I’m so sorry, Hattie. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He pulled away to look into her eyes. “Do you?”

Hattie met his gaze. “I do.”

His grin filled his face. “What shall we do now? My Southern instincts are telling me that I should ask your family permission for your hand in marriage, but I know that’s not necessary in your case.”

“My husband…” Hattie said softly.

“He’s dead.”

“How do you—”

Hugh pulled out a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “Antietam. He had fought for the Confederates. I made some inquiries once I heard you were being released.”

“You checked up on me?”

“And I bought you this.” He again reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny ring. He got down on one knee. “Carrie Stevens, or Hattie Lewis, or whatever your name is… will you marry me?”

“Yes, I will, Hugh Lawton.”

“Then come with me.” He took her hand and started back for the boat.

“Where are we going?”

“The captain can marry us.”

“Now?”

“I waited all of this time for you to be released—I’m not going to let you get away now or ever.” He paused walking. “Is that okay?”

She laughed. “Yes, let’s get married.”

Frankie was exiting as the two stepped onto the boat. She put her hands on her hips, still green from her earlier bout with seasickness. “Hugh Lawton, what are—”

“C’mon,” Hattie told her as they breezed past. “You can be our witness.”

Half an hour later, after they’d once again stepped onto the dock, Frankie and the new Mrs. Lawton looked around, both wondering what would happen next.

“I’d like to meet with Allan Pinkerton,” Hattie stated. “There are some things we need to discuss.” Namely Pryce Lewis and John Scully. To Hattie’s knowledge they were both still in prison in Richmond.

Hugh shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that, with McClellan’s firing from the Army of the Potomac, Pinkerton returned to Chicago.”

“And Kate Warne?”

Hugh furrowed his brow. “Some of his operatives stayed on to work for Lafayette Baker, but I think Mrs. Warne went with Pinkerton.”

Hattie bit her lip, thinking that all of her friends had indeed abandoned her. As if he could read her mind, Hugh touched her cheek and stated, “Hattie, you have me now.”

“Well I’d like to meet with Stanton,” Frankie announced. “I’d like to ask the secretary of war why it took so long to set us free.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Hugh started walking up the dock. “We’ve been trying to negotiate your release for months. You were supposed to be exchanged for Belle Boyd, a Confederate spy, but she was released in August.”

“That strumpet?” Frankie inquired. She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s not what I would call an even exchange.”

“C’mon,” Hugh strode forward. “I’ll buy you both some lunch. I’m sure you’re starving for a decent meal.”

Chapter 52

Loreta

January 1863

The more Loreta thought about Winder’s challenge, the more determined she became to demonstrate her abilities as a spy. She just needed to find Tom.

The solution came in the form of a letter dropped on her doorstep. There was no return address, Loreta noted as she ripped it open and scanned for the signature. It was from Charles Dunham, the dubious journalist she’d become acquainted with in Castle Thunder. He wrote that he had returned to Washington City and urged her to come there as well. He ended the cryptic note by stating he had information on her husband’s whereabouts.

Loreta tossed the letter aside and ran to her room to begin preparations to go North. She thought about resuming the disguise of Harry Buford, but with both McClellan’s and Lee’s armies converging in the area, Loreta soon realized that she would be better off dressed as a woman.

The first hurdle would be crossing from Virginia into Union territory. After traveling to the edge of the Potomac, she found an old negro man with a boat and offered him $25 in Confederate money to take her across.

The man’s eyes widened. “This sum risky bizness, traveling ‘cross this here river. You’s got soldiers on both sides who won’t hes’tate to shoot. And you’s got cold weather and strong waves.”

“I need to get through the lines. I’ve got something for them Yanks.”

“Why, miss, you gone aid them in freein’ us colored folk?”

Momentarily taken aback, Loreta quickly recovered herself. “Yes, sir,” she lied smoothly.

“I suspect you’s be back in a few days with the whole Union army at your back for the purpose of settin’ all us slaves free.” The darkey’s blind faith in Loreta tugged at her heart, but she figured that, sometimes, lying was as necessary as fighting. “Yes, sir,” Loreta replied. She waved the bill under his nose and he grabbed it.

It took three hours to get across to the opposite shore. The negro pulled hard at the oars, but it was hard work in the bitter night air. The woolen shawl on Loreta’s shoulders was no match for the wind and she longed to take over the rowing for a bit, just to get warm. Instead, she sat like a proper lady, shivering in the hull of the boat. By the time they reached the Maryland side, Loreta was numb from the cold and her legs were stiff from the cramped position she had been sitting in.

She thanked the old man and then turned away.

“You shuh you gone be okay?” he asked.

Loreta narrowed her eyes. She’d heard about negroes attacking women, and, although the old man seemed kind, she decided to discourage any thought he might have in that regard. “You should probably get back as fast as you are able. If you don’t you might find yourself in the hands of abolitionists.”

The old man opened his mouth and then shut it.

He probably thinks abolitionists are the same as cannibals, and who wouldn’t hesitate to use him as substitute beef.

“Lawd miss, I don’t want dem to catch me fo shuh.” With that he darted off, clutching the money Loreta had paid him for his services.

Loreta made her way into Washington City and checked into Brown’s Hotel. In the morning she sent a note to Dunham at his place of business, the Daily National Republican newspaper. He paid a call on her that afternoon.

“Mrs. De Caulp,” he said, bowing toward her.

She nodded a greeting before getting right to the point. “You said you have news of my late husband.”

Dunham sat down with the back of the chair in front of him, his legs spread wide. “He’s not late.”

“Pardon?” She took a seat on the bed.

“Your husband is not dead. He defected to the Union.”

Loreta had the notion that she might fall off the bed. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself.

Dunham, studying her face, continued, “Although I’m not sure that it’s the proper thing to call him your husband, seeing as he was already married when you met him.”

Loreta had trouble catching her breath and Dunham fetched her a glass of water from the end table before sitting back down. “Do you want to hear the rest of it or have you heard enough?”

“Just give me a minute,” she said, taking another sip of water. She set it down and then sat as straight as she could on the soft bed. “You may continue.”

“Captain De Caulp’s real name is William Irving, originally from Pennsylvania. He claimed to Union officers that he was in Atlanta on business when the war started and was conscripted to serve in the Confederacy.”

“But he willingly volunteered at the beginning of the war. He served at Ball’s Bluff, long before the Conscription Act.” Loreta put a hand under her chin. “And why would he change his name?”

Dunham shook his head. “All I know is what I read in the Union report that they took after he deserted. You know they are offering to pay Confederate deserters who swear the Federal oath of allegiance. Perhaps he needed the money.”

A memory of the look on Tom’s face after she told him her inheritance had been depleted returned to Loreta. She readjusted her skirts. “Tell me more about his other wife.”

“He has a two-year-old son. My guess is that he didn’t know he had one and intended on somehow profiting from the war down South—without the burden of a wife. That accounts for the name change.” Dunham shrugged. “Maybe finally getting word that she had given birth was the impetus for him to desert and come North.”

Half-numb from shock, she felt no bitterness or sorrow, only curiosity. “But it doesn’t make any sense. What about me? Where do I fit in?”

The corners of Dunham’s mouth turned downward. “Mrs. De Caulp… if I should still be calling you that. There’s one last thing you need to know.”

She sighed, wondering if there was anything else he could say that would be more startling than what he’d already told her.

“The reason you came to be arrested in Richmond was because your… husband gave your name to General Winder as a fraud. He was probably hoping that the Confederate government would forgive his betrayal if he provided them intelligence.”

This was the last straw for Loreta. She recalled the shrewd look on Winder’s face when he’d asked about her husband. “Thank you, Mr. Dunham, for all of your information.” She rose from her chair. “It has shed much light on the fate of Captain De Caulp. But, seeing as how I’ve had a long journey, I’m quite tired.”

Dunham replaced his hat and also got up from his chair. “I was just trying to be helpful. As a journalist, I am privy to much information.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She walked over to the door and opened it. “Good day, Mr. Dunham.”

He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. “I also found William Irving’s last known address before the war started.” He opened her hand and placed it in her palm. “Just in case you were curious. It’s in Georgetown, right near our fair city of Washington.”

Loreta stared at the address long after he had left. Her head was still spinning with all the information Dunham had provided, one word taking precedence over all the questions she still had: why. Why had Tom lied to her about everything? Why had he married her if he already had a wife? Why had he claimed to be a Union man while serving two years for the Confederacy? And why had he given her name to the Confederate authorities? Loreta suspected she knew the reply to all her questions would be the same. As Dunham predicted, he probably did it all for money.

She squeezed the paper in her hand. There was only one man who could possibly tell her the true story, and that was Tom De Caulp himself.

Loreta tidied herself the best she could before making her way to Georgetown, finding the address she was given with little problem. A woman answered the door.

Loreta, realizing this was her rival for her husband’s affections, studied her. She wore a plain calico dress with a tattered belt loosely tied across her wide waist.

The woman, as if sensing Loreta’s resentment, put her hand on her hip. “Can I help you?”

“I need to speak to Tom—William Irving.”

“My husband is not home,” the woman responded.

Loreta, suppressing the urge to declare that he was her husband too, asked instead if she knew of his whereabouts.

“He’s enlisted with the army.” A child began to cry from inside the house. “I’m not sure where he’s stationed at this point.” The woman’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”

“It is no matter,” Loreta replied, her voice hoarse. She could tell that the woman’s patience was growing thin and made no inquiries as to what battalion Tom had joined. She bid the woman good-day and returned to the sidewalk in defeat. She had thought she could turn Tom’s mind to his former loyalties with both his wife and government, but it was clear that, for whatever purpose, Tom had made his decision.

Loreta walked back to her hotel room feeling as though she were at a crossroads. Her first husband had died and her second had placed both herself and the cause she loved in peril. Her past arrests had made continuing life as a soldier even more of a difficult feat than before, and she had no money to support any more adventures, not to mention that the Confederate secret service thought she was a traitor, thanks to Tom. She paused at a bridge overlooking the river. It could be so easy to end it all. She placed a cautious boot on the banister, wondering if she could really go through with flinging herself into the cold waters of the Potomac below.

Just then she overheard a man’s voice raised in protest. “Give it back!”

Loreta looked up to see a white man pulling a carpetbag away from a Negro.

“Suh, it’s my’s. I’s won it fer and skwer,” the darkey replied.

The white man clenched his fists. “We both know you ain’t won nothin’ yet.”

His opponent, clearly deciding that whatever was in the carpetbag wasn’t worth the fight, let it go. “Maybe not yet, but someday.”

Loreta drew in a breath as she recognized the darkey as Harry’s former slave, Bob. He had gained weight and his clothing looked new.

“Someday we’ll all be in hell!” the man shouted as he made off with his prize.

Loreta silently watched as Bob sauntered down the street in the opposite direction of his opponent. He started to whistle before he was out of earshot, seemingly undaunted by the loss of whatever was in the carpetbag. Loreta marveled that she had never seen Bob, or any Negro down South for that matter, exhibit such confidence with his place in his world.

Loreta returned her foot back to the ground, realizing that Bob had abandoned her just like Tom. Just so he could go North.

Let them all go North, she thought as she resumed walking. Let the Union figure out what to do with their good-for-nothing spoils of war. If Tom wanted to raise his son in a world full of freed black men, so be it. But she would never stoop so low herself, nor would any of the men she knew back home.

Chapter 53

Mary Jane

January 1863

The Emancipation Proclamation officially took effect at the beginning of the New Year, but most Virginians paid it no heed. Its main impact in Richmond was that slaves fled North in greater numbers than ever. The amount of staff at the Confederate White House continued to dwindle. Mary Jane was not surprised when Mr. Garvin told her he planned on leaving as they walked back to the house from McNiven’s truck one day.

“It’s gotten too dangerous here,” he asserted. “I think Mr. Davis suspects there’s information leaking from this house. You should consider going North too.”

“I can’t. Not yet,” Mary Jane replied.

Mr. Garvin conceded with a nod of his head. “I was hoping you would say that. The Richmond Underground will need your eyes and ears more than ever.”

“I am aware. Miss Lizzie thinks there are great plots underfoot to rescue the Confederacy from their inevitable defeat.”

He nodded. “I will still do what I can from the Union side.”

“Mr. Garvin.” Mary Jane took a deep breath. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about my father.”

Mr. Garvin patted her arm. “Sometimes things are better left unsaid.”

Mary Jane’s voice firmed. “You know who he was, then.”

He looked off to the horizon. “There were rumors at the time. And I’ve heard some things since then that convinced me that they might be true.”

“Who, then?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think—”

“Mr. Garvin, please. I would like to know.”

He rubbed at his chin. “Not now. Tonight. Meet me on the porch of the outbuilding after you are dismissed.”

“Yes sir.” Mary Jane crossed her fingers briefly, hoping that nothing would occur to make Mr. Garvin change his mind.

True to his word, Mr. Garvin was seated in his customary spot when Mary Jane returned from the mansion. He patted the seat beside him and began by saying, “You and your mother came from the Richards’ when you were just a baby. Mr. Richards was old Mrs. Van Lew’s brother.”

“I know.” Mary Jane had always been under the assumption that her father was Mr. Richards himself or possibly his son.

Mr. Garvin was lost in his recollection and didn’t seem to hear Mary Jane. “While many assumed that your mammy had been sent away because Mrs. Richards didn’t want her husband’s mistress around, I had heard a different story.” He paused before continuing, “Old Man Van Lew often paid a visit to his brother-in-law’s plantation to hunt and fish.”

The blood running through Mary Jane’s blood seemed to freeze. “No.”

He put his hand on top of Mary Jane’s. “It makes sense. Miss Lizzie had always given you special treatment, having you baptized and then married in her church. I think that both Mrs. Van Lew and her daughter wanted to raise you under their own roof.”

Mary Jane pulled her hand away. “You are saying that Miss Lizzie is my sister?”

Mr. Garvin took a deep breath. Unable to meet Mary Jane’s eyes, he stared off into the distance. His normally cultured voice seemed to lose its polish when he spoke again. “I’m not sayin’ I know dis to be fact. They’s always ben just wha’ I say—rumors. I’m just sayin’ it’s an explanation.” He finally looked at her. “I’m sorry if this upsets you.”

“He… my father, didn’t want me to be free.”

“No,” Mr. Garvin agreed. “He wouldn’t let any of us be free. But Miss Lizzie did. You have to remember that. She wanted the best for you. Always wanted that.”

“Look at me, Mr. Garvin.” Mary Jane waited until his gaze finally settled on her. “I’m still doing her bidding, risking my life at this house. I’ve always been a pawn in her game.”

“Miss Lizzie’s game is freedom, girl.” Mr. Garvin’s voice dropped to a low growl. “That’s the ultimate game, and don’t you forget it. What I tole you tonight don’t change anythin’ about whatcha doin’ here.”

Mary Jane’s chest rose in protest, but quickly sank again. Mr. Garvin’s words had only confirmed what she herself had suspected for years. It wasn’t his fault she was who she was, not anyone’s fault but Mr. Van Lew’s. “Thank you.”

He stood. “I should go pack. I’ve got a long journey ahead of me.” One side of his lip curled upward. “And something tells me you do as well. Someday.”

Chapter 54

Hattie

March 1863

Hattie soon settled into Hugh’s Georgetown townhouse. It was refreshing to be able to be herself, as Mrs. Lawton, instead of living under the guise of a lie. She no longer had to test every word in her head before she spoke to make sure she did not give anything away. When she walked down the street, she did not have to take stock of every person she passed, wondering if they had any ulterior motives. Although she did it often anyway—it was hard to turn off the detective part of her brain.

Hugh still made frequent trips through the lines, and Hattie worried for him every time.

He had been gone for a few days on a mission when Hattie received a telegram from Secretary of War Stanton, requesting that she come to the War Office. Hattie did so immediately, her heart hammering, thinking it could only mean that something had happened to her new husband.

“Ah, Mrs. Lawton,” Stanton said when she entered his office. “I asked you here today in regard to this.” He handed Hattie a telegram, which she accepted with shaking hands. He looked at her over the top of his wire-framed glasses. “Tell me what you think I should do.”

Hattie sank into a chair, overcome with relief. The telegram was from Pryce Lewis, still in Castle Thunder. He was asking for $100 in gold coins in order to retain a lawyer.

“The lawyer’s name is Humphrey Marshall from Kentucky.” Stanton pulled at the long beard that obscured his chin. “He signed on to be a Confederate General, but had to resign his commission because they couldn’t find a horse to hold his weight!” He laughed, a sound that seemed incongruous with his solemn features. “Lewis thinks that Marshall could get both him and Scully out, but I’m inclined not to pay the money since I believe they are the ones truly responsible for Webster’s death.”

Hattie handed him back the telegram. “I don’t believe that Pryce Lewis ever used evidence against Timothy. He says Scully did, though.”

Stanton nodded. “I’ll send this on to Pinkerton. Maybe he’ll put up the money.” He tucked the paper into a pile and then folded his hands in front of him. “Also, Mrs. Lawton, I wanted to know if you ever thought of resuming your former work.”

“Sometimes,” she replied truthfully.

He sat forward. “Excellent.” He waved his hand at a passing associate in the hallway.

“Yes sir?” he asked, stepping into the room.

“Could you bring me the Antonia Ford file please?”

The clerk disappeared for a moment, returning with a rather large file. Stanton flipped it open. “Miss Ford is a young miscreant that seems intent on giving Union intelligence to the Confederates. Rather like Belle Boyd. Have you heard of either?”

“Just in passing,” Hattie replied. “I was supposed to be exchanged for Miss Boyd.”

Stanton set his glasses down in front of him and looked thoughtful. “Yes, if only those Confederates would have cooperated, we could have gotten you out a lot sooner.” He ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. “Miss Ford lives in Fairfax—”

“I’m sorry sir,” Hattie’s apprehension overtook her social refinement. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I can’t go back there.” She grasped her reticule handle. “Not so soon.”

“It’s no matter.” Stanton replaced his glasses. “We are in need of a woman to befriend Miss Ford and get her to confess her contemptible dealings. Someone with Union ties that doesn’t mind getting a little underhanded.”

Hattie leaned forward. “I know just the woman. Have you ever heard of Frankie Abel Jamison?”

Chapter 55

Mary Jane

April 1863

Richmond had become a miserable place to reside, even in the Confederate White House. The war was nearing its third anniversary and the Confederacy was floundering. Because the inland town was far away from trade routes, prices for what once had been considered necessities like flour and bacon had risen at a staggering rate.

In what was perhaps an ill-advised move, President Davis declared a day of fasting and urged Richmonders to spend the day praying for the cause instead of eating. It was spoken throughout the servants’ quarters that this might finally be the Confederacy’s undoing.

Mary Jane could picture Miss Lizzie’s lined face light up with glee upon hearing Mr. Davis’s request that his already gaunt citizens give up their sustenance for a day. But she wouldn’t get to see her mistress’s pleasure in person: ever since Mr. Garvin left, Mary Jane had been avoiding Miss Lizzie. She told Mr. McNiven during one of his deliveries that it was too risky to go to meet her at the seamstress’s now that all the servants were leaving.

“Are you in danger?” he demanded.

“I don’t think so,” Mary Jane answered truthfully. Although Jefferson Davis had admitted to Judah Benjamin he thought the Yankees were paying his servants to run away, his behavior toward Mary Jane had not changed. Nor had Mrs. Davis’s. “But I don’t want any of us to fall under suspicion.”

Mr. McNiven nodded. “I will let Ms. Van Lew know. She worries about you constantly.”

Mary Jane forced a smile. “Tell her I’m fine, just a little wary is all.”

While Mr. Davis had never been exactly what Mary Jane would call robust, his health continued to decline that spring. He’d often complain of headaches or stomachaches, and Mrs. Davis had to treat his swollen left eye with drops of mercury every evening. On days when he stayed home to work, Mary Jane would wait to clean his office until after he’d returned to his bedroom to nap. She would memorize whatever she saw in the myriad of papers on his desk and then code it in her quarters before passing it on to McNiven the next day.

One day in early April, Mrs. O’Melia asked Mary Jane to run an errand for the household. “Normally Phebe would, but seeing as she’s escaped, I need you to do it.”

Obligingly, Mary Jane, shopping list in hand, headed to Capitol Square. Right after she’d crossed Broad Street, she heard the sound of glass breaking. As she got closer she could see that the square was filled with people shouting. Mary Jane stopped short, ducking behind a building when she saw that they were brandishing weapons such as knives and hammers, some of them even holding stones in their hands. It was far enough away for her to feel safe, but close enough to discern that the townspeople were chanting, “Bread or blood!”

As if on cue, pandemonium suddenly erupted and the crowd, mostly women from Mary Jane’s vantage point, broke into stores by clobbering the locks with a hatchet or smashing the windows with rocks. They stole whatever they could get their hands on, from food to clothing to jewelry to brooms, loading them into the hundreds of awaiting carts and wagons. Mary Jane was about to leave for safety’s sake when she heard horse-hoofs coming up Seventeenth Street. She flattened herself against the doorframe upon recognizing Mr. Davis’s gaunt frame in front of a troop of soldiers.

After he passed, she crept a bit closer to see if he would have any luck ending the riot.

At first no one paid the president any heed, but then the Public Guard began arresting some of the mob, leading them into their walled cart. Those who remained stopped their raiding and grew somewhat subdued. Mr. Davis stepped onto a bench and waved his arms. Most of the crowd paused to stare.

“What has caused such a lawless act?” he asked in a loud voice.

“We are starving, sir,” one woman shouted.

He gestured to her arms, which were full of boots and candles. “Those will not feed your family.”

“Get us back into the Union!” a man’s voice called. “We are tired of the Confederacy’s depriving us of basic needs.”

Mr. Davis dug into his pockets and pulled out a wad of cash. “This is all I have, but I will give it to you.” He threw it up into the air as people dropped their goods to retrieve the money.

Mr. Davis cupped his empty hands around his mouth and called in his loudest voice, “You have five minutes to disperse or you will be fired upon.” The soldiers who stood guard around him fixed their bayonets.

Mary Jane decided to leave at that point. The crowd must have decided to heed the president’s orders as she did not hear any gunshots on her way back to the Confederate White House.

That evening, select members of the Confederate Cabinet met with Mr. Davis in the executive dining room to discuss the bread riot. The new Secretary of War, James Seddon, urged Mr. Davis to keep the “god-awful disorderliness” of a few people out of the papers. “We wouldn’t want the Yanks to hear of our misfortunes here in Richmond,” Mr. Seddon insisted.

Another Cabinet member concurred. “The Yanks themselves were the ones who probably started it all in the first place.”

As she walked to the outbuilding that night, Mary Jane speculated that hearing of the riots over bread might boost morale in the Union—the starving Southerners surely couldn’t keep up their war effort for much longer. As she passed the spot on the porch where Mr. Garvin had always sat, she heard his words in the wind: Miss Lizzie’s game is freedom, girl. She supposed he was right: Miss Lizzie had arranged for Mary Jane to be educated up North, and when she had come back down South, her head full of free thoughts, Miss Lizzie had sent her to Liberia in hopes she’d find peace there. What Miss Lizzie didn’t realize was that Mary Jane had always wanted more than what even her liberal mistress could provide.

The next day Mary Jane hung a red petticoat on the line and, toting one of Mrs. Davis’s dresses, made her way to Mrs. Thompson’s.

Miss Lizzie’s appearance was even more haggard than usual: her hair was unwashed and her clothing stained. Mary Jane couldn’t decide if it was another calculated move or if she really had become that negligent with her grooming.

“Where have you been?” she asked Mary Jane, embracing her with her skinny arms.

“I was there, at the riot.”

Mrs. Thompson’s hand went to her mouth as Miss Lizzie demanded if Mary Jane was all right. She looked as though she would hug her again, but Mary Jane waved her off. “I’m fine. I want you to make sure you spread the word up North via your contacts in the Underground.”

She nodded. “Of course.” Her normally pinched face grew even more strained. “Is anything else the matter?”

“No.” Mary Jane fought to keep her voice light, but her insides were in turmoil. She wanted to confess what Mr. Garvin had told her, but she couldn’t. Besides, would it change anything about their relationship? Mary Jane resolved right then that she would never have that discussion. It was possible Miss Lizzie had done what she had for Mary Jane out of a familial love, but could have just as well been because Miss Lizzie always chose to do the opposite of what proper Southern society said she should.

“How are you getting along?” she asked her former mistress, carefully keeping her eyes away from Miss Lizzie’s disheveled outfit.

“Fine, fine. The impressment agents have stolen two of our fine white horses, but as I’m keeping the last one in the house with us, they won’t be able to seize him.”

Mary Jane had to smile despite herself. “Of course you would have a horse living in the house. Is he installed in the attic room?”

Miss Lizzie’s face lit up. “No, there are too many Union men hiding in there now. I put the horse in the study. My nieces keep him fed with apples, and he knows enough not to make noise when the neighbors are about. With Winder’s ‘plug-ugly’ detectives always roaming about, it’s not safe for man or beast.” The light in her face faded as quickly as it had appeared. “I heard that the Davises are in need of help again. The talk of the town is that all of their slaves are deserting. Perhaps we should make arrangements for you to leave as well.”

“No.” Mary Jane recalled what Mr. Garvin had said about them needing her more than ever. “Not yet. They are having yet another meeting in the dining room tonight.”

Miss Lizzie nodded, a bit satisfactorily, Mary Jane thought. She dug something out of her carpetbag and pressed it into Mary Jane’s hands. “This is for you.”

It was a tiny parcel of sugar. “However did you get such a luxury?” Mary Jane asked.

“Mr. Garvin sent it by way of my brother, John.”

Mary Jane tucked it into her skirt pockets. “Make sure to thank him from me.”

“Of course. Please be careful, Mary Jane.”

“I will.”

Mary Jane returned to find the Davises’ house filled with people. The Confederates had somehow triumphed at the Battle of Chancellorsville, a fact that Mary Jane found hard to swallow considering the talk the days prior had been how badly Lee’s army was outnumbered.

“That Bob Lee will be our salvation!” Mr. Davis called from the dining room. “Little Mary, can you fetch my best bottle of whiskey from the cellar?”

When she returned with the bottle and as much glassware as she could muster, Jeff Davis insisted on toasting to both Lee and Stonewall Jackson. “God bless him and his wounds,” he added before taking a tiny sip of liquor.

“I was not aware General Jackson was hurt,” Judah Benjamin stated as he handed Mary Jane his glass to refill.

“Friendly fire, I heard,” someone replied. “One of our boys mistakenly hit him.”

“Three times!” another man called. “Luckily only in the arm, though they would’ve done no worse had they hit him through that stonewalled stomach of his.”

The celebrations continued long into the night, the Confederates believing that their army had become invincible, General Jackson’s minor wounds notwithstanding.

It was the last time Mary Jane recalled the President smiling, for the news a few days later was that General Jackson had developed pneumonia after the amputation of his shattered arm and was in dire straits. Mr. Davis paced the hallways continuously upon hearing the news, and the next morning Mrs. O’Melia confided he had been up all night. Mr. Garvin’s replacement was ordered to wait at the train depot while a secretary was stationed at the telegraph office. Mr. Davis wanted to be the first to hear the news, good or bad, on General Jackson’s fate.

When the report came that the great General Jackson had died, Mary Jane thought Mr. Davis likely to keel over as well. He immediately volunteered his house as host for the General’s body, but word came that the governor, a long-time rival of the Davises, would be hosting the funeral. It was another low blow for the already downtrodden president.

Chapter 56

Belle

May 1863

Belle had spent the winter and spring passing from family to family in Tennessee and Alabama. She had just returned to her cousin’s home in Mobile when she received a heart-wrenching telegram:

Miss Belle Boyd:

General Jackson now lies in state at the Governor’s House.

It was signed by T. Bassett French, the aide-de-camp to the Governor of Alabama.

She’d previously heard that Stonewall Jackson had been shot in the arm by his own men, but also that the wound had been trifling and the general was expected to make a full recovery. She immediately shot off a telegram to Virginia governor John Letcher to verify the awful rumor:

Please telegraph if Gen. Jackson is dead. If so, save me a lock of his hair.

Yours truly, Belle Boyd

She could hardly believe the rumor: the general was surely bulletproof, his stamina impregnable. A man such as he would never have been brought down by enemy fire. But sadly, Letcher soon confirmed that General Jackson was indeed dead.

In true military style, Belle showed her mourning by wrapping a black crepe band over her left arm for the next thirty days. She refused to speak of his death to anyone, telling people that her sorrow was inextinguishable, like the sorrow of all the South. Stonewall had been the one to advise her to go on her Southern tour and now all she wanted was home.

But Martinsburg now was part of the new state of West Virginia, the thirty-fifth in the Union. The new state’s constitution freed all people born into slavery after July 4, 1863. All others would be freed on their twenty-fifth birthdays.

Belle had strongly opposed the decision and publicly called West Virginia the “bastard state of a political rape.” As part of her release from Old Capitol Prison, Belle had been forbidden to cross into Union territory; a return to Martinsburg would violate the conditions of her parole. News that her father was again on sick leave and that her mother, at thirty-seven, was nine months pregnant, only made Belle all the more determined to go home.

Chapter 57

Mary Jane

May 1863

Mary Jane answered the door a few weeks after General Jackson’s death to find an elegant looking man with a neatly trimmed beard and a polished uniform standing on the portico.

“General Lee?” she guessed, moving aside for him to enter.

He glanced down at his boots and offered Mary Jane a shy smile. He did his best to wipe the muck from the Richmond streets on the hallway rug, but it didn’t stop him from leaving muddy footprints on the cream-colored carpet leading to the snuggery.

“Ah, Bob,” Mr. Davis rose when they entered. “Coffee, please, Little Mary.” He sat back down, motioning for Lee to do the same as Mary Jane left the room.

General Lee discussed his strategy as Mary Jane returned to serve the two men. “I’ve had to reorganize our army now that we’ve lost Stonewall.” His voice broke and he looked up. “Jeff, I never believed until he took his last breath that he would be gone. It’s made a staggering impact on our boys’ morale.”

“It’s made a staggering impact on all of our morale. But we will get past it.”

General Lee nodded. “Thank you,” he said to Mary Jane as he picked up his cup.

She returned his nod, thinking that might have been the first time a Confederate had expressed any gratitude for her service.

Lee took a sip as Mary Jane went to her customary place in the corner. “I know that the news from Vicksburg is no good.”

“We stand to lose most of the West if Grant doesn’t end his siege.”

General Lee nodded. “That seems inevitable now.” He put his saucer on the table. “What we need to do is try to disable their own capital. We need to make another Northern invasion.”

“After Antietam last year—”

General Lee held up his hand. “I know. I plan on moving the Army of Virginia through Pennsylvania.” He gave a small smile. “The army can grow fat off of the Union’s crops and then we can attack.”

Mr. Davis demurred, saying he would call a cabinet meeting to discuss Lee’s proposal.

The next day, Mary Jane informed Mr. McNiven of the Confederate’s plans to invade the North. He, in turn, handed her a letter.

“Who is it from?” There was no return address on it.

“Your husband.” Mr. McNiven tipped his hat toward her. “I will deliver your information straightaway. We can’t let the Rebels attack us in our own territory.”

That night Mary Jane opened the letter to find that Wilson had left for Ohio to enlist with the Union army’s brand-new colored unit. She traced her fingers over the words Even with all that Miss Lizzie has given to me, I still have the urge to help my country in a greater way. I know you of all people would understand.

Mary Jane refolded the letter, intending on burning it in the parlor fireplace the next morning. She wiped away a single tear, shed for the things that might have been if circumstances had been different, before blowing out her candle.

A few days later came the news that General Ulysses S. Grant and his Army of the Tennessee had reached the city of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Mary Jane hoped that the likelihood of losing the last stronghold on the Mississippi River would be the impetus for the South to surrender, but they doggedly continued on. His poor health continuing to besiege him, Jefferson Davis met almost nightly with his cabinet in the executive dining room. The discussion centered on how to increase the number of soldiers in the army.

“The Deep South is so against conscription, they are threatening to secede from the Confederacy,” Mr. Davis’s voice was faded but firm. “With the Union elections looming, a unified South would be the best weapon we’d have to prevent Lincoln’s reelection.”

“There is another solution besides forcing our good men to stay in uniform,” a man in a general’s coat stated. “We could employ the slaves.”

“Nonsense!” Judah Benjamin hit his fist on the table, silencing the startled debate the general’s comment had provoked. “The insult of employing contraband was the lowest blow the Union has delivered to us yet.”

The general sat back. “I would think that every secessionist would surely choose to forfeit their negroes rather than become a slave himself.”

At that remark, all Mary Jane could think of was getting away. She temporarily tuned out as she imagined running out of the mansion, down the hill, not stopping until she reached Union lines, and leaving those men in the dining room behind forever. She blinked a few times, bringing herself back to reality just in time to hear Stephen Mallory, Secretary of the Navy, state he had an alternate plan.

“There are about 2,000 officers being held prisoner on Johnson’s Island off Lake Erie. If we could somehow rescue these men, they could lead an attack of the Midwestern states.”

A stunned silence followed until Judah Benjamin broke it. “I don’t think there are that many Federal troops stationed in the Great Lakes. As far as I know, they only have one gunboat up there.”

“The Michigan,” Mallory supplied.

Benjamin’s eyes were somewhere above Mary Jane’s head, speaking aloud as he hashed it out in his head. “The entire lakeshore from Ohio to New York would be ours. All of that commerce, all of those men returned to arms.” He focused on Davis. “Mr. President, this sounds like the best proposal we have at the moment.”

Mr. Davis nodded. “You may be right.” He turned to Mallory. “Can it be done without interfering with our European negotiations?”

Mallory rubbed at his beard. “I believe so, sir.”

Mr. Davis rose from the table. “Then you may start drafting a plan.”

The men left, presumably to reassemble at their offices on Capitol Street and formalize a formal plot to attack the Midwest. Mary Jane headed straight to her room to try to counter their plans as best she could.

Chapter 58

Loreta

May 1863

Loreta spent the spring in Washington City lying low. She befriended several Union officers, who paid for her meals and gave her various pieces of information, but nothing of major interest. At last, Loreta decided to call on Dunham at his place of business to see if he had any worthwhile intelligence. When he met her for tea, he told her she had interrupted his writing about the possibility of a prison break in Ohio. Loreta’s ears perked upon hearing this and pressed Dunham for more information.

“The South is always threatening such things,” he replied. “Every prison houses Union deserters and refugees who could be persuaded to take up arms, not to mention Confederate soldiers.”

“You sound almost as if you are in favor of such an act. I thought you had Northern sympathies.”

“I do not believe in fighting the devil with fair play and claim the right to use his weapons. The raid would sharpen Northern sympathies and resolve them in ending the war as quickly as possible.”

Loreta recalled what Captain Alexander told her at Castle Godwin about not knowing which way Dunham’s sympathies lay. “Your aim is to sell more newspapers.” The words came out as a statement, not a question.

He nodded, and Loreta marveled that Dunham’s skills at deception might even be greater than her own. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that this could be the impetus to turn the tide of the war. Even if it didn’t immediately result in a Southern victory, it might at least result in Lincoln losing the election next year, and the Confederacy could negotiate peace on their own terms. A plan began to form in her mind. “Can you write me a letter of introduction to the head of the Union secret service?”

“You speak of Lafayette Baker. Indeed I will.” He put a fresh sheet of paper in the middle of his desk. “Shall I refer to you as Mrs. De Caulp or Ms. Velazquez?”

“Please use the name Ann Williams.”

Dunham’s expression remained indifferent. “Very well.”

Loreta found Baker to be a stern-looking gentleman with gray eyes that reminded her of his Confederate counterpart, General Winder, but with the brawny, leathery skin of a pioneer. She told him about William’s death but left out Tom completely. She pleaded with him to find her gainful employment. “Please sir, I’ve lost everything now. I was so badly treated by the rebels that I fled to New York.”

Baker gave a snide laugh. “New York? For a moment there, I thought you’d come from the South.”

“Why, no sir. I know that my late husband was a Confederate, but I’ve always thought that the Union should be preserved and so I went North upon his death.”

“Good.” He turned to look Loreta straight in the eyes. “We’ve had a great many problems with Confederate spies running about the city and passing on information. We’ve arrested most of the native citizens, but more seemed to be coming in through the lines.”

“Sir, I can help you with that. Having lived for a time in the South, I might be able to recognize some of those traitors.”

Loreta held herself as still as possible, trying not to fidget as Baker’s colorless eyes examined her from bonnet to slipper. He began to bombard her with questions. Loreta answered them as quickly as she could, thinking that his questions about her background and employment desires were asked in a less skillful way than Winder would have done. She told him that all of her relatives had fled to Spain or Cuba before going into detail on how she had won William away from her roommate, thinking that Baker would be impressed with her cunning.

Throughout Loreta’s long-winded explanations, Baker kept his hand under his full beard. When she finished, he sat back in his chair. “We have been investigating possible Confederate plots to release prisoners.” He held up his hand and examined his fingernails. “While we are always hearing of far-fetched plans such as these, I have reason to believe this might be one to keep abreast of.”

“Oh yes, sir,” Loreta said, leaning forward. “You can send me to Richmond and I will find out what I can about the plot, as well as pick other information that might be of value to compensate for what it would cost the government.”

Baker laughed. “The Rebs would capture the likes of you straight away if you attempt to get through their pickets.”

“I can get through on my own accord. I just need you to supply me with the means of making the trip and write me a pass so I can make it through the Fed lines.”

“Aren’t you a plucky little woman?” He scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Here is your pass. But…” he continued, pulling his arm back as Loreta reached for it. “You must not blame me if you’re caught. They have a nasty habit of hanging people they catch in the business of spying.”

Loreta reached out and plucked the pass from his fingers before placing her other hand over her throat. “I don’t think this neck was made to fit in a noose, but I am willing to risk it.”

He bent down and Loreta heard a dial spin. After a moment, he set a pile of money on the desk and pushed the stack toward Loreta. “There’s a thousand counterfeit Confederate bills in there as well as a hundred and fifty dollars of real greenbacks.”

“If the rebels catch me carrying bogus bills, my punishment will be a mite harsher than for just spying.”

“Ah, don’t worry. These fake bills pass readily down South, even more so than the real ones. Which lends proof to the fact that the Confederacy is a fake government.” He gave another deep laugh as Loreta scooped up the money and offered him a faint smile in return.

Chapter 59

Belle

July 1863

General Lee’s failed Gettysburg Campaign resulted in overwhelming losses, and, although the B and O Railroad seemed to be running continuously, Belle had a hard time securing a ticket as every train carried hundreds of wounded Confederate men into Martinsburg. She finally arrived at her childhood home to find that it had been delegated as a provisional hospital. Belle’s father was still on leave, having been sent home due to exhaustion after General Jackson’s death and Mauma Eliza had confined Mrs. Boyd to her room. Consequently, Belle had to act as nurse to both her parents and the patients lying in the parlor and hallways of the Boyd home. Medical and food supplies in Martinsburg were scarce, and the town showed the wounds of a never-ending battle. A courier had just relayed the message that the Union army was again approaching the town when Mrs. Boyd went into labor.

Three days later, Belle was not overly surprised to hear a loud knocking on the door, and, a few minutes later, Mauma Eliza announced that “Them Yanks are here agin.”

Belle slowly descended the stairs from her mother’s room, where she had been keeping her and her new sister company. The man standing on the threshold was young, with a pudgy face and build. “Miss Boyd, I am Major Nathan Goff of the Third West Virginia Infantry.”

Belle wanted to remind him that, to her, there was no such state called West Virginia, but she bit her tongue as the young man continued, “General Kelly has received a report that you have arrived home. As he did not credit it, I have come to ascertain the truth.”

“Well, surely you can see that the report is true.” She halted a few steps above the bottom of the stairwell. “Is there something so peculiar about me returning to my own home to be with my parents in their time of need?”

“Why, there is, of course. Are you not afraid of being arrested?” The major glanced into the parlor and Belle wondered if he was aware she’d shot one of his comrades nearly two years ago.

“What grounds would they have? I am no criminal.” Belle could hear the baby begin to wail upstairs.

“That may be, but you are a Rebel.”

“There are other rebels who remain in this town.”

“Yes, but then not so dangerous as yourself. You will do more harm to our cause than half the men could do.”

Normally Belle would have been pleased by such praise, but she was too worried that Major Goff would force her to leave her home to pay much attention. Her mother was doing poorly after giving birth and needed constant nursing. The summer was heating up, and the dark circles under her father’s eyes were expanding daily.

Major Goff returned after a few days with an order to place Belle under house arrest. He stationed several soldiers on guard around the perimeter and told Belle that her movements would be restricted—she would not even be allowed to go out onto the balcony—but at least she could stay and give her mother the care she needed.

But only a week passed before another soldier rang the doorbell, carrying a message stating that Belle was to be in Washington City by eleven the following morning.

“Sir,” Belle’s father begged. “My wife is very sick, and Belle’s departure might kill her.”

“I’m sorry,” the soldier indeed looked sorrowful. “But I have my orders from Secretary of War Stanton himself.”

Belle plodded up the stairs to share the news with her mother, telling her not to worry, but hardly being able to convince her. Belle had been excited about prison a year ago, but now the whole thing just seemed depressing.

Chapter 60

Loreta

July 1863

Loreta had little trouble getting through the Federal lines with Baker’s pass. When she reached the Rebel pickets outside of Richmond, she told the scout that she was on a secret service mission for General Winder. The scout insisted on escorting her directly to General Winder’s office.

Winder recognized her straight away. “Well, Mrs. De Caulp, did you end up finding your husband?”

“No sir.” Loreta cast her eyes downward to the papers on his desk. She decided not to disclose what Dunham had revealed.

“And why exactly have you returned to Richmond?”

She produced the pass. “I am employed by the Federal government to look into a plot to rescue Rebel prisoners.”

Winder gave a deep belly laugh. “Is that so? Most people caught committing espionage don’t confess to it so readily.”

“Oh, but you see sir, I am what you call a double-agent,” Loreta tried unsuccessfully to keep her voice from sounding haughty.

Winder’s tone was equally contemptuous. “I find that hard to believe, seeing as we never employed you.”

“But won’t you now? I can freely move within the Union and communicate with the prisoners we plan on setting loose.”

Winder targeted his slate eyes on her. After what seemed like hours of his staring, he finally let out a large breath. “I don’t fully trust you, but you do have a point. This plot of ours could end the war immediately in our favor.” He stood. “Give me a few days to think about it, make some inquiries. I will send for you when I’ve made my decision.”

Loreta thanked him and left to check into the Spotswood Hotel. She realized that she was already running low on funds, and, as she couldn’t see herself convincing Winder to give her more money, decided to exchange the Confederate bills for greenbacks. The exchange rate was very low and she received only a modest sum in return, but it was necessary since most people up North didn’t accept Southern graybacks.

As Winder promised, he sent for her in a few days. This time he agreed to let her operate under the Richmond Secret Service. He gave her a special package to take to Ohio and oral instructions to complete her mission. Winder stressed the great importance of the raid, but when she pressed for more details, he remonstrated that she need not know any more than her immediate duties.

Chapter 61

Loreta

July 1863

Loreta lingered in Richmond for most of the summer to help set the Confederate plans in place before she again crossed the Potomac. The idea of using the chief of Federal detectives for the advancement of the Confederate cause was a source of delight to Loreta, but she couldn’t help feeling that returning to Baker’s Washington City office was a bit like walking straight into the lion’s den.

After a cordial greeting, Baker got down to business, demanding what she had found out in Richmond.

Loreta fell upon her old ways of telling half-truths, figuring the detective would be able to see through complete lies. “Indeed, there are plans to arrange a great stampede of the Rebel prisons. The Underground has found a way to communicate with the Southern-sympathizing Copperheads up North.” She kept her voice neutral, hoping to play down the great raid as yet another idle threat about releasing Confederate prisoners.

She moved on to what else she’d observed in Richmond, intending to fill his head with the minute details she’d acquired about the bread riots, but he waved his hand. “We know all about it. Is there anything else regarding the Johnson Island coup?”

“Not that I know of at this time, but perhaps you could send me to Ohio to try to ferret out the Confederate contact. It will be easier for a woman to be granted access to the prisons. I can see if the prisoners really have the intention to make a break, and if so, if they also plan on attacking the Union.”

Baker steepled his fingers and then cracked his knuckles. “While I do believe women are better suited for some tasks, I am not sure if you are the right woman for this particular task.”

“Sir, I’ve the idea to pass myself off as a Confederate. That way the captives will be able to talk plainer to me.”

After a pause that seemed to last an eternity, Baker finally consented. “All right. I’ll arrange for your travels and supply you with passes and a confidential letter to the prison marshal, but do not let anyone else see it unless you believe it will save you from harm. I don’t even want my own detectives to know of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 62

Belle

July 1863

When Belle arrived at Carroll Prison, a group of buildings next to the Old Capitol, she found Superintendent Wood was still in charge. He told her that he would give her the room reserved for “distinguished guests,” but the cell was filthy, the smell of dirt and decay clinging to the chipped and broken furnishings in the tiny room.

Although Belle resumed some of the antics she had performed during her last stay in prison, this time she did so half-heartedly. Her father had accompanied her to Washington City, and was reportedly staying with a friend nearby, but Secretary Stanton had issued an order that Ben Boyd was not allowed to visit his daughter. Thankfully she was not searched upon entering the prison, as her father had slipped a gun in her handbag before their tearful goodbye.

She spent most of her time next to the window, where she often attracted onlookers—mostly diehard Confederate supporters with a few other people who wanted to set their eyes on the famous Belle Boyd.

One evening, after she had entertained her fans by singing “Take Me Back to My Own Sunny South,” she felt a whoosh of air as something hummed past her ear and struck the wall opposite the window. The Yankees were trying to kill her!

Belle grabbed a candle and went to examine the object. Instead of a bullet she found a small Confederate flag. She unfolded the paper that had been wrapped around it. It was from someone who called themselves C.H and claimed to be a Southern sympathizer, and “therefore her friend.” The letter also included detailed instructions on how to communicate further with her supposed ally.

Belle refolded the note, wondering if it was a trick, but the following evening she did as C.H. had instructed, offering several oranges to her guard, who gave her a small rubber ball and a sewing kit in exchange. She split the ball into halves, inserting a note into one half and then resewing it. When she heard someone walk by underneath her window whistling an Irish tune, Belle threw the ball as far as she could into the square. Another flag soon flew through the window, this time accompanied by a note informing her of Confederate movements in the western theater.

A guard, one of the more detestable ones, appeared in the doorway of her cell. “What do you have there, Miss Boyd?” Belle tossed the note under the bed. She inserted the Confederate flag into her bodice and walked over to him. Predictably, the guard reached a hand through the bars to seize her flag, but Belle pulled her revolver from her skirts and took aim. The guard stared down the barrel of the gun, his eyes wide and mouth open. Belle cleared her throat as loudly as she could, causing her prison mates to go to their doors and take in the scene. “These are the kind of men General Lee hangs by their thumbs,” Belle said in her loudest voice before dropping the arm with the gun by her side.

Chapter 63

Hattie

July 1863

That summer in Washington City felt even hotter than the summer Hattie had spent in the Richmond prison. Hugh had been sent South on another mission and when Secretary Stanton asked if Hattie was ready to take on a mission of her own, she readily agreed. She reported to the War Department where she was shown to Colonel Baker’s office.

The door was opened, but the man she took to be Lafayette Baker was occupied, his head bent over a paper. She stood in the doorway and waited, noting that his desk was just about as disheveled as his hair. Pinkerton would have never approved of such defilement in a detective agency.

“Mrs. Lawton?” Colonel Baker’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Sir?”

He waved at her to sit down. “I received your name from Secretary Stanton. I’m hoping to send you North to follow a suspicious person.” He pushed a blank sheet of paper toward her. “Technically, I’ve hired her to work for the secret service.”

Hattie pulled a pen out of a nearby inkwell and began to take notes as Baker continued, “She mentioned a possible plot to rescue imprisoned Confederate prisoners.”

Hattie set her pen down. “Another one?” For weeks the papers had contained information about such goings-on, but none of them had come to fruition.

“Yes, but that’s not necessarily what concerns me. This woman mentioned she would pose as a Confederate double-agent, and something is telling me it might not be a farce.” Baker went on to describe the woman as small-boned, of Spanish descent, and who seemed uncommonly sure of herself. “I’ll arrange for you to follow her to Ohio on tomorrow’s train. Make note of who she contacts there. If she is indeed a Confederate spy, I’d like to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The woman of Baker’s description was easy to recognize. Hattie sat on the train in the seat directly behind her and listened to her converse with a young lieutenant, speculating about the dire situation in the South in regard to inflation and the consequent deprivation of its poorer citizens.

It was midnight when they finally arrived in Sandusky, Ohio. The lieutenant with whom Ms. Williams had acquainted herself hired a coach for the two of them. Another coachman motioned to Hattie, and pointed three fingers downward. Recognizing the signal, Hattie climbed into the coach and was driven to the hotel by another Baker operative.

Chapter 64

Loreta

July 1863

The first thing Loreta did when she woke the next morning was draw the curtains open to gaze across Lake Erie. She had to squint her eyes to find the little island that focused so largely in her plans. Plans that, if carried out successfully, would do more to promote the cause—not to mention bring her more glory and distinction—than all of the fighting she’d done. She pictured the thousands of brave Confederates imprisoned there, ready to do their bidding and transfer the seat of war from the disadvantaged South to the prosperous Midwest.

After Loreta had dressed, she rang for the chambermaid to take her card to the lieutenant she’d met on the train and let him know she was ready for breakfast.

The chambermaid had a more exquisite air about her than Loreta would have supposed. She had a dark complexion, and large brown eyes that hinted at past tragedies.

“Is that Johnson’s Island?” Loreta asked, indicating the small dot in the middle of the lake.

“It is indeed,” the chambermaid replied, joining Loreta at the window. “It houses Confederate prisoners.” She paused before adding, “I wish they would all just go away.”

“Why?”

She turned away from the window. “I am afraid they will break loose sometime and burn the town.”

Loreta hid a smile, thinking that was exactly her hope. “There must be enough Union soldiers to guard them.”

“I’m not sure on that point,” the woman replied before bowing so low that something fell from her apron. “I will see to delivering your card,” she said, leaving the room. Loreta was about to call out to her that she had dropped something, but thought better of it when she realized that it was her master key. Loreta pocketed it, thinking she could find a use for it later.

After breakfast, Loreta went to the telegraph office to send coded dispatches to Confederate agents in Baltimore and Detroit, letting them know she had arrived. She then boarded a ferry out to the island. On the way there, her heart began to hammer in her chest. She was no more afraid for her own safety than she had been when bullets whizzed past her on the battlefield, but at the same time, she knew the fate of this magnificent campaign was on her thin shoulders. She mused that her trepidation was not that different from what a general might feel when making the first advance in a great battle upon which the future of his country depended.

After she’d arrived on the island, she displayed her letter from Baker to the commanding office, explaining that she was searching for Rebel spies. The officer nodded and showed her to the gate outside. Loreta watched as the prisoners milled around, recognizing one she had known when she was acting as Harry Buford.

“You there!” she called.

The haggard soldier obliged her by coming to the gate.

She introduced herself as Ann Williams and then motioned for him to follow her out of the guard’s earshot. “Are you ready to regain your freedom?”

The man looked around and then said in a low voice, “What would you know of it?”

“On the night of August 21, a group of rebels will capture the steamship Michigan and then train its guns on this island. You and your fellow prisoners will use that opportunity to overpower your guards and then escape to the city, capturing all the steamboats you can lay your hands on, before heading on to Canada. The resulting border skirmishes will incite Britain into joining the war on our side.”

The man threw his head back and laughed.

Loreta tightened her hands on the wire fence. “If you will not act as a leader, find me someone who will.”

“Your plan sounds extremely fantastic. I suppose the end result will be the Confederacy winning the war.”

“That’s right,” Loreta said. “And, although you think it too far-fetched, the cogs have been spinning for months. My instructions came from General Winder by way of President Davis.”

The man’s smile disappeared. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Loreta said pointedly. “Now are you ready to serve your country again or not?”

Although she’d had to repeat the plan a few times to the young man, Loreta left, satisfied he was prepared. Upon returning to the hotel, she inquired after the young lieutenant, but was informed that he was out. “What room number is he again?” Loreta asked. “I need to leave him a note.”

“Four,” was the clerk’s reply.

Loreta accordingly went to Room 4, furtively checking each side of the hallway before using the chambermaid’s key to open his door. She headed straight for the desk and riffled through the papers there. It seemed the lieutenant was on his way to New York to try to quell the race riots that had been occurring there. It was interesting information, but not exactly pertinent to Loreta’s mission and she replaced the papers as best she could remember.

As soon as she finished locking the door behind her, she heard a bell boy coming down the hall. She affected her most perplexed look. “Which is the servants’ staircase? I must have gone down the wrong stairs.”

The boy pointed, and Loreta hurried down the hall. She met the chambermaid outside her room. “Oh, I was just bringing you a cup of tea,” the woman said.

Loreta nodded her thanks. “I’ll just have time to enjoy it before I need to run more errands. I need to telegraph my husband my whereabouts.”

The woman smiled. “Good luck.”

Chapter 65

Mary Jane

July 1863

After hearing of the possibility of a prison breakout, Miss Lizzie encouraged Mary Jane to find out all she could. Consequently, Mary Jane snuck into Mr. Davis’s office to rifle through his files. There she’d memorized all of the details, including where the money was coming from to finance the operations, and the exact date of the Michigan seizing. She relayed all of this to McNiven, who promised to send it up North.

The next time she met with Miss Lizzie, she informed her mistress that it was time to begin organizing her escape from the Confederate White House. “After what happened at Gettysburg, Mr. Davis suspects there’s a spy in his household. The deterring of the prison coup will be the final blow. Even if he doesn’t figure out who the informer is, he will be much more careful in the future.”

Miss Lizzie nodded. “Winder’s sent several of his plug-uglies to search the Church Street mansion. So far they haven’t found anything. I even heard they interviewed my sister-in-law, but for now they’ve taken no action. But I did receive a threatening note from someone.” She got to her feet, breathing heavily. “I will make arrangements for your departure. When you are ready to leave, hang a black petticoat on the line.”

Chapter 66

Belle

July 1863

That summer, Belle suffered from a bout of typhoid fever. When she was on the mend, a sympathetic guard informed her that her mother had pleaded with Stanton for her freedom, but the secretary had responded, “She’s a damn Rebel. Let her die there!”

Finally Belle received word that her release had been scheduled for early August. As word had gotten out that she would be escorted to Richmond, the same friendly guard delivered her gifts and contraband from Washington City to bring South with her.

One day the guard came in and pulled a flat package out of his pocket breast. “This is from your friend, C.H.”

“What is it?” Belle asked. It felt very heavy in her hands, and, as she turned to examine it, she heard coins jingle.

“It’s Union gold and some greenbacks. It is imperative that it gets to Judah Benjamin in order to aid in a Confederate plot up North.” He handed a pair of black and brown field glasses. “For your troubles. I’m told they were General Jackson’s.”

Belle blinked back tears as she accepted them, picturing her hero using them to scout enemy forces.

“And the last thing,” the guard said, holding up another envelope. “This is a letter of introduction to vice-president Alexander Stephens, affirming your devotion to the Confederate cause. As if anyone would be in doubt.”

“Thank you.” She slid the letter underneath her mattress. “Who are you?” she turned to ask the guard, but he had already disappeared.

The morning of her release, Belle packed the glasses carefully along with her clothes into a trunk, but hid the money by tying the bills to her hoops and sliding the gold and letter into her underwear.

Her escort introduced himself as Captain James Minx, a burly man who claimed he used to be Lincoln’s bodyguard.

“And now, here you are guarding little old me.” Belle couldn’t help but feel important. “Where is my father? I thought he was to accompany me back to Virginia.”

“I’m told he was too ill to travel,” Minx growled.

Belle put her arm on his sleeve. “Please sir, you must take me to him.”

“My orders are to deliver you to General Butler in Norfolk, only. And I always follow orders.”

Belle’s disappointment at not being allowed to see her father was quickly replaced by trepidation at being under the care of “the Beast” Butler, the scourge of New Orleans women. Jefferson Davis had even gone so far as to declare Butler a felon deserving of capital punishment.

She thought the man’s dastardly appearance perfectly in line with his reputation. He had a large head that sat upon an equally large neck, his stomach unable to fit beneath his desk. As he turned his droopy-eyed gaze to her, Belle couldn’t help but think his eyes crossed each other like the stars on the Confederate flag.

“I take it I am in the presence of Miss Boyd, the famous Rebel spy?”

Belle nodded.

“Please take a seat.”

Belle locked her shaking arms by her side. “Thank you, General Butler, but I prefer to stand.”

“Pray, girl, why do you tremble so? Are you frightened?”

“No,” Belle replied, intending to tell him she shook out of anger, not fear, but then changed her mind. “Actually, yes, General Butler. I do feel frightened to be in the presence of a man of such infamy as yourself.”

Butler rubbed his hands together and shot her an evil grin. “What do you mean when you speak of infamy?”

Belle stepped forward. “I mean General Butler, that you are a man whose atrocious conduct and brutality, especially to Southern ladies, is so known that even Jefferson Davis has declared that he would have you executed if he ever captured you. Naturally I feel alarm to be around you.”

Rage seemed to fill his sagging face and he ordered her to leave. Already halfway out, Belle cursed herself for letting her anger get the best of her when there was so much at stake.

Minx brought her to a nearby hotel, telling her to remain put until she was called for.

The following evening she was taken to the Norfolk provost marshal’s office. Her trunk and bonnet box were on the floor and Belle watched as a detective searched her baggage.

“Is this really necessary?” she asked as the detective pulled out a clean pair of undergarments. “I have just come from prison.”

The detective did not reply. He held the field glasses in the air as if he’d just seized a fine prize. Which indeed he had. “I’m sure General Butler would appreciate a new pair,” he sneered.

Belle had to refrain herself from snatching them back, thinking Butler didn’t deserve any possession of Stonewall’s. She reminded herself not to antagonize them into searching her person.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, the detective asked, “Do you have any money on you?”

“No, sir. Well, just a few dollars in Confederate currency.”

“You can keep that stuff. We have no need for it in this country. What else are you carrying?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Would you swear on that?”

The gold in Belle’s drawers caused her to squirm. “Just some letters, sir.”

The detective eyed Belle up and down but, in the end, decided not to search her.

When Belle reached Richmond, she sent word to the Confederate authorities about the gold she’d managed to sneak past Butler before checking into the Spotswood Hotel. Almost immediately, a clerk from the State Department came to retrieve it.

Belle had unceremoniously dumped the coins on the nightstand. As the clerk scooped them into a carpetbag, he tried to make conversation. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

“Yes, but I’m sure his health will improve now that he knows I’m a free woman again.”

The clerk paused, his hands frozen in their activity. He flexed his fingers before looking up. “Miss Boyd, do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know that your father has passed?”

Belle felt everything grow cold as tears formed behind her eyes. “No.” She sank into the nearest chair. “No, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. He didn’t seem to know what else to do but go back to his task. Belle sat numb as he finished. He apologized again, placing a conciliatory hand on her shoulder, before he left.

Chapter 67

Hattie

August 1863

Hattie had Mrs. Williams followed to the telegraph office by one of Baker’s operatives. After the man reported back, Hattie changed out of her chambermaid disguise in order to send a telegraph of her own. She’d acquired enough information to know that Baker had been right—the woman was indeed a double-agent. Luckily the competence of Loreta Janeta Velazquez De Caulp was inferior to her ego.

A few hours later, Hattie received an encrypted message from Baker, which she quickly decoded. He’d received complete details of the plot via the Richmond Underground and the Union now knew everything. Hattie breathed out as she read that he’d sent Hugh to infiltrate the men intending to attack the Michigan—Baker was going to do everything he could to make certain the infamous plan would never go through. He ended by authorizing Hattie to arrange for Mrs. Willams’ arrest as soon as possible.

Chapter 68

Loreta

August 1863

On the night of August 21, Loreta poured herself a glass of sherry and planted herself at the window with a pair of field glasses focused on the harbor. The Michigan was stationed in the bay with its guns trained on the island prison. Any attacking ship entering the lake would therefore have the advantage. Loreta rubbed her hands together in glee, picturing the chaos the rebels were about to cause.

But the time for the attack came and went with Loreta observing no evidence of gunfire. Around midnight, her dismay mounting, she began pacing the floor. Eventually she exhausted herself and dozed fitfully in the chair, her head on the window, oblivious to the pain in her shoulder.

She awoke at dawn. As the sun illuminated the still placid bay, Loreta realized that the plan to save the Confederacy had failed.

Almost as if on cue, someone started pounding on the door. The brief thought that it might be an escaped prisoner lent a quickness to her frazzled muscles.

She opened the door to find the chambermaid, now neatly dressed in calico, a man in a plain suit, and another in a police uniform standing in the hallway.

Without thinking, Loreta attempted to shut the door again, but the police officer stuck out his foot and blocked it. “You are under arrest for committing treason against your country.”

“It’s no longer my country.” Loreta’s hand resignedly dropped from the door handle.

“But it is that of your husband’s, is it not, Mrs. De Caulp?” The woman—whom Loreta now suspected was not a chambermaid—inquired.

“How did you know that was my name?”

“It’s my job to know,” the woman said, entering the room. Loreta watched as she folded the clothes that were on the floor before placing them into an awaiting carpetbag.

The plain clothed man crossed his arms across his broad chest. “There is someone I believe you will recognize at the prison we are taking you to.”

“Oh?” Loreta asked. “And who would that be?”

“Mr. De Caulp. I think it’s about time you two got reacquainted.”

The woman handed the man Loreta’s bag and shot her a sympathetic smile. “If you would follow us now.”

Loreta did as she was bid, her heart heavy that she would be forced to be in the same vicinity as Tom, especially now that she had failed in her ultimate mission.

Chapter 69

Belle

August 1863

After hearing of the death of her father, Belle wanted nothing more than to return home to Martinsburg. She wrote to every Union high-up she could think of, from Secretary Stanton to Lincoln’s personal body guard—an old family friend—to Lincoln himself. None of them responded. Finally she gave up and sent another note to Jefferson Davis to offer her services as a Confederate agent in Europe and included a reminder of the dangers she faced to smuggle “all of that gold under General Butler’s crooked nose.”

She was rewarded for this latest effort when the same clerk that told her about her father arrived back at the Spotswood bearing introduction letters from Judah Benjamin and dispatches addressed to English dignitaries.

“What’s that?” Belle asked as the clerk dropped a heavy carpetbag at her feet.

He smirked. “Gold coins.”

“Are they the ones I—”

“No,” he replied, his smirk disappearing. “Those were used to fund a failed coup up North.”

“Oh.” Belle’s thoughts turned to her new mission. “How will I get to Europe?”

“The only ships that can get through the ports are the blockade runners. It’s going to be a dangerous trip. I would suggest that you not speak to anyone of your true mission and go under the guise of a civilian in case the ship is boarded.”

“Yes, but by now everyone knows who I am, even Union officials.” Belle took a deep breath. “However, I’m prepared to do what I need to for my country.”

Belle traveled to Wilmington, North Carolina to board the Greyhound, a light grey steamer that bore the British flag on its mast. The captain introduced himself as “Captain Henry.” Although Belle gave her name as “Mrs. Smythe,” Captain Henry recognized her anyway, and divulged that he’d known her father well. He became even more esteemed in Belle’s eyes when he pulled up his sleeve to display a scar he’d acquired while on campaign with Stonewall Jackson.

Belle gestured toward her shoulder. “I have one from Old Capitol Prison.” She showed him the approximate size with her fingers and Captain Henry’s kind eyes widened in appreciation.

The night was clear with a waning moon. All lights on the boat were extinguished as the anchor was pulled up around ten o’clock in the evening. No one spoke as the steam began to blow and they got underway. The main deck was covered with bales of cotton upon which men dressed in dark clothing stood with spyglasses trained on the waters before them. Belle knew getting past the blockade would be tense and indeed it was. No one thought of sleep, and the scant passengers, including Belle, sat on deck, silently praying. Any stray movements sent ice water through Belle’s veins. She hated that they would not be able to discern enemy boats in the darkness until they were upon them.

When dawn finally started to break, Belle felt her relief rising in time with the sun—the sea was clear from horizon to horizon. Soon after, a thick haze set in, not giving way until around noon when the look-out on the mast shouted, “Sail ho!”

Belle could feel the Greyhound speed up, and she rushed to the railing. By squinting her eyes, she could see a gunboat with the letters U. S. painted on its hull. It seemed to be gaining on them.

As their ship tried to outrun the enemy, the deck seemed to sway under Belle’s gold coin-laden skirts. She bent over the side of the ship, her hands tight on the railing, to empty her stomach. When she’d finished, she noticed the distance between them and the Yankee gunboat had shrunk considerably. All Belle could think of was that she was about to be sent back to prison.

The look-outs tucked their spyglasses into their coats and climbed off the bales only to commence tossing the cotton into the sea. “By damn!” one of the men called as he stared down at the drowning bounty. “That’s more of our goods they shalt not get!”

Captain Henry paced up and down the deck, alternating between glancing at his compass and staring at the gunboat growing ever closer. “More steam, fellows!” he called. “We’ve got to give her more steam!” He clicked his compass shut upon spying Belle. “Oh Miss Boyd, but for your presence on board, I would burn her to the water’s edge than let those infernal scoundrels reap the benefit of a single strand of our cotton.”

Belle’s stomach was still churning along with the waves, but she straightened herself as best she could. “Please, Captain Henry, do your duty and pay me no reference.” She took a woozy breath. “Burn her by all means—I am not afraid.”

The crewmen had finished with the cotton bales and were now heaving the rest of the contraband overboard until the water below surged with medicine, tobacco, and Confederate bills.

Belle, suddenly recalling her own contraband, rushed to the engine room below deck. She dug underneath her skirts to retrieve the hidden dispatches and tossed them into the furnace. She’d just returned above to hear Captain Henry call, “It’s too late to burn her now, men—the Yanks are upon us!” He faced the oncoming gunboat and waved his arm back and forth, shouting, “Surrender. We surrender!”

Belle grabbed the banister as something shrieked past her head.

“By Jove!” the captain shouted. “They show no mercy!”

The ship slowed as a voice that seemed to come from the water commanded them to lower their flag. Captain Henry raised a defeated arm to the man on the mast and the British flag began to descend. The goods-polluted waters were now filled with rowboats being steered by men in blue uniforms. Belle retreated to her first-floor cabin, standing just inside the door so she could still hear the commotion as the Yankees began to board.

“Good day to you, Captain,” a man’s voice called out. “I am glad to see you. This is a mighty fine vessel you have.” Belle stepped closer to catch a glimpse of the Yank with such a polite voice. Although he wasn’t necessarily the standard of handsome, Belle quite liked his look: brown hair that hung past his ears and eyes so brilliantly blue that she could see them even from her vantage point. The dapper officer clicked his heels together in a manner that might have made Belle giggle under different circumstances before he asked to see the captain’s papers.

Captain Henry shook his head. “Good day to yourself, sir, but I cannot say I’m quite as glad to see you. I do not have any papers.”

“Ah,” the man replied. “That presents a problem, doesn’t it?”

Just then Belle caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A soldier had appeared beside her. “Sergeant of the guard!” His shout was so loud that Belle’s ears rang. “Put a man in front of this door and give him orders to stab this woman if she dares come out any further.”

Belle’s gaze traveled back to the blue-eyed man but he was focused on the captain.

The soldier stepped closer and snarled, “Now ain’t ye skeared?”

She turned her eyes on him, narrowing them with hatred as he stuck out his hand to smooth his overgrown mane.

“No,” Belle returned. “I’ve never been afraid of a Yankee.”

His hand dropped back to his side. “Do you know that it was I who fired the shot over your head?”

“Oh?” Belle put her own hand on her hip. “Are you the coward who fired on a defenseless ship after her surrender? How admirable of the Federal government to select such an officer as you.” She would have gone on in her insults had her attention not been caught by the blue-eyed man, who strode past her without a second glance.

As her adversary began to mount a reprisal, she waved her hand. “That man,” she said, pointing at the officer’s back. “Who is he?”

Obviously caught off guard, he sputtered.

“What did you say?” Belle demanded.

“Harding. Lieutenant Harding, spelled with an e on the end.”

“An e on the end. Like my name,” she said dreamily. How nice Belle Hardinge would look on paper.

As if he’d heard his name, Lieutenant Hardinge walked toward Belle’s room. “Hallo Swasey,” he said to the soldier, his tone as affable as ever. “And who do we have here?” he asked as he at last turned those magnificent eyes on Belle.

Belle knew she should introduce herself with her pseudonym, but she couldn’t help herself. “Miss Belle Boyd.”

He bowed and Belle noticed how perfectly his hair fell back into place when he righted.

“Am I to be a prisoner?” she asked in a deferential tone.

“Since I am now in command of the vessel, I beg of you to consider yourself a passenger, not a prisoner.”

Belle’s grin was genuine as she acquiesced, hoping he would make more agreeable requests in the future. Even if he was a Yankee.

Lieutenant Hardinge disappeared to conduct some business, but he soon returned to Belle’s doorway. “The stars are so pretty tonight. Won’t you come see?” He held out his hand and Belle placed a gloved hand in his as he led her to the bow.

“That’s Orion.” He pointed his finger at a constellation before moving it to the moon. “Its light seems to shine directly on you and only on you.”

Belle stepped closer and put her hand on his arm. “Where is Virginia?”

“South. We are currently headed to Boston.”

“Oh.” Belle held her lips together in an exaggerated fashion, noticing Hardinge’s eyes focus on her mouth before dropping to her décolletage.

“But don’t worry.” He met her gaze. “I’ll make sure you are granted your freedom.”

“And Captain Henry?”

He looked out to sea. “I have my orders. He is to be arrested as soon as we get to shore.”

“Of course you must obey your commanding officer.” Belle dropped her hand back to her side. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell Captain Henry myself. We’ve gotten to be good friends in this short while.”

Lieutenant Hardinge nodded. “I have some more things to take care of before I row back to the Connecticut tonight.”

Belle spied his empty boat tied to the deck, floating in the dark waters below. “Are you leaving so soon?”

“Just for the night. I need to report back to my captain. But I shall stop in to say goodnight.”

“I’d like that very much. I will probably be with the captain when you leave.”

When Belle arrived at the captain’s quarters, she found that Captain Henry was accompanied by two guards. They obliged by admitting her into his room.

Belle curtsied. “Captain, I’m sorry to say that the kindly lieutenant has orders to detain you when we arrive at Boston Harbor.”

The captain nodded. “I suspected as much.”

Belle walked over to a table where there was a bottle of whiskey and a few glasses. She picked two up and held them out to the guards. “Gentlemen, would you like to enjoy a drink to the captain’s health?”

The two men glanced at each other. One of them shrugged and the other stepped toward Belle. “Sure.”

In no time the men had drunk most of the bottle. Belle held a glass up to her lips but didn’t drink anything. Without looking at Captain Henry, she spoke in a low tone, “In a few minutes time, Lieutenant Hardinge will be here to bid us goodnight. After he leaves, you should sneak away on his rowboat.”

She could hear the captain suck in his breath. “I don’t—”

She nodded toward the drunken guards. “They won’t be much bother. I will take care of distracting the lieutenant.”

The captain set his glass down with a clink. “I suppose I would rather escape with my dignity than become a prisoner of the Union.” He stood. The guards paid him no heed as his eyes darted back and forth, taking stock of his chambers.

Presently Lieutenant Hardinge arrived.

“Lieutenant,” Belle linked her arm through his. “Would you escort me to my room?”

“Of course.” If Lieutenant Hardinge noticed his men were on the way to passing out, he made no comment.

Belle nodded a farewell at Captain Henry as they left his quarters.

As they returned to her doorway, Belle noticed Lieutenant Hardinge fidget with the chain of his pocket watch.

“Miss Boyd—”

“Belle.”

His face relaxed. “Belle then. And you can call me Samuel.”

Belle caught sight of the captain, clad in his overcoat and hat, appearing on deck. She turned Samuel so that his back was toward the rowboat. “What constellation is that?”

“Um…” he cleared his throat before rotating his head. “I’m not sure.”

Belle coughed. “This night air is getting to me. I should go inside soon.”

“Belle, I know this is very soon, but I was wondering if you could ever think of becoming betrothed to me.”

She heard a small scuffling and assumed Captain Henry was climbing into the boat. She coughed again and Samuel tapped her back. “Is it because I’m a Union man?”

“No.” She held a fist to her mouth and finished one last coughing spree. “That’s not it at all. I’m just a bit congested is all.” She perked her ears but heard nothing else. “I will think about your proposal, but I cannot give you an official answer until we arrive in Boston.”

He nodded solemnly. “I shall anxiously await your consent, then.”

“Goodnight, lieutenant.”

“Goodnight.”

Belle slipped inside her room before he could notice his boat was gone. Once again she had outwitted the Yankees.

Presently she heard a whistle and then shouting. She slipped off her dress, petticoat, and corset before getting into bed wearing just her chemise. A few minutes later there was a knock at her door. Belle opened it a crack.

“Captain Henry has escaped!”

“Are you sure?” She pulled the door wide enough for Samuel to see that she was in her bedclothes. “I just saw him!”

Samuel shook his head, sighing to himself. “I’m sorry to bother you. It is of no concern for a lady. You must get some sleep.”

Despite the chaos of soldiers shouting and running about the ship, Belle slept blissfully, dreaming of one of Stonewall’s men rowing through an empty harbor back to freedom.

The next morning when Belle awoke, she found Samuel pacing back and forth across the deck, clearly still distraught over the disappearance of Captain Henry.

“You still have not located him?”

“No.” Samuel slammed a hand on the railing. “How could I have been so careless?”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. But,” Belle reached out to finger the lapel of his uniform. “I’ve decided that I want nothing more than to marry you.”

When he turned to face her, his solemn expression had turned into a grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. “You’ve made me the happiest man there is, North or South!”

Belle stood on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. “Forgive me for being so bold, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“And I, you, although I look forward to spending the rest of my life getting to know you better.”

“Indeed. And now if you will excuse me, I have some wedding plans to start making.”

He winked at her. “Whatever storm lies ahead as my punishment, I know I shall be sailing into calmer waters, thanks to you.”

She gave him a little wave and went back to her room to begin making a list of things needed for her trousseau.

Belle took a walk on the deck after lunch and returned to her room to find a letter from Samuel:

My dear Belle,

I am told that I will be put on trial for the escape of Captain Henry. The Admiral says it looks very bad for us. I have already informed my men that I will take all the blame and they shall be spared, for I know that I can weather any storm knowing that you love me and will someday be my wife.

Affectionately,

Samuel

Belle folded the letter and placed it in her desk drawer. How exactly was she supposed to plan a wedding with her betrothed in prison?

Chapter 70

Mary Jane

August 1863

The courier came promptly the morning after August 21 to deliver the news of the failed coup. Jefferson Davis read the missive in the dining room, his face falling more with every line.

“Thank you,” he told the soldier before getting up from the table to escort him out of the dining room. Mary Jane, ostensibly dusting in the hallway, caught the president’s glance for a brief second before he retreated back into the room, this time shutting the door behind him.

She immediately proceeded to the back of the house and hung a black skirt on the line. Her conviction that she needed to act quickly only grew stronger the rest of the day. Although she acknowledged that it could be her intense fear getting the better of her, it seemed that voices grew hushed when she entered the room, and the other servants’ steps became more cautious around her. In the evening, without waiting until she was dismissed, Mary Jane headed to the nearly empty outbuilding and threw what little she owned into a small bag and then walked down the hill to Shockoe Bottom. Heading east on Broad Street, she kept her pace casual as she passed the old negro prison, now converted to one for white soldiers, and turned up Church Street as dusk fell.

The Van Lew mansion was quiet and dark, but Miss Lizzie must have been waiting next to the door because it opened as soon as Mary Jane stepped onto the portico.

“The coup was overthrown?” Miss Lizzie asked when she’d shut the door behind Mary Jane.

She nodded.

Miss Lizzie folded her gnarled hands in front of her. “Praise be to God this war will be over soon.” She led Mary Jane to her former room, telling her that she would be leaving before dawn and then bidding her goodnight.

“Goodnight,” Mary Jane returned. She set a nightshirt on the bed before calling out a hesitant, “Miss Lizzie?”

Miss Lizzie turned toward her, a hand on the doorknob.

Once again, Mary Jane thought better of making a confession, even though she figured it would be the last time she would see her presumed half-sister for a long time. “Thank you for all that you have done for me.”

Miss Lizzie’s face relaxed. “Thank you, Mary Jane. You’ve served your country well.” She made to leave, but paused before saying, “I will miss you.”

“And I, you.”

“You should get some rest,” she instructed before she left.

Mary Jane finished getting changed and then pulled the covers back on her old bed before climbing in. Oftentimes when she’d slept in that same room, she felt bitterness over her lot in life. But now, her feelings of trepidation for her impending journey were mixed with a quiet satisfaction with all she’d accomplished.

Miss Lizzie came for Mary Jane at what seemed the middle of the night, leading her out the unused servants’ door at the back of the house. A farm wagon was attached to two horses, including one of Miss Lizzie’s cherished white stallions. A man hopped off the front of the wagon upon seeing the women approach.

“Mary Jane,” Miss Lizzie said in a whisper. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Garvin. Mr. Garvin, this is Mrs. Bowser.”

If Miss Lizzie saw Mary Jane startle in recognition at the name, she gave no sign.

The man extending his hand was not the same Mr. Garvin that Mary Jane had befriended at the Davises.’ Although he had the same kind eyes, this Mr. Garvin was much younger, his dark skin unlined and his frame well-muscled.

He directed Mary Jane to the back of the cart and, in a low voice, instructed her to lie down. Another of Miss Lizzie’s servants appeared with a shovel and hoisted something on top of Mary Jane.

“Is that manure?” Mary Jane hissed.

“Yes. We’ve got to get you through the lines, and this is the best way,” Miss Lizzie murmured from the side of the wagon.

Mary Jane gave a sigh of resignation, breathing through her mouth instead of her nose.

Despite her putrid surroundings, the revolving of the wagon wheels lulled Mary Jane into a sort of suspended state of consciousness. She wouldn’t call it sleep, but, judging by the position of the sun, a great amount of time had passed before they finally halted.

“You can come out of there now,” Mr. Garvin’s resonant voice called.

Mary Jane crawled out of the wagon with as much dignity as she could manage. Mr. Garvin offered her a hand, but she declined. Although his nose was wrinkled against the smell, he refrained from commenting on her disheveled state. He retrieved her bag from the front of the cart and gestured toward a flowing stream. “You can get cleaned up there.”

“Where are we?” Mary Jane asked when she returned, washed of the most offensive smells and clad in somewhat fresher clothes. It was mid-afternoon, but Mr. Garvin already had started a campfire to warm up food.

He leaned over to stir the fire with a long stick. “We’re in Union territory now. You needn’t worry about being caught anymore.”

Mary Jane sat on the ground across from him. “It was that easy?”

Mr. Garvin flashed her a brilliant smile. “I am quite experienced with running contraband.”

“I knew your father,” Mary Jane stated. “How is he?”

“We got him out safe as well, and he’s currently stirring up trouble in Philadelphia.”

She met his grin with a small one of her own. “Is that where we’re headed?”

Mr. Garvin poked at the fire. “Miss Lizzie told me to bring you to where your husband is stationed.”

“No.”

He nearly dropped the fire stick. “No?”

“He was only my husband because Miss Lizzie arranged our marriage. Now that I’m in free territory, I want to make it on my own.”

“But Mrs. Bowser…”

“Mary Jane.”

“Mary Jane.” Once he got the words out, he didn’t seem to know what else to say. “You don’t love him?” he asked finally.

She avoided his eyes and stared at the fire instead. “I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone.”

He set the stick down. “Now I don’t think that’s true. My father told me all about the fearless woman he’d met at the Confederate White House. I know what you did for the Union.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“If you’ll forgive my boldness, ma’am,” he said as he rose from his seat, coming around to sit beside her. “Some white people say we’re an inferior race, that we don’t have human sentiments. But they are wrong—we most certainly do. And those sentiments include the capacity to love.” He put a hand over hers. “You deserve to experience unconditional trust and affection for someone who has those feelings in return.”

Mary Jane’s first instinct was to pull her hand away, but something inside prevented her from doing so. “Maybe you’re right.”

He squeezed her hand before letting go to draw his knees up to his chest, folding his arms on top of them. “You’re free now, and your life can be what you make of it. Someday that will be true for all of our brothers and sisters.” He met her eyes. “Thanks in part to your bravery, the South cannot hold out much longer. All of our struggles will have been worth it, for they will eventually result in a Union victory.”

Mary Jane turned her head to watch the setting sun. “And an everlasting freedom for all of our people.”

* * *

Epilogue

A Note on Fact Versus Fiction Regarding the Characters in Underground:

Although Underground is a work of fiction, I attempted to relay the stories of the real-life people the best I could. However, while researching, I quickly discovered that many authors, particularly Loreta Velasquez and Allan Pinkerton, took fictional liberties with their autobiographies, so even their supposed true stories might ring a little fantastical. What follows is a synopsis about the fates of the characters as best we know.

Belle Boyd married Samuel Hardinge in August of 1864. He had been dismissed from the Union navy over the Captain Henry debacle—no longer was he a Yankee. The happy marriage quickly disintegrated when the pair ran short on funds, causing Belle to tell the press that she would have rather been back in the Old Capitol Prison than endure the suffering of poverty. The two finally relocated to England, where Samuel turned to drinking. Although the couple was becoming more estranged, they still had a baby girl in 1865.

Belle wrote her memoirs and published them under the title Belle Boyd in Camp and Prison. She also took to the stage to supplement her income, starring in the comedy The Lady of Lyons. When Samuel began seeing another woman, Belle decided to take advantage of President Andrew Johnson’s promise of amnesty to former Confederates and returned to the United States. She filed for divorce, stating that she was so anxious to be rid of her husband that she would demand no alimony. From then on she claimed to be a widow, although Hardinge still lived.

Soon Belle married another Yankee, a self-proclaimed fan of her theatrical performances. Four children and two stints in an insane asylum followed. When she was forty, she disowned her eldest daughter by Hardinge for being “ruined.” To further illustrate her point, she wounded her daughter’s lover by shooting him with a revolver.

Although the scarcity of acting gigs had caused Belle to once again become poor, she managed to find money to purchase a plate and high chair for the first grandson of her old servant, Mauma Eliza. Belle died at the age of fifty-six in what is now Wisconsin Dells. Near the end of her life, she was quoted as saying, “I thank God that I can say on my deathbed that I am a virtuous woman.”

Hattie Lewis Lawton was the hardest character to pin down for this novel. As one of the first women detectives, she clearly had both the justification and impetus to frequently change her name. Indeed, Allan Pinkerton sometimes referred to her as Carrie Lawton, but Pryce Lewis, in his own memoirs, wrote of a Hattie Lewis. Most of what I could find of her were unsubstantiated rumors: both Rose Greenhow and Elizabeth Van Lew mentioned her in their autobiographies, although Van Lew was not aware that “Mrs. Webster” was actually an operative of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Not much else is known about her work, especially considering the records of the Pinkerton Agency were lost in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. I therefore took great liberties in Hattie’s backstory and motivation for becoming a detective. What we do know was that there was a female employee of Pinkerton who operated under the alias H. H. L and who assisted in preventing Lincoln’s assassination before his inauguration as well as accompanying Timothy Webster on his fateful trip to Richmond. Mrs. Webster is mentioned a few times in the Richmond Examiner as being a prisoner of state who was held at first in Castle Godwin and then in Castle Thunder. There is also a note from Mrs. Wester to Jefferson Davis in which she pleaded to be freed, asking to “go home where I may seek some spot, and unnoticed pass the remainder of my dreary, dreary days.” After her release in December 1862, Hattie disappeared from the historical record all together. It is this author’s hope that her remaining days were not all dreary and that, someday, someone will discover what happened to Hattie.

Mary Jane Richards Bowser, like Hattie, went by many names. Her baptism record from St. John’s Church in 1846 listed her as Mary Jane, “a colored child belonging to Mrs. Van Lew.” Most of the other Van Lew slaves were baptized in the First African Baptist Church of Richmond, so it was clear that Mrs. Van Lew and her daughter Elizabeth treated Mary Jane differently from the rest of their slaves, even at an early age. The Richards were cousins of the Van Lews, so it is possible her last name originated from their ownership. Later in life she would tell contradicting stories of her parentage, once claiming that her mother was a Van Lew slave and that “her father was a mixture of Cuban-Spaniard and Negro,” although she also one declared that she never knew her parents.

On August 21, 1860, the Richmond Whig reported, "Mary Jones, alias Mary Jane Henley, a likely mulatto girl, about twenty years of age, arrested for being without free papers, was committed for nine days. She was sent to the North about nine years ago, by a highly respectable lady of this city, for the purpose of receiving a thorough education, after completing which she went to Liberia." It was not soon after she returned from Liberia that she found herself in the slave jails of Lumpkin’s Alley.

Mary Jane did indeed marry Wilson Bowser on April 16, 1861 (the day before Virginia seceded), once again in Saint John’s Church. The official record stated they were "(colored) servants to Mrs. E. L. Van Lew." Although there is no other record of their relationship, or intention for marriage for that matter, a Wilson Bowser enlisted with the 27th US Colored Infantry, giving his age as 44 in 1863. If this was the same man, he was more than two decades older than his wife. Soon after the capture of Richmond by Union troops, Mary Jane Richards was teaching former slaves to read and write. She never again used the last name Bowser, although Wilson Bowser was still living at that time.

After the war, Mary Jane traveled North to give speeches about her wartime experiences, using the pseudonyms Richmonia Richards and Richmonia R. St. Pierre. In 1867 she wrote a letter to her employer—she had helped found a freedman’s school in Georgia—to inform him that she had married and signed it Mary J. R. Garvin. She continued to argue for equal rights for blacks in both the North and the South until she too disappeared from the records, at the probable age of 28.

Loreta Janeta Velasquez wrote a hotly contested book called The Woman in Battle, originally published in 1876. In it she claimed to have participated as Harry Buford in the battles of Bull Run and Shiloh, among others. At first I took her portrayal of her adventures with a grain of salt, knowing it made for a great story, but also that some of her timeline conflicted with known events. However, upon reading William C. Davis’s well-researched book, Inventing Loreta Velasquez, I realized that Loreta was nothing more than a 19th century con-artist, who probably never saw a battle in her life. Although she declared herself to be the descendent of Cuban aristocrats, she was probably born in New Orleans and resorted to prostitution as a teenager to make ends meet. There is no record of her marrying before Tom De Caulp, who was indeed a Confederate soldier that eventually defected to the Union. His real name was most likely William Irving, and he had a son by his first wife, whom he never divorced and who was still living when he married Loreta. In her novel, Loreta claimed he died in battle, a convenient death for the husband of someone who claimed to be devoted to the Confederate cause and who couldn’t bring herself to relay his desertion.

After the war, Loreta was involved in various schemes, including gold-mining out West and raising money for a non-existent railroad. She married at least three more times and had a son, or possibly two. She continued to change her story every time she spoke to the press, so it is difficult to discern what was fact from fiction. She died in a mental hospital in 1923 when she was around eighty years old.

Want to know why Loreta’s name was mentioned during Lincoln’s assassination trial? Visit www.kitsergeant.com to find out!

* * *

Selected Bibliography

Abbott, Karen. Liar, Temptress, Soldier, Spy: Four Women Undercover in the Civil War. Harper Perennial, 2015.

Boyd, Belle, and Sam Wilde Hardinge. Belle Boyd In Camp and Prison. London: Saunders, Otley, and, 1865.

Davis, William C. Inventing Loreta Velasquez: Confederate Soldier Impersonator, Media Celebrity, and Con Artist. Southern Illinois University Press, 2016.

Enss, Chris. The Pinks: The First Women Detectives, Operatives, and Spies with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Guilford, CT: TwoDot, an Imprint of Globe Pequot, 2017.

Mortimer, Gavin. Double Death: The True Story of Pryce Lewis, the Civil Wars Most Daring Spy. New York, NY: Walker & Company, 2010.

Nolan, Jeannette Covert. Yankee Spy: Elizabeth Van Lew. New York: Messner, 1970.

Recko, Corey. A Spy for the Union: The Life and Execution of Timothy Webster. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Publishers, 2013.

Pinkerton, Allan. The Spy of the Rebellion: True History of the Spy System of the United States Army during the Civil War. New York, NY: GW Dillingham, 1900.

Scarborough, Ruth. Belle Boyd: Siren of the South. Macon, GA: Mercer Univ. Pr., 1983.

Velazquez, Loreta Janeta, and C.J Worthington. The Woman in Battle: A Narrative of the Exploits, Adventures, and Travels of Madame Loreta Janeta Velasquez, Otherwise Known as Lieutenant Harry T. Buford, Confederate States Army. Hartford, CT: T. Belknap, 1876.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my critique partners: Ute Carbone, Theresa Munroe, and Karen Cino, for their comments and suggestions. I am eternally thankful to the gracious Kathy Lance for her superb editing skills. And as always, a special thank-you goes to my wonderful family, especially Tommy, Belle, and Thompson, for their unconditional love and support.

L’Agent Double

Spies and Martyrs in the Great War

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

Although this book is based on real events and features historical figures, it is a work of fiction. Most of the dialogue and incidents in the story are products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as historical fact.

Copyright © 2019 Kit Sergeant

Published by Thompson Belle Press

All rights reserved.

This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the First World War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women upon whom these characters are based.

Glossary of Terms

Aerodrome: a small airport

Boches: derogatory term for Germans

Croix de Guerre: a French military honor

Deuxiéme Bureau: France’s military intelligence agency; translated as the “Second Bureau of the Second Staff”

Franc-tireur: a civilian sniper

Feldwebel: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a sergeant

Gefreiter: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a corporal

Gendarme: an armed police officer

Grand Place: the town square

Hauptman: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a captain

Huns: another derogatory term for Germans

Kermis: a Dutch summer fair

Lorry: a motor vehicle used to transport goods or passengers

Meneer: Dutch for “Mr.”

Mevrouw: Dutch for “Mrs.”

Oberarzt: a senior physician

Ordnance train: a train carrying military supplies

Unteroffizier: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a sergeant

Zouave: a soldier usually linked to the French North African territories; they are known for their distinct uniforms

Prologue

October 1917

The nun on duty woke her just before dawn. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes to see a crowd of men, including her accusers and her lawyer, standing just outside the iron bars of her cell. The only one who spoke was the chief of the Military Police, to inform her the time of her execution had come. The men then turned and walked away, leaving only the nun and the prison doctor, who kept his eyes on the dirty, straw-strewn floor as she dressed.

She chose the best outfit she had left, a bulky dove-gray skirt and jacket and scuffed ankle boots. She wound her unwashed hair in a bun and then tied the worn silk ribbons of her hat under her chin before asking the doctor, “Do I have time to write good-byes to my loved ones?”

He nodded and she hastily penned three farewell letters. She handed them to the doctor with shaking hands before lifting a dust-covered velvet cloak from a nail on the wall. “I am ready.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, her lawyer reappeared. “This way,” he told her as he grasped her arm.

Prison rats scurried out their way as he led her down the hall. She breathed in a heavy breath when they were outside. It had been months since she’d seen the light of day, however faint it was now.

Four black cars were waiting in the prison courtyard. A few men scattered about the lawn lifted their freezing hands to bring their cameras to life, the bulbs brightening the dim morning as her lawyer bundled her into the first car.

They drove in silence. It was unseasonably cold and the chill sent icy fingers down her spine. She stopped herself from shivering, wishing that she could experience one more warm summer day. But there would be no more warmth, no more appeals, nothing left after these last few hours.

She knew that her fate awaited her at Caponniére, the old fort just outside of Vincennes where the cavalry trained. Upon arrival, her lawyer helped her out of the car, his gnarled hands digging into her arm.

It’s harder for him than it is for me. She brushed the thought away, wanting to focus on nothing but the fresh air and the way the autumn leaves of the trees next to the parade ground changed color as the sun rose. Her lawyer removed his arm from her shoulders as two Zouave escorts appeared on either side of her. Her self-imposed blinders finally dropped as she took in the twelve soldiers with guns and, several meters away, the wooden stake placed in front of a brick wall. So that the mis-aimed bullets don’t hit anything else.

A priest approached and offered her a blindfold.

“No thank you.” Her voice, which had not been used on a daily basis for months, was barely a whisper.

The priest glanced over at her lawyer, who nodded. The blindfold disappeared under his robes.

She spoke the same words to one of the escorts as he held up a rope, this time also shaking her head. She refused to be bound to the stake. He acquiesced, and walked away.

She stood as straight as she could, free of any ties, while the military chief read the following words aloud:

By decree of the Third Council of War, the woman who appears before us now has been condemned to death for espionage.

He then gave an order, and the soldiers came to attention. At the command, “En joue!” they hoisted their guns to rest on their shoulders. The chief raised his sword.

She took a deep breath and then lifted her chin, willing herself to die just like that: head held high, showing no fear. She watched as the chief lowered his sword and shouted “Feu!”

And then everything went black.

* * *

A Zouave private approached the body. He’d only been enlisted for a few weeks and had been invited to the firing squad by his commander, who told him that men of all ranks should know the pleasure of shooting a German spy.

“By blue, that lady knew how to die,” another Zouave commented.

“Who was she?” the private asked. He’d been taught that everything in war was black and white: the Germans were evil, the Allies pure. But he was surprised at how gray everything was that morning: from the misty fog, to the woman’s cloak and dress, and even the ashen shade of her lifeless face.

The other Zouave shrugged. “All I know is what they told me. They say she acted as a double agent and provided Germany with intelligence about our troops.” He drew his revolver and bent down to place the muzzle against the woman’s left temple.

“But is it necessary to kill her—a helpless woman?” the private asked.

The Zouave cocked his gun for the coup de grâce. “If women act as men would in war and commit heinous crimes, they should be prepared to be punished as men.” And he pulled the trigger, sending a final bullet into the woman’s brain.

Chapter 1

M’greet

July 1914

“Have you heard the latest?” M’greet’s maid, Anna, asked as she secured a custom-made headpiece to her mistress’s temple.

“What now?” M’greet readjusted the gold headdress to better reflect her olive skin tone.

“They are saying that your mysterious Mr. K from the newspaper article is none other than the Crown Prince himself.”

M’greet smiled at herself in the mirror. “Is that so? I rather think they’re referring to Lieutenant Kiepert. Just the other day he and I ran into the editor of the Berliner Tageblatt during our walk in the Tiergarten.” Her smile faded. “But let them wonder.” For the last few weeks, the papers had been filled with speculation about why the famed Mata Hari had returned to Germany, sometimes bordering on derision about her running out of money.

She leaned forward and ran her fingers over the dark circles under her eyes. “Astruc says that he might be able to negotiate a longer engagement in the fall if tonight’s performance goes well.”

“It will,” Anna assured her as she fastened the heavy gold necklace around M’greet’s neck.

The metal felt cold against her sweaty skin. She hadn’t performed in months, and guessed the perspiration derived from her nervousness. Tonight was to be the largest performance she’d booked in years: Berlin’s Metropol could seat 1108 people, and the tickets had sold out days ago. The building was less than a decade old, and even the dressing room's geometric wallpaper and curved furniture reflected the Art Nouveau style the theater was famous for.

“I had to have this costume refitted.” M’greet pulled at the sheer yellow fabric covering her midsection. When she first began dancing, she had worn jeweled bralettes and long, sheer skirts that sat low on the hips. But her body had become much more matronly in middle age and even M’greet knew that she could no longer get away with the scandalous outfits of her youth. She added a cumbersome earring to each ear and an arm band before someone knocked on the door.

A man’s voice called urgently in German, “Fräulein Mata Hari, are you ready?”

Anna shot her mistress an encouraging smile. “Your devoted admirers are waiting.”

M’greet stretched out her arms and rotated her wrists, glancing with appreciation in the mirror. She still had it. She grabbed a handful of translucent scarves and draped them over her arms and head before opening the door. “All set,” she said to the awaiting attendant.

M'greet waited behind a filmy curtain while the music began: low, mournful drumming accompanied by a woman’s shrill tone singing in a foreign language. As the curtain rose, she hoisted her arms above her head and stuck her hips out in the manner she had seen the women do when she lived in Java.

She had no formal dance training, but it didn’t matter. People came to see Mata Hari for the spectacle, not because she was an exceptionally wonderful dancer. M’greet pulled the scarf off her head and undulated her hips in time with the music. She pinched her fingers together and moved her arms as if she were a graceful bird about to take flight. The drums heightened in intensity and her gyrations became even more exaggerated. As the music came to a dramatic stop, she released the scarves covering her body to reveal her yellow dress in full.

She was accustomed to hearing astonished murmurs from the audience following her final act—she’d once proclaimed that her success rose with every veil she threw off. Tonight, however, the Berlin audience seemed to be buzzing with protest.

As the curtain fell and M’greet began to pick up the pieces of her discarded costume, she assured herself that the Berliners’ vocalizations were in response to being disappointed at seeing her more covered. Or maybe she was just being paranoid and had imagined all the ruckus.

“Fabulous!” her agent, Gabriel Astruc, exclaimed when he burst into her dressing room a few minutes later.

M’greet held a powder puff to her cheek. “Did you finalize a contract for the fall?”

“I did,” Astruc sat in the only other chair, which appeared too tiny to support his large frame. “They are giving us 48,000 marks.”

She nodded approvingly.

“That should tide you over for a while, no?” he asked.

She placed the puff in the gold-lined powder case. “For now. But the creditors are relentless. Thankfully Lieutenant Kieper has gifted me a few hundred francs.”

“As a loan?” Astruc winked. “It is said you have become mistress to the Kronprinz.”

She rolled her eyes. “You of all people must know to never mind such rumors. I may be well familiar with men in high positions, but have not yet made the acquaintance of the Kaiser’s son.”

Astruc rose. “Someday you two will meet, and even the heir of the German Empire will be unable to resist the charms of the exotic Mata Hari.”

M’greet unsnapped the cap of her lipstick. “We shall see, won’t we?”

Now that the fall performances had been secured, M’greet decided to upgrade her lodgings to the lavish Hotel Adlon. As she entered the lobby, with its sparkling chandeliers dangling from intricately carved ceilings and exotic potted palms scattered among velvet-cushioned chairs, she nodded to herself. This was the type of hotel a world-renowned dancer should be found in. She booked an apartment complete with electric Tiffany lamps and a private bathroom featuring running water.

The Adlon was known not only for its famous patrons, but for the privacy it provided them. M’greet was therefore startled the next morning when someone banged on the door to her suite.

“Yes?” Anna asked as she opened it.

“Are you Mata Hari?” a gruff voice inquired.

M’greet threw on a silky robe over her nightgown before she went to the door. “You must be looking for me.”

The man in the doorway appeared to be about forty, with a receding hairline and a bushy mustache that curled upward from both sides of his mouth. “I am Herr Griebel of the Berlin police.”

M’greet ignored Anna’s stricken expression as she motioned for her to move aside. “Please come in.” She gestured toward a chair at the little serving table. “Shall I order up some tea?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Griebel replied as he sat. “I am here to inform you that a spectator of your performance last night has lodged a complaint.”

“A complaint? Against me?” M’greet repeated as she took a seat in the chair across from him. She mouthed, “tea,” at Anna, who was still standing near the door. Anna nodded and then left the room.

“Indeed,” Griebel touched his mustache. “A complaint of indecency.”

“I see.” She leaned forward. “You are part of the Sittenpolizei, then.” They were a department charged with enforcing the Kaiser’s so-called laws of morality. M’greet had been visited a few times in the past by such men, but nothing had ever come of it. She flashed Griebel a seductive smile. “Surely your department has no issue with sacred dances?”

“Ah,” Griebel fidgeted with the collar of his uniform, clearly uncomfortable.

Mirroring his movements, M’greet fingered the neckline of her low-cut gown. “After all, there are more important issues going on in the world than my little dance.”

“Such as?” Griebel asked.

The door opened and Anna discreetly placed a tea set on the crisp white tablecloth. She gave her mistress a worried look but M’greet waved her off before pouring Griebel a cup of tea. “Well, I’m sure you heard about that poor man that was shot in the Balkans in June.”

“Of course—it’s been in all of the papers. The ‘poor man,’ as you call him, was Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Austria should not stand down when the heir to their throne was shot by militant Serbs.”

M’greet took a sip of tea. “Are you saying they should go to war?”

“They should. And Germany, as Austria’s ally, ought to accompany them.”

“Over one man? You cannot be serious.”

“Those Serbs need to be taught a lesson, once and for all.” Upon seeing the pout on M’greet’s face, Griebel waved his hand. “But you shouldn’t worry your pretty little head over talk of politics.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re right. It’s not something that a woman like me should be discussing.”

“No.” He set down his tea cup and pulled something out of his pocket. “As I was saying when I first came in, about the complaint—”

“As I was saying…” she faked a yawn, stretching her arms out while sticking out her bosom. The stocky, balding Griebel was not nearly as handsome as some of the men she’d met over the years, but M’greet knew that she needed to become better acquainted with him in order to get the charges dropped. Besides, she’d always had a weakness for men in uniform. “My routine is adopted from Hindu religious dances and should not be misconstrued as immoral.” She placed a hand over Griebel’s thick fingers, causing the paper to fall to the floor. “I think, if the two of us put our heads together, we can definitely find a mutual agreement.”

He pulled his hand away to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

M’greet got up from her chair to spread herself on the bed, displaying her body to its advantage as a chef would his best dish.

“Perhaps we could work out an arrangement that would benefit us both,” Griebel agreed as he walked over to her.

Griebel’s mustache tickled her face, but she forced herself to think about other things as he kissed her. Her thoughts at such moments often traveled to her daughter, Non, but today she focused on the other night’s performance. M’greet always did what it took to survive, and right now she needed the money that her contract with the Berlin Metropol would provide, and nothing could get in the way of that.

M’greet was glad to count Herr Griebel as her new lover as the tensions between the advocates of the Kaiser—who wanted to “finish with the Serbs quickly”—and the pacifists determined to keep Germany out of war heightened throughout Berlin at the end of July. Although Griebel was on the side of the war-mongers, M’greet felt secure traveling on his arm every night on their way to Berlin’s most popular venues.

It was in the back room at one such establishment, the Borchardt, that she met some of Griebel’s cronies. They had gathered to talk about the recent developments—Austria-Hungary had officially declared war on Serbia. M’greet knew her place was to look pretty and say nothing, but at the same time she couldn’t help but listen to what they were discussing.

“I’ve heard that Russia has mobilized her troops,” a heavyset, balding man stated. M’greet recalled that his name was Müller.

“Ah,” Griebel sat back in the plush leather booth. “That’s the rub, now isn’t it?”

Herr Vogel, Griebel’s closest compatriot, shook his head. “I’d hoped Russia would stay out of it.” He flicked ash from his cigar into a nearby tray. “After all, the Kaiser and the Tsar are cousins.”

“No,” Müller replied. “Those Serbs went crying to Mother Russia, and she responded.” He nodded to himself. “Now it’s only a matter of time before we jump in to protect Austria.”

As if on cue, the sound of breaking glass was heard.

M’greet ended her silence. “What was that?”

Griebel put a protective hand on her arm. “I’m not sure.” He used his other arm to flag down a passing waiter. “What is going on?”

The young man looked panic-stricken. “There is a demonstration on the streets. Someone threw a brick through the front window and our owner is asking all of the patrons to leave.”

“Has war broken out?” M’greet inquired of Griebel as she pulled her arm away. His grip had left white marks.

“I’m not sure.” He picked up her fur shawl and headed to the main room of the restaurant. Pandemonium reigned as Berlin’s elite rushed toward the doors. Discarded feathers from fashionable ladies’ hats and boas floated through the air and littered the ground before stamping feet stirred them up again. M’greet wished she hadn’t shaken off Griebel’s arm as now she was being shoved this way and that. Someone trampled over her dress and she heard the sound of ripping lace.

She nearly tripped before a strong hand landed on her elbow. “This way,” the young waiter told her. He led her through the kitchen and out the back door, where Griebel’s Benz was waiting. Griebel appeared a few minutes later and the driver told him there was a massive protest outside the Kaiser’s palace.

“Let’s go there,” Griebel instructed.

“No.” M’greet wrapped the fur shawl around her shoulders. “Take me home first.”

“Don’t you want to find out what’s happening?” Griebel demanded, waving his hand as a crowd of people thronged the streets. “This could be the beginning of a war the likes of which no one has ever seen.”

“No,” she repeated. It seemed to her that the Great Powers of Europe: Germany, Russia, France, and possibly England, were entering into a scrap they had no business getting involved with. “I don’t care about any war and I’ve had enough tonight. I want to go home.”

Griebel gave her a strange look but motioned for the driver to do as she said.

They were forced to drive slowly, as the streets had become jammed with motor cars, horse carts, and people rushing about on foot. M’greet caught what they were chanting as the crowd marched past. She repeated the words aloud: “Deutschland über alles.”

“Germany over all,” Griebel supplied.

The war came quickly. Germany first officially declared war on Russia to the east and two days later did the same to France in the west. In Berlin, so-called bank riots occurred as people rushed to their financial institutions and emptied their savings accounts, trading paper money for gold and silver coins. Prices for food and other necessities soared as people stocked up on goods while they could still afford them.

Worried about her own fate, M’greet placed several calls to her agent, Astruc, wanting to know if the war meant her fall performances would be cancelled. After leaving many messages, she eventually got word that Astruc had fled town, presumably with the money the Metropol had paid her in advance.

She decided to brave the confusion at the bank in order to withdraw what little funds she had left.

“I’m sorry,” the teller informed M’greet when she finally made it to the counter. “It looks as though your account has been blocked.”

“How can you say that?” she demanded. “There should be plenty of money in my account.” The plenty part might not have been strictly true, but there was no way it was empty.

“The address you gave when you opened the account was in Paris. We cannot give funds to any foreigner at this time.”

M’greet put both fists on the counter. “I wish to speak with your manager.”

The teller gestured behind her. M’greet glanced back to see a long line of people, their exhausted, bewildered faces beginning to glower. “I’m sorry, fräulein, I can do nothing more.”

She opened her mouth to let him have the worst of her fury, but a man in a police uniform appeared beside her. “A foreigner you say?” He pulled M’greet out of the bank line, and roughly turned her to face him. “What are you, a Russian?”

M’greet knew her dark hair and coloring was not typical of someone with Dutch heritage, but this was a new accusation. “I am no such thing.”

“Russian, for sure,” a man standing in line agreed.

“Her address was in France,” the teller called before accepting a bank card from the next person.

“Well, Miss Russian Francophile, you are coming with me.” For the second time in a week, a strange man put his hand on M’greet’s elbow and led her away.

M’greet fumed all the way to the police station. She’d had enough of Berlin: due to this infernal war, she was now void of funds and it looked as though her engagements were to be cancelled. She figured her best course of action would be to return to Paris and use her connections to try to get some work there.

When they arrived at the police station, M’greet immediately asked for Herr Griebel. He appeared a few minutes later, a wry smile on his face. “You’ve been arrested under suspicion of being a troublesome alien.”

M’greet waved off that comment with a brush of her hand. “We both know that’s ridiculous. Can you secure my release as soon as possible? I must get back to Paris before my possessions there are seized.”

Griebel’s amused smile faded as his lip curled into a sneer. “You cannot travel to an enemy country in the middle of a war.”

“Why not?”

The sneer deepened. “Because…” His narrowed eyes suddenly softened. “Come with me. There is someone I want you to meet.” He led her to an office that occupied the end of a narrow hallway and knocked on the closed door labeled, Traugott von Jagow, Berliner Polizei.

“Come in,” a voice growled.

Griebel entered and then saluted.

The man behind the desk had a thin face and heavy mustache which drooped downward. “What is it, Herr Griebel? You must know I am extremely busy.” He dipped a pen in ink and began writing.

Griebel lowered his arm. “Indeed, sir, but I wanted you to meet the acclaimed Mata Hari.”

Von Jagow paused his scribbling and looked up. His eyes traveled down from the feather atop M’greet’s hat and stopped at her chest. “Wasn’t there a morality complaint filed against you?”

M’greet stepped forward, but before she could protest, Griebel cleared his throat. “We are here because she wants to return to Paris.”

Von Jagow gave a loud “harrumph,” and then continued his writing. “You are not the first person to ask such a question, but we can’t let anyone cross the border into enemy territory at this time. People would think you were a spy.” He abruptly stopped writing and set his pen down. “A courtesan with a flair for seducing powerful men...” He shot a meaningful look at Griebel, who stared at the floor. “And a long-term resident of Paris with admittedly low morals.” He finally met M’greet’s eyes. “We could use a woman like you. I’m forming a network of agents who can provide us information about the goings-on in France.”

M’greet tried to keep the horror from showing on her face. Was this man asking her to be a spy for Germany? “No thank you,” she replied. “As I told Herr Griebel, I have no interest in the war. I just want to get back to Paris.”

Von Jagow crossed his arms and sat back. “And I can help you with that, provided that you agree to work for me.”

She shook her head and spoke in a soft voice. “Thank you, sir, but it seems I’ll have to find a way back on my own.”

“Very well, then.” Von Jagow picked up his pen again. “Good luck.” His voice implied that he wished her just the opposite.

Chapter 2

Marthe

August 1914

Marthe Cnockaert didn’t think anything could spoil this year’s Kermis. People had been arriving in Westrozebeke for days from all over Belgium. She herself had just returned home from her medical studies at Ghent University on holiday and had nearly been overcome by the tediousness of living in her small village again. She gazed around the garland-bedecked Grand Place lined with colorful vendor booths in satisfaction. The rest of Europe may have plunged into war, but Belgium had vowed to remain neutral, and the mayor declared that the annual Kermis would be celebrated just as it had been since the middle ages.

The smell of pie wafted from a booth as Marthe passed by and the bright notes of a hurdy-gurdy were audible over the noise of the crowd. She had just entered the queue for the carousel when she heard someone call, “Marthe!”

She turned at the sound of her name to see Valerie, a girl she had known since primary school. “Marthe, how are you? How is Max?” As usual, Valerie was breathless, as though she had recently run a marathon, but it appeared she’d only just gotten off the carousel.

Marthe refrained from rolling her eyes. “Max is still in Ghent, finishing up his studies.” Valerie had never hidden the fact she’d always had a crush on Marthe’s older brother, even after she’d become betrothed to Nicholas Hoot.

Valerie sighed as she looked around. “There’s nobody here but women, children, and old men. All the boys our age have gone off to war and now there’s no one left to flirt with.”

“Where is Nicholas?”

“He was called to Liége. I suppose you’ve heard that Germany is demanding safe passage through Belgium in order to get to Paris.”

“No.”

Valerie shrugged. “They are saying we might have to join the war if Germany decides to invade. But the good news is some treaty states that England would have to enter on our side if that happened.”

“Join the war?” Marthe was shocked at both the information and the fact that Valerie seemed so nonchalant about it. There were a few beats of silence, broken only by the endless tune from the carousel’s music box, as Marthe pondered this.

“Ah, Marthe, I see you have returned from university.” Meneer Hoot, an old friend of her father’s, and Valerie’s future father-in-law, was nearly shouting, both because he was hard of hearing and because the carousel had started spinning.

“Yes, indeed. I am home for a few weeks before I finish my last year of nursing school,” Marthe answered loudly. “Glad to see you are doing well. How is your wife?”

“Oh, you know. Terrified at the prospect of a German invasion, but aren’t we all?”

Marthe gave him and Valerie a tentative smile as the church bell rang the hour. “I must be getting home to help Mother with dinner.”

Marthe knew something was wrong as soon as she entered the kitchen. “What is it?” she asked, glancing at her father’s somber face.

“It’s the Germans. They have invaded Belgium.”

Marthe fell into her chair. Mother stood in the corner of the room, ironing a cap.

“Belgium has ordered our troops to Liége.” Father sank his head into his hands. “But we could never defend ourselves against those bloody Boches.”

Mother set her iron down and then took a seat at the kitchen table. “What about Max? Will he come home from Ghent?”

Father took his hands away from his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything now.”

“I suppose we should send for him,” Marthe said.

Mother cast a worried glance at Father before nodding at her daughter.

For the first time Marthe could remember, Kermis ended before the typical eight days. That didn’t stop the endless train of people coming into Westrozebeke, however. The newcomers were refugees from villages near Liége and were headed to Ypres, 15 kilometers southwest, where they had been told they could find food and shelter.

Max sent word that he would be traveling in the opposite direction. He was going to Liége, a town on the Belgian/German border that was protected by a series of concrete fortifications. The Germans were supposedly en route there as well. Both Father and Mother were saddened by Max’s decision to enlist in the army, but Marthe understood the circumstances: Belgium must be defended at all costs. She wrote her brother a letter stating the same and urged him to be careful.

As Westrozebeke became a temporary camp, Marthe’s family’s house and barn, like many of the other houses in the village, were quickly packed with the unfortunate evacuees. Soon the news that Liége had fallen came, and not long after, the first of the soldiers who had been cut off from the main Belgian army arrived.

Marthe stood on the porch and watched a few of them straggle through town. Their frayed uniforms were covered in dark splotches, some of it dirt, some of it blood. Their faces were unshaven, their skin filthy, but the worst part was that none of them were Max.

Upon spotting Nicholas Hoot’s downtrodden form, Marthe rushed into the street. “Have you heard from Max?” she asked.

Nicholas met her eyes. His were wide and terrified, holding a record of past horrors, as though he had seen the devil himself. “No.”

“C’mon,” Marthe put his heavy arm over her shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”

Mevrouw Hoot greeted them at the door. “Nicholas, my son.” She hugged his gaunt body before leading him inside.

After his second cup of tea, Nicholas could croak out a few sentences. After a third cup and some biscuits, he was able to relay the horrific conditions the Belgian soldiers had experienced at Liége, especially the burning inferno of Fort de Loncin, which had been hit by a shell from one of the German’s enormous guns, known as Big Bertha. De Loncin had been the last of the twelve forts around Liége to yield to the Boches.

“Do you know what happened to Max?” Marthe asked.

Nicholas shook his head. “I never saw him. But it was a very confusing time.” His cracked lips formed into something that resembled his old smile. “The Germans are terrified of francs-tireurs and think every Belgian civilian is a secret sniper out to get them.” The smile quickly faded. “The Fritzes dragged old men and teenagers into the square, accusing them of shooting at their troops. It was mostly their own men mistakenly firing upon each other, but no matter. They killed the innocent villagers anyway.” He set his tea cup down. “The Huns are blood-thirsty and vicious, and they are headed this way. We should flee further west as soon as possible.”

Mevrouw Hoot met Marthe’s eyes. “I’ll tell Father,” Marthe stated before taking her leave.

Mother was ready to depart, but Father was reluctant, stating that if Max did come home, he would find his family gone. Marthe agreed and disagreed with both sides. On the one hand, she wanted to wait for her brother, and judge for herself if the Germans were as terrible as Nicholas had said. On the other hand, if he was indeed correct, they should go as far west as possible.

The argument became moot when Marthe was awakened the next morning by an unearthly piercing noise overhead. The shrieks grew louder until the entire house shook with the crescendo, and then there was an even more disturbing silence.

Marthe tossed on her robe and then rushed downstairs. No one was in the kitchen, so she pulled Max’s old boots over her bare feet and ran the few blocks to the Grand Place. She could see the mushroom cloud of black smoke was just beginning to clear.

She nearly tripped in her oversized boots when she saw someone lying in the roadway. It was Mevrouw Visser, one of her elderly neighbors. She bent over the bloodied body, but the woman had already passed.

The sound of horse hooves caused Marthe to look up. She froze as she saw the men atop were soldiers in unfamiliar khaki uniforms.

“Hallo,” called a man with a thin mustache and a flat red cap. He stopped his horse short of Mevrouw Visser. “Met her maker, has she?” The way he ended the sentence with a question that didn’t expect an answer made Marthe realize the British had arrived. The men paused at similarly lying bodies, giving food and water to those who still clung to life, but after an hour or so, they rode off.

Marthe went home, her robe now tattered and soiled, her feet sweaty in her boots. “What now?” she asked her father, who was seated at the kitchen table, also covered in perspiration, dirt, and blood.

“Now we wait for Max.”

A knock sounded on the front door and Marthe went to answer it, fearing that she would greet a Hun in a spiked helmet. But the soldier outside was in a blue uniform. “The bloody Boches are on their way,” he stated in a French accent. “You must flee the village, mademoiselle.”

She glanced at Father, who was still sitting at the kitchen table. “I cannot.”

The French soldier took a few steps backward to peer at the second floor before returning his gaze back to her. “Our guns will arrive soon, but we are only a small portion of our squadron, and cannot possibly hope to hold them for long. We are asking the villagers to allow us access to their homes in order to take aim.”

She nodded and opened the door. He marched into the kitchen and spoke to her father.

Marthe went outside, and looked up and down the street, which was now dotted with soldiers in the blue uniforms of the French. The sound of hammering permeated the air. The soldier she had spoken to went upstairs to pound small viewing holes into the wood of the rooms facing the street. She helped Father barricade the windows and front door with furniture.

Marthe and her parents sequestered themselves in her bedroom, which faced the back of the house. Although half of her was frightened, the other was intensely curious as to what would happen. She used her father’s telescope to peer through a loophole in the wood-barricaded window.

“I see them!” she shouted as a gray mass came into view.

“Marthe, get down!” her father returned.

She reluctantly retired the telescope, but not before she peered outside again. The masses had become individual men topped by repulsive-looking spiked helmets. There were hundreds of them and they were headed straight for the Grand Place.

The windows rattled as the hooves of an army of horses came closer. Marthe knew that many of those carts were filled with the Boches’ giant guns.

The French machine guns, known as mitrailleuse, began an incessant rattling. Rat-a-tat-tat: ad infinitum. Marthe couldn’t help herself and peeped through the hole again, watching as the gray mob started running, men falling from the fire of the mitrailleuse.

Mother’s face was stricken as a bullet tore through the wood inches above her daughter’s head. Wordlessly Father grabbed both of their hands to bring them downstairs. At the foot of the stairs was a French soldier rocking back and forth, clutching his stomach. Father tried to pull Marthe toward the cellar, but she paused when she saw the blood spurting from the soldier’s stomach. All of her university training thus far had not prepared her for this horrific sight, his entrails beginning to spill out of the wound, but she reached out with trembling fingers to prop him against the wall. “You must keep still.”

His distraught eyes met hers as he managed to croak out one word. “Water.”

Marthe knew that water would only add to his suffering. The sound of gunfire grew closer, and Father yanked her away.

They had just reached the cellar when a shell sounded and a piece of plaster from the wall landed near Father. He struck a match and lit his pipe. “Courage,” he said. “The French will beat them back,” but the defeated tone of his voice told Marthe that he did not believe it to be so. Nothing could stay that rushing deluge of gray regiments she had spotted from the window.

When the mitrailleuse finally ceased its firing, Marthe crept upstairs to retrieve water. The man at the stairs had succumbed to death, and there seemed no sign of any live blue-clad soldiers anywhere in the house. The hallway glistened with blood and there were a few spots where bullets had broken through the exterior wall. An occasional shot could still be heard outside, but it sounded much more distant now. Marthe glanced at her watch. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon.

The front door burst open and she turned to see a bedraggled young man standing in the doorway with his eyes narrowed. Something in the distance caught the sunlight and she glimpsed many men on the lawn, their bayonets gleaming. Marthe marveled that the sun had the audacity to shine on such a day.

The soldier before her holstered his revolver and spoke in broken French. “Qui d'autre est dans cette maison avec vous?” He marched into the room, a band of his comrades behind him. Marthe assumed he was the captain, or hauptmann. The men outside sat down and lit cigarettes.

She felt no fear at the arrival of the disheveled German and his troops, only an unfamiliar numbness. She replied in German that her parents were downstairs.

“There are loopholes in the walls of this house,” the captain stated. “Your father is a franc-tireur.”

Marthe recalled what Nicholas had said about the Hun’s irrational fear of civilian sharpshooters. “My father is an old man and has never fired a shot at anyone, and especially not today. The French soldiers who were here were the ones shooting but they have gone.”

“I have heard that story many times before. Yours is not the first village we have entered.”

You mean demolished, Marthe corrected him silently.

“Fourteen of my men were shot, and the gunfire from this house was responsible. If those men who were with him have run, then your father alone will suffer.”

“No, please, Hauptmann.” But the captain was already on his way to the cellar. Two other burly men stalked after him. Marthe was about to pursue them when the first man appeared on the steps, dragging her mother. The other soldier, a sergeant judging by the gold braid on his uniform, followed with her father, who held his still smoldering pipe.

The soldiers shoved her parents against the wall of the hallway. Marthe bit her lip to keep herself from crying out in indignation, knowing that it couldn’t possibly help the situation they were in. She cursed herself for her earlier curiosity and then cursed fate for the circumstances of having these enemy men standing in her kitchen, wishing to do harm to her family. If only they had left when Nicholas gave her that warning!

“Take that damned pipe out of your mouth,” the sergeant commanded Father.

The soldier who had manhandled Mother grabbed it from him, knocking the ash out on Father’s boot before he pocketed the pipe with a chuckle.

“Old man, you are a franc-tireur,” the captain declared.

Father shook his head while Mother sobbed quietly.

“Be merciful,” Marthe begged the captain. “You have no proof.”

“You dare to argue with me, fräulein? This place has been a hornet’s nest of sharpshooters.” He turned to one of the men. “Feldwebel, see that this house is burned down immediately.”

The sergeant left out the door, motioning to some of the smoking men to follow him to the storage shelter in the back of the house, where the household oil was kept.

“Hauptmann—” Father began, but the captain silenced him by holding up his hand. “As for you, old man, you can bake in your own oven!” He dropped his arm. “Gefreiter, lock him in the cellar.”

The corporal seized Father and kicked him down the steps, sending a load of spit after him.

“Filthy franc-tireur, he will get what he deserves,” the corporal stated as he slammed the door to the cellar.

Mother collapsed and Marthe rushed to her. “You infernal butchers,” she hissed at the men.

“Quiet, fräulein,” the captain responded, taking out a packet of cigarettes. “Our job is to end this war quickly, and rid the countryside of any threats to our army, especially from civilians who take it upon themselves to shoot our soldiers.”

The feldwebel and two other men entered the house carrying drums of oil. Mother gave a strangled cry as they marched into the living room and began to pour oil over the fine furniture.

The captain nodded approvingly before casting his eyes back to Marthe and her mother. “You women are free to go. I will grant you five minutes to collect any personal belongings, but you are not permitted to enter the cellar. Do not leave the village or there will be trouble.” He lit his cigarette before dropping the match on the dry kitchen floor. It went out, but Marthe knew it was only a matter of time before he did the same in the living room where the oil had been spilled.

Marthe ran upstairs, casting her eyes helplessly around when she reached the landing. What should she take? She threw together a bundle of clothes for her and Mother, and, at the last second, took her father’s best suit off the hanger. She shouldered the bundle and then went back downstairs, grabbing Mother’s hand. They went outside to the street to gaze dazedly at their home where Father lay prisoner in the cellar.

The German soldiers walked quickly out of the house, carrying some of the Cnockaert’s food. Gray smoke started coming from the living room. Soon reddish-orange flames rose up, the tongues easily destroying the barricaded windows. Marthe put her hands on the collar of her jacket and began to shed it.

“What are you doing?” Mother asked, her voice unnaturally shrill.

“Father’s in there. I have to try to save him.”

Mother tugged Marthe’s jacket back over her shoulders. “No,” was all she said. Marthe lowered her shoulders in defeat. As she stared at the conflagration, trying not to picture her poor father’s body burning alive, she made a vow to herself that she wouldn’t let the Germans get the best of her, no matter what other horrors they tried to commit.

Eventually Mother led Marthe away from the sight of their burning home and down the street to the Grand Place. The café adjacent to the square was filled with gray-uniformed men who sang obscene songs in coarse voices. A hiccupping private staggered in the direction of Marthe and Mother as the men in the café jeered at him. Marthe pulled her mother into the square to avoid the drunken soldier.

The abandoned Kermis booths had now become makeshift hospital beds for wounded Germans. The paving stones were soaked in blood and perspiring doctors rushed around, pausing to bend over men writhing in pain. In the corner was a crowd of soldiers in bloodied French uniforms. Marthe headed over, noticing another, smaller group of women and children she recognized as fellow villagers. She had just put her hand on a girl’s forehead when a German barked at her to move on.

“Where should we go?” Mother asked in a small voice.

Marthe shook her head helplessly, catching her eye on Meneer Hoot’s large home on the other side of the square. They walked quickly toward it, noting the absence of smoke in the vicinity. Marthe reached her fist out to knock when the door was swung open.

Marthe’s heart rose at seeing the man behind the door. “Father!”

“Shh,” he said, ushering them into the house.

“How on earth—” Marthe began when they were safely ensconced in the entryway of the Hoot home.

“I took apart the bricks from the air vent. Luckily the hauptmann and his men were watching the inferno on the other side of the house.”

Mother hugged him tightly, looking for all the world like she would never let him go. Father brought them into the kitchen, where Meneer and Mevrouw Hoot greeted them. Several other neighbors, including Valerie, were also gathered in the kitchen, and they waited in a bewildered silence until darkness fell.

Meneer Hoot finally rose out of his chair. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he stated, “We have had no food this morning, and I’m sure it is the same for you all. Unfortunately,” he swung his arms around, “the bloody Boches ransacked our house and there is nothing to eat here.” He put the pipe in his mouth and gave it a puff before continuing, “I am going to get food somehow.”

Mevrouw Hoot clutched his arm. “No, David, you cannot go out there.”

Father also rose. “I will join you.”

Meneer Hoot shook his head. “No, it is safer for me to go alone.”

Mother gave a sigh of relief while Mevrouw Hoot appeared as though she would burst into tears. Meneer Hoot slipped a dark overcoat on and left through the back door.

An eternity seemed to pass as they sat in the dark kitchen, illuminated only by the sliver of moon that had replaced the sun. The silence was occasionally broken by Mevrouw Hoot’s sobbing.

Marthe was nodding off when she heard the back door slam. Someone lit a candle, and Marthe saw the normally composed Meneer Hoot hold up a bulky object wrapped in blood-stained newspaper. His rumpled trousers were covered in burrs and his eyes were wild-eyed. He tossed the bulk and it landed on the kitchen table with a thud.

Mevrouw Hoot unwrapped the package to reveal a grayish sort of meat from an unfamiliar animal.

“I cut it from one of the Boches’ dead horses,” Meneer Hoot told them in a triumphant whisper. He lit a fire and put the horsemeat on a spit. Marthe wasn’t sure if she could eat a dead horse but soon changed her mind as the room filled with the smell of cooking meat. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

Just then the kitchen window shattered. Marthe looked up to see a rifle butt nudging the curtain aside. The spikes of German helmets shone in the moonlight beyond the window. The Hoots’ entire backyard teemed with them.

“We must get downstairs, now!” Meneer Hoot shouted. He grabbed his wife and rushed her into the hallway. Father did the same with Mother, and Marthe followed, stumbling down the steps to the Hoots’ cellar.

To Marthe’s amazement, she saw the large room was already nearly filled with other refugees—men, women, and children of all ages—with dirty, tear-stained faces.

The sound of many boots thundered overhead and it wasn’t long before the Germans once again stood among them. One of them pointed his rifle at the opposite wall and shot off a clip, the bullets ricocheting around the room, followed by wild screaming. Somebody had been hit, a child Marthe guessed sorrowfully by the tone of its wail.

She wanted to go aid the poor creature, but she felt the sharp point of a bayonet at her chest. “Get upstairs,” the bayonet wielder sneered.

The soldiers lined up the cellar’s occupants outside, and separated out the men. Without allowing a word of parting, the Germans led the men of the village down the hill, and Marthe watched Father’s lank form until she could no longer see him. The remaining soldiers shepherded the women and children back down into the Hoot’s now blood-covered cellar.

Chapter 3

Alouette

August 1914

The smell of gasoline and the wind in Alouette’s hair was as intoxicating as ever. She eased back on the stick of her Caudron, enjoying the adrenaline rush that always ensued when the plane rose higher. The French countryside below appeared just like the maps in her husband’s office: the rivers, railroads, even the villages seemingly unchanged from her vantage point. The world beneath her might soon be engaged in combat, but, a few thousand meters above the ground, she was alone in the sky, the universe at her beck and call. She flew along the Somme Bay at the edge of the English Channel, marveling at the beautiful beaches and marshes that must be thronging with wildlife.

After half an hour, she began heading back to the Le Crotoy aerodrome to land, using the coastline as a navigation guide. She held the tail of the Caudron low and glided downward.

Alouette found the aerodrome in a state of commotion, with men running all about on the ground. As she turned the engine off, Gaston Caudron, the inventor of the plane, climbed up the ladder to stare into the cockpit.

“What’s going on?” Alouette shouted over the noise. It sounded as though every plane in the aerodrome was running.

“We’re taking the planes to the war zone.”

“Okay.” Alouette refastened her seatbelt and tilted her head, indicating she was ready for Caudron to spin the prop to start the plane up again.

His eyes, already jaundiced, bugged out even more. “You can’t possibly think you can go to war.”

“This is my plane.”

He held up a hand to his mouth and coughed. “As I recall, I designed it for your husband.”

“You know that Henri lets me fly it any time I want to.” She tapped the ignition switch with impatience.

“Still, civilians can’t fly planes during wartime.” His voice softened. “You wouldn’t want to hurt the war effort, would you Madame Richer?”

Alouette’s hand dropped to her side. “No. No I would not.”

Caudron stepped as close as he could to the edge of the ladder as she climbed out of the plane. “I guess I’ll see about my motor-car in the garage at Rue,” she said, navigating down the ladder as Caudron arranged himself in the cockpit.

“You’ll find it a challenge to get back to Paris—all the petrol supplies have been requisitioned for the army.”

“I’ll be able to get as far as Amiens,” she said, jumping down to the ground. “After that I shall find a way to manage, somehow.”

“Good luck,” Caudron replied ominously as he started the engine.

She saluted as he pulled her plane out of the aerodrome.

Alouette estimated that her car had enough petrol to carry her 30 miles, figuring she could stop at the aerodrome in Amiens, or at least a garage somewhere along the route to Paris. But near Picquigny, the car began to sputter and soon stopped completely. Alouette walked a few miles and was relieved to find a garage, albeit looking abandoned. She knocked on the closed shutters of the attached house.

A woman’s hand opened the window a sliver. “Yes?”

“Can you please tell me, madame, where the mechanic is?”

The woman opened the window enough to eye Alouette up and down, from the lace neckline of her fashionable dress to the flower-trimmed hat she had donned after changing out of her flight gear. “He’s gone to war,” the woman finally replied.

Alouette got a similar response from the next garage she tried. One elderly woman seated on her porch did not appear as hostile and Alouette called out to her. “Do you have any vehicle I could use to take me to Amiens? My car has stalled and I need to find a mechanic.”

The woman appeared likely to flee back into the house, so Alouette pulled her wallet out of her purse. “I can pay you.”

Alouette soon found herself in the back of a hay cart pulled by reluctant horses, and being jolted from side to side at every rut in the road. They had to pull into the ditch almost every mile, at least it seemed to Alouette, as regiment after regiment of soldiers passed them, heading north. They drove by several villages in turmoil, the residents packing every belonging they owned onto motor-cars, rickety carts similar to the one Alouette found herself in, or even on the backs of donkeys.

“Why are you leaving?” Alouette called to one man as he balanced his rocking chair on a small wagon.

“The Germans are advancing toward the Marne,” the man replied, the terror obvious in his voice.

Alouette tipped her flowered hat and focused her eyes on the road ahead of them. She had to get back to Paris as soon as possible.

The farm woman pulled back on the reins when they reached the aerodrome, about half a mile outside of Amiens. “You sure this is where you want to be?” she asked, eyeing the aerodrome. The doors had been left open, revealing its nearly empty chambers inside.

“Yes, madame.” Alouette placed a few extra bills into the farm woman’s hand. “If you could just wait a minute.”

The farm woman gave a deep sigh before nodding her acquiescence.

When Alouette entered the practically deserted cavern, she heard someone call, “Madame Richer! Whatever are you doing here?”

As she turned, she caught sight of the well-built Captain Jeanneros. “Oh, Captain, is it possible for you to send a mechanic to help me with my car? It has stalled on the road.”

The captain threw his head back and laughed. “Only such things could happen to you, Madame Richer. The Germans are pushing toward here and I only have a few litres of petrol left. Of course, you can have some if you need it. But as for the mechanic, I cannot spare one. I’m very sorry, but I’m the last of the squadron now. All the others have gone.”

Alouette sighed. “I’m not sure the petrol will do me much good if I cannot get my motor-car fixed.”

Captain Jeanneros scratched his head. “I can give you one tip, madame. Do not stay long in this district, or soon you may find it impossible to leave at all.”

They had passed the first houses in Picquigny on the return journey when Alouette heard the farm woman suck in her breath. Alouette sat straighter in the cart, catching sight of a crowd assembled in the spot where she’d left the car. To her horror, she noted two armed gendarmes approaching.

“Now you’ve really done it,” the farm woman muttered.

The gendarmes paused near the back of the cart. “Hand over your papers,” the shorter one commanded.

Alouette did as she was bid, her heart racing. She garnered that her presence in the back of the farm cart, combined with her Parisian attire, not to mention her presence in the war zone, must have looked suspicious to the rural population of Picquigny.

The short gendarme folded Alouette’s papers and tucked them into the pocket of his uniform.

“Sir,” the farm woman spoke up. She hesitated for a brief second before resignedly pointing a gnarled finger to the cans of fuel in the rear of the cart.

Alouette’s heart sank at her escort’s sudden betrayal.

“Where did you get that petrol?” the other officer demanded. “Why are you harboring fuel when the Allies are in desperate need of it?”

“Monsieur—” Alouette attempted an explanation, but the short gendarme cut her off. “You must come with us.” He gave a sharp whistle and the farm woman set the horse in motion, both officers keeping pace on either side of the cart.

“Death to the spy!” an old man shouted as the crowd of villagers also started moving forward.

Alouette felt terror rise in her chest. The mob swirled around the cart like an ocean tide. The villagers had already deemed her a traitor and any attempt she made to contradict them would be futile.

She was under arrest.

The mob of villagers followed the gendarme-escorted farm cart to the police station.

One of the gendarmes pulled Alouette out of the cart. “Lynch the spy!” someone shouted as a spray of gravel landed at her feet. She looked up to meet the angry glare of a white-haired man. The tears that gathered in her eyes did not soften him—if anything, they seemed to be an admission of guilt—and he drew back his arm to launch the next cluster of rocks. “Die, double-crosser!” This time a sharp stone connected with Alouette’s jaw and the tears coursed their way down her face.

Although the villagers were not permitted into the police station, the window in the room where Alouette was taken for questioning stood open and the crowd gathered outside of it.

The evidence of Alouette’s supposed damnation was spread out on the table. Her revolver was placed prominently in the center, surrounded by the cans of petrol and the documentation she had presented to the gendarme.

An older officer sat himself at the table across from the still-standing Alouette. “Name?” he demanded.

“Alouette Richer,” she replied, a hint of pride in her voice. She briefly crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping he would recognize her name from the newspapers.

The village gendarme gave no sign of appreciation as he copied it down. “Sit.”

She fell into a chair with a sigh. She had recently flown from Crotoy to Zürich, to great fanfare, and the Parisian papers followed her triumphs, publishing several articles and photographs of her in aviator gear standing beside her plane. But now that war had come, a curtain had dropped over everything that had occurred before its outbreak.

“You have no right to a revolver,” the officer commented, a growl in his voice. “How did you come by it?”

“My husband, Henri Richer, gave it to me. He knew I’d be traveling alone and wanted to ensure my safety.”

Once again, the gendarme showed no recognition of the name. “Let me see your handbag.”

Reluctantly, she passed it across the table.

He dug out her wallet and pulled out a wad of bills. “Who gave you all this money?”

Alouette bit back another sigh. She supposed the 300 francs in her wallet was a small fortune to the country inspector, who probably earned less than half that in a month.

“I am not a spy,” she insisted. “My husband is a wealthy man…”

“I know, I know,” the gendarme held up his hand. “He must have given you all that money to ensure your safety.” He rose heavily to his feet. “What he didn’t understand was how incriminating carrying that amount of cash would be in a warzone. I have no choice but to detain you.”

“But monsieur—”

“Pending further inquiries, of course,” the inspector remarked as he shut the door behind him.

Alouette was left in the room for over half an hour. She used that time to compose herself. The last thing she wanted was to show fear to the men at the station. Indeed, when a younger officer at last unlocked the door, she kept the expression on her face neutral. He escorted her to an empty cell.

Alouette patted the pillow and then spread her skirts prettily before she sat on the bed.

The young gendarme watched, an amused expression on his face. “This is not the first time you’ve spent the night in jail,” he stated.

“Oh, it is monsieur,” Alouette said, taking her hat off and running a hand through her golden hair. “But it’s better than sleeping in my broken-down motor-car by the side of the road.”

“Indeed, it probably is.” He returned shortly with a packet of biscuits and stale coffee. Alouette could sense that she’d at least made a friend of one of the aloof gendarmes.

That same young man came in early the next morning to announce that Alouette had been released. He waved a telegram with the word PARIS stamped on the front. “It seems you have friends in high places.”

Alouette picked her hat off of the chipped nightstand and tucked her hair beneath it. “It would seem so, wouldn’t it?”

“Where will you go now?”

She pursed her lips. “My petrol?”

He shook his head. “Seized for the army.”

“Then I shall walk to Amiens.”

The young man’s face spread into a smile. “Good luck, Madame Richer.”

“And to you, monsieur.”

Alouette passed many villagers going the opposite way as she. They were obviously refugees, judging from their weary, and in some cases, panic-stricken expressions. The pronounced silence was only broken by the occasional droning of an airplane. As soon as one became audible, the bewildered townspeople would duck their heads, as if heeding an unheard call, the call of terror that an enemy warcraft was about to drop a bomb upon them.

Alouette found Amiens in utter chaos. Every door stood open as the townspeople rushed to and from their houses, packing up all of their belongings. Children, dogs, and a few roosters ran wildly through the streets. All roads that led to the town seemed to be filled with refugees repeating the same desperate phrases: “The Germans are coming. What shall we do?”

She headed through the hordes of anxious people gathered outside the railway station. She found a man in a conductor’s uniform to ask about the next train to Paris.

“Trains?” he asked in an incredulous voice. “My lady, this station is closed, and the rest of the staff has been cleared out. Gone to war,” he continued proudly, but Alouette was only half-listening.

For a moment, she thought she would give in to the same useless panic that had overcome the people surrounding her. She allowed herself a few seconds of despair before returning to reality. She needed to find some other way to get to Paris if she desired to not be in a region that was about to be infested with the enemy.

She spotted an open garage across the street and walked over to it. A young woman in a tattered dress sat on the steps leading toward the door. She glanced up as Alouette approached. “They say that the Germans murder any children they see.” She sniffed. “And I have two little boys.” She buried her head in her handkerchief.

Alouette climbed up the steps and put a tentative hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Nobody can be so cruel as to hurt young innocents,” she stated. “Not even the Germans.”

She handed the woman a soiled but dry handkerchief. The woman blew into it noisily before stating, “If you are looking for a vehicle, I have nothing left.”

“Not even a cart?” Alouette asked, the hopelessness threatening to surface again.

The young woman looked doubtfully at Alouette’s dress. “I do have a man’s bicycle. Do you know how to ride?”

Alouette took a deep breath. Her brother had had one when they were growing up, but she was never allowed to ride since it couldn’t be ridden sidesaddle. “Not exactly, but if I can fly planes, surely I can ride a bicycle.” She dug into her purse to find the gendarme had left her a few francs, which she extended to the young woman. The woman pulled herself up, using the banister to steady herself, and led Alouette into the garage.

Alouette walked the bicycle along the road until she was well out of the way of the crowds. The threat of falling on her face paled in comparison to the possibility of being taken as a German prisoner if she stayed here. Mounting the bicycle proved a difficult feat given her dress and handbag. As she pushed down on a pedal, the bicycle wobbled sideways instead of going forward and she hopped off, the bicycle plunging into the dust of the roadway.

She heard a low noise and turned her head with her eyes closed, hoping that it was not the stomping of German boots. A young soldier in a blue coat and bright red trousers was sitting on a nearby bench, laughing.

Alouette put her hands on her hips. “Well, don’t just sit there. Give me a lesson, would you?”

He pointed at the bandage covering one of his eyes. “Even I can see that is a man’s bicycle.”

“Oh, do you have a woman’s available?”

The soldier shook his head.

“Then do you know of another reason why I should not ride this bike straight to Paris?”

“Yes,” he said, recovering from his earlier mirth. “The road to Paris has been captured by the Germans.”

Alouette wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts and gazed at the dust blowing across the road. A German invasion in the carefree French capital seemed as far-flung a threat as someone predicting a thunderstorm on a sunny day. “My husband is in Paris.”

“Oh?” The soldier’s voice dropped an octave. Alouette smiled to herself. There was something so naively amusing about young men thinking that every woman was ready to fawn over them.

“At least I think so,” Alouette replied. “He enlisted as an ambulance driver, but hasn’t gotten orders yet. I had to detour to Crotoy to check on our plane.”

The young man raised his eyebrows.

“Confiscated,” Alouette said in answer to his unasked question.

“Yes, the military will do that. When I was at Charleroi—”

“You were in the Battle of the Sambre?”

“Yes, why?”

Alouette looked down. “No reason.” They said that war had a way of turning boys into men, but the young man’s affable manner hadn’t struck her as though he’d seen many hard battles. Even despite that bandaged eye.

“Anyway, both sides are using airplanes for reconnaissance now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What war innovations will they think of next?”

Alouette was lost for a second, dreaming of being in the sky, finding the enemy among the trees. When she returned to reality, all she could focus on were the man’s bright red pants. “Those uniforms… are they new?”

“They are, but the style dates back to Napoleon.”

“Perhaps General Joffre might want to reconsider the color of your trousers. A line of soldiers all wearing those would be quite easy to spot from the air.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed with a smile. “I think that trains are still running to Paris from Abbeville.”

Alouette picked up the bicycle. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”

The soldier taught her how to keep her balance. In only half an hour’s time, Alouette was able to ride steadily, although she was only able to mount the bicycle from the curb and could not stop except by jumping off. “I think I’ll be able to manage myself, now. Thank you for your kindness.”

The young soldier tipped his hat toward her, revealing a bruised and bloody forehead. “Good luck, mademoiselle.”

Alouette had no idea riding a bicycle could be such taxing work. She passed numerous refugees on her way to Abbeville. So preoccupied were they in their own misery that they did not pay much heed to the girl wobbling along, trying both to balance and keep her dress out of the bicycle’s chain at the same time. She kept her berth wide, lest she fell again, and called out to a man pushing a wheelbarrow, who heeded her by moving closer toward the side of the road. As Alouette overtook them, she realized the wheelbarrow was not filled with food or worldly possessions, but an invalid woman.

Alouette saw she was approaching a hill and leapt off the bicycle. She tossed her hat into a ditch before picking the two-wheeler back up and walking up the summit. She could feel her stamina fading fast, but would not allow herself to rest, fearful that if she sat down, she might not be able to get back up again.

Catching a train proved just as difficult in Abbeville as Amiens. The watchman there told Alouette that there was no way to know when the next train to Paris would leave.

Alouette was about to turn around in anguish when the man told her there was a branch line in Sergueux. Knowing that was her last chance, Alouette managed to get her aching limbs mounted once again on the bicycle and pedaled off.

She was relieved to see a train sitting in the station, although it seemed to consist mostly of open cattle wagons. “Will that be leaving shortly?” Alouette inquired of an official standing near a car.

The man shrugged. “We are waiting for information on the movement of the troops.”

Still, Alouette bought a ticket and boarded a cattle wagon.

Chapter 4

M’Greet

August 1914

M’greet was able to catch a train bound for Switzerland, but it was stopped by frontier police. All occupants were ordered to disembark for questioning.

“Papers?” a portly man asked her.

She handed him her ticket.

He looked at it in consternation. “What nationality are you?”

M’greet sighed. “Dutch.”

“Really?” He glanced up from the ticket to peer at her.

“Yes, meneer.” She softened her brown eyes as she met his gaze.

“Let me see your passport.”

“I don’t have it with me. I haven’t been asked for my passport in years, despite the fact I am a world traveler.”

“Well, fräulein, now that Europe is at war, we need to see passports from everyone. If you don’t have one, you will have to come with me.”

A whooshing noise sounded from the train. “No, meneer, I cannot.” She gestured toward the steam rising from the engine. “My belongings are on that train.”

“I am sorry.” The portly man nodded at a uniformed soldier, who stepped forward.

M’greet ducked out of his grasp as the train began to pull away. She ran after it, banging on the side of a car. “My suitcase. My jewelry. My furs!” The last word came out as a shrill shriek as she stopped, panting. The train had picked up speed.

The soldier appeared beside her. “Now, fräulein, if you would come with me.”

She turned to the guard, her eyes blazing. “You’ve just cost me 80,000 francs.”

M’greet was deported to the last place she wanted to be: Berlin. She checked into a hotel, one of a much lower quality than the Adlon, near the train station. She called her former lover Griebel three times that afternoon, but he did not answer any of her messages. She was truly on her own, and without even a change of clothes.

As evening fell, she made her way down to the bar and, casting her eyes around the room, found a likely evening companion, a blond man with wire spectacles. He introduced himself as Meneer Jansen and stated that he was in Berlin on business, but would be leaving for Holland the next day.

M’greet frowned. “Holland. Oh, how I miss my home country.”

He choked back on his drink. “You are Dutch? I did not perceive that.”

“No one usually does. They think I am of a more exotic descent. But I assure you I am as Dutch as you.”

“Where did you grow up?” He took a sip of beer, his wedding ring flashing in the electric light of the hotel bar.

“Leeuwarden, but I have a home in Amsterdam now.” This was not technically true.

“You are without your husband?”

“I’m a widow.” This, also, was a lie. Her ex-husband was very much alive, and the flat in Amsterdam had been sold in 1902, not long after that terrible day when M’greet returned from running errands to find their small apartment bare of both Rudy and her daughter’s belongings.

“And now I have no money and no clothes.” She filled him in on the previous day’s tribulations. “I’m not sure what to do,” she said in a helpless tone. “I am a lonely woman with no one to aid me.”

Jansen’s expression softened in sympathy and M’greet knew she had hit her mark.

“I cannot help you with your passport, but,” he reached into his coat and pulled out his wallet. “I can buy you a ticket to Amsterdam.” He took out more bills. “If you go to the consulate in Frankfurt, they can assist you in crossing the border.”

In a few days’ time, M’greet was back in Amsterdam. The consulate had indeed issued her new papers with relatively little complications. After a clerk handed over the new passport, M’greet had discreetly changed her age from the correctly reported 38 to 30.

She found herself in Amsterdam once again, as poor as she had been when she left the city for Paris more than a decade before. She looked up Jansen in the phone book and then traveled to his sizable house in the fashionable Herengracht neighborhood. She sighed to herself as she walked past the stately houses along the canal, alike in their tall, narrow structures and square windows, but differing in their vibrant exterior paint colors and the shape of their gabled roofs. This would be the perfect place to stay while she figured out her next step.

She paused on the porch of a red brick building and consulted the slip of paper in her hand before knocking on the heavy door.

A woman answered. Her eyes traveled up from M’greet’s dark blue skirt, which ended just above the ankle to better show off her Parisian boots, to her matching tailored jacket, and landed on the navy and cream lace hat pinned jauntily to the side of her head. “Yes?”

“Is Meneer Jansen home?”

“No. He is at work.” Her tone implied that, while it was obvious Meneer Jansen did honest work, it was equally obvious M’greet did not.

“Oh, I do not mean to intrude. I merely wished to thank him. I was stranded in Berlin, and he lent me some assistance.”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice was still cool. “He told me he did so.”

M’greet could tell she was unwanted. “Well, thank you and please give my regards to your husband. I will be going on my way.” She began walking down the steps.

“Wait.”’

M’greet turned.

The woman glanced over her shoulder before shutting the door and stepping onto the portico in her stockinged feet. “Aren’t you Mata Hari, the dancer?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Can I ask…” the woman looked up and down the quiet, tree-lined street. “Did you seduce my husband while you were in Berlin?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“No,” M’greet answered truthfully.

The woman’s voice rose. “Can I ask why not? He’s handsome enough, isn’t he?”

“Indeed. But I would never do so without a clean chemise or a bath and at the time I had neither.”

“Oh,” the woman’s voice filled with relief. Her comfort seemed to stem more from the fact her husband had not done anything to repulse the famed Mata Hari rather than that he hadn’t accepted her non-existent advances. M’greet did not recall ever feeling the same about her own philandering husband, who would often do cruel things to women, but was never in want of mistresses. She adjusted her hat. “G’day, madame.”

“G’day. And good luck.”

M’greet still had no money and no luggage, but her foray into the fancy canal neighborhood inspired her to book a room at the opulent Victoria Hotel. As was custom, she made sure that her room had a private bathroom.

The next day she went to call on Anna, who had been able to return to Amsterdam much earlier than her mistress. As M’greet headed down Prins Hendrikkade, she heard footsteps behind her and peeked backward to see a man in a striped suit. He must have seen her exit the Victoria and assumed she was a courtesan.

M’greet had dealt with such situations before. She decided to detour into the Church of St. Nicholas. Standing in the vestibule, she pushed the heavy door open to get a better look at the man, who was now searching up and down the street. She could see that the cut of his suit and his leather shoes hinted at money. She decided he did not pose a threat and exited the church to deliberately walk in front of him.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He removed his hat to reveal a head of thick hair.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” M’greet returned.

“I was wondering, if you weren’t busy, if you would like to have brunch with me.”

She laughed. “I don’t even know your name.”

The man looked taken aback. “I am Lucas van der Schalk. And you are?”

“Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod.” She held out her hand for him to kiss it. It had been a while since anyone had been interested in getting to know the real her, and not just Mata Hari. “I am terribly sorry, but I have other plans this morning.”

Van der Schalk appeared to be disappointed.

“But you can call on me at the Victoria Hotel,” M’greet shot over her shoulder as she continued on her way.

“I will do so… this afternoon!” Van der Schalk called as she crossed the street. She smiled to herself instead of glancing back at him.

“Where’s Non?” M’greet asked Anna when she answered the door of her mother’s tiny apartment in De Wallen.

“Madame!” Anna shouted as she hugged her mistress. When she ended her embrace, Anna said that M’greet was as elegant as ever.

“And Non? Where’s my daughter?”

Anna waved her toward a table before pouring tea from a cracked pot. “She is in The Hague with Monsieur MacLeod.”

“Have you seen her?”

Anna nodded. “I took the train to The Hague and walked past their house. I passed her on the street, but she didn’t recognize me. She looks just like you, madame. Dark hair, dark eyes. She has your skin coloring as well… and she carries her lunch in a box with a picture of Mata Hari dancing on it.”

M’greet’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my Non, my beautiful daughter.” She wiped her face with a napkin. “I curse that bastard every day for taking her away from me. A girl should be with her mother.”

Anna bit her lip as she nodded.

“Oh, Anna, I know what you are thinking—that my lifestyle is not conducive for raising a child.” M’greet tossed the napkin. “But I would never have become a dancer if I had my daughter with me. And after Normie died…” The tears were threatening again, but she refused to give into them. She stood up and glanced disdainfully around at the dilapidated furniture and crumbling plaster walls. “I’ve taken rooms at the Victoria. You are welcome to join me.”

“Yes, madame.” Anna began clearing the tea.

“I must get going now. I believe I have a dinner date tonight and my nails are much due for a manicure, not to mention I have to buy a dress.”

True to his word, her newest beau called her that afternoon and M’greet met him for dinner at De Silveren Spiegel. She had purchased a Paul Poiret-style dress at a boutique after leaving Anna’s, and paid extra for the seamstress to fit it right then.

“Have you ever been here?” Van der Schalk asked after he’d kissed her hand.

“No,” M’greet admitted as she gazed around at the old-fashioned candelabras and Dutch portraits on the walls. Unaccompanied women were not to be found in fancy restaurants, and her ex-husband would never have been able to afford such a meal.

“It dates back to the Dutch Golden Ages,” van der Schalk commented as he sat down.

M’greet gathered her silk skirts before sinking onto the flimsy chair. “Are you a historian?”

“Am I? No,” he replied, the amusement obvious in his voice. “I am a banker.”

She leaned forward and put her hand under her chin. “How interesting.”

A waiter came by with a decanter. His eyes dropped to stare openly at M’greet’s décolletage as he poured her wine.

Van der Schalk took a long drink before setting his glass down. “Tell me more about yourself, madame. You are Russian, no?”

M’greet sat straighter and put her hands in her lap. “You really don’t recognize me?”

He gave her a searching look. “Should I?”

She was about to reveal herself as the famed Mata Hari, but then thought of an even more glamorous role than the one she’d been playing for over ten years. She did her best to affect a Russian accent. “I’m a ballet dancer. I’ve danced with Sergei Diaghilev’s Russian ballet company for some time.” This was almost legitimate: in 1910, her manager had nearly convinced the ballet impresario to hire her, but Diaghilev insisted that Mata Hari audition, which she, of course, would not deign to do.

“Ahh,” van der Schalk said delightedly as the meal was served. “I thought you had a dancer’s physique.”

She dipped her chin, pretending to be bashful at the compliment.

“Are you married?” he asked. “I don’t see a wedding ring.”

“Widowed,” M’greet replied without hesitation. “You?”

“Never been married.” Van der Schalk took a bite of meat. “You know,” he stated when he finished, “Peter the Great once visited Holland in order to learn the art of shipbuilding. The little house he stayed in is still there, in Zaandam. I could take you there if you’d like.”

“Of course. I’d love to see where the great Tsar resided.” M’greet had no such desire, but wouldn’t mind touring the town with the handsome van der Schalk. “But then again…” she frowned.

“What is it?”

“I have nothing to wear.” She explained what happened in Berlin, emphasizing the banker’s accusations of Russian ancestry for good measure. “So you see, I have no clothes and no money.”

His eyes traveled over her beaded dress. “Perhaps I could take you shopping beforehand.”

M’greet beamed. “That would be lovely.”

The next day, van der Schalk took M’greet all over Amsterdam’s shopping district, buying her shoes, jewelry, and the latest styles of dresses to replace all that had been left behind in Germany.

Despite the pleasure she obtained from having a full closet once again, M’greet was almost overcome with melancholy when she returned to the hotel. She realized as she walked up the wide staircase to her room that it was due to being back in Holland after so many years abroad. Save for Normie’s death, which occurred in Java, some of the worst things M’greet had to endure had transpired in her native country: it was where her father abandoned her all those years ago, and also where her marriage had officially fallen apart.

“I need to see Non,” she told Anna when she entered the suite.

Anna’s normally pinched face relaxed into a sorrowful look. “Perhaps you should contact Monsieur MacLeod.”

M’greet grimaced. “I don’t want to have any contact with that brute. I should write to Non herself.”

Anna sat across from M’greet at the little table. “I suppose Non is old enough now that she’s heard stories about you.”

“I’m sure her father has filled her head with lies.”

“If you did write to Non, you could tell her about your life. Explain what happened from your perspective.”

M’greet tucked a manicured hand under her chin. “Yes, that is a good idea. She should know that I never willingly abandoned her.”

She pulled a piece of clean paper from a drawer in the writing desk and dipped a pen in ink. I did love your father when I first met him, she wrote before pausing and replacing the pen in the inkwell. How could she describe to her teenage daughter the passion they had experienced when they first met? M’greet was only 18 when she answered the ad John Rudolph MacLeod had placed in the local newspaper. It read Captain in the Army of the Indies, on leave in Holland, seeks a wife with a character to his taste, preferably with means.

M’greet certainly did not have means, as much as her father used to pretend it to be so. Her father was a hat-maker, but like his daughter, preferred to live beyond said means, and his fellow Leeuwardeners nicknamed him the Baron. He had invested in oil shares at a time when coal ruled the world, and had completely wiped out his wife’s meager inheritance before M’greet was thirteen. The words she had written to Non blurred as M’greet became lost in thoughts of the past.

After her father declared bankruptcy, he moved to Amsterdam to live with his mistress, taking M’greet’s two younger brothers with him. She was left to take care of her heart-broken mother, who died eight months later.

M’greet had bounced from family member to family member and had just gotten kicked out of college, where she had been training to become a kindergarten teacher, when she spotted Rudy MacLeod’s ad. Even then she had favored men in uniforms.

Their infatuation with each other quickly grew stale, but M’greet married him anyway, seeing no other viable opportunities. They sailed for the West Indies soon after she gave birth to her son, Norman John. Rudy spent most of his off-time drinking, gambling, and consorting with the local women, and M’greet and her baby son were frequently left alone. Rudy was given a new posting in Malang in 1897, and things looked up: they had more money and Rudy started sharing M’greet’s bed more. A year later they had a daughter, Jeanne Louise, nicknamed ‘Non,’ a shortening of Nonah, which meant “Little Miss” in the local language. After Non was born, Rudy returned to his old ways, and the marriage had already fallen apart when Normie died at just a little over two years old.

But M’greet couldn’t explain any of this to her daughter. Back in the present, she shook off the haunting memories and wrote some nonsense about how she still loved Non’s father, but circumstances had forced them apart. She depicted what living in Paris had been like, the excitement of being on stage, but made no reference to why she never again demanded to see her daughter after Rudy left that day.

She ended the letter stating she looked forward to seeing her pretty face once again and sealed it with a kiss. Anna immediately left to post it.

Chapter 5

Marthe

September 1914

The women and children of Westrozebeke were forced to spend two weeks in the Hoot’s cellar. The atmosphere down there grew foul and damp. They were not allowed to light fires and, as August dragged into September, the nights grew chilly. Their water supply became dangerously low and Marthe worried the Germans might have forgotten about their cellar hostages.

Finally a hauptmann, different from the one who had terrorized Marthe’s family, appeared. “You can come out now.” He spoke so quietly that a near-starved Marthe wasn’t sure she had heard him right.

“What is he saying?” Mevrouw Hoot inquired.

“We are free to go?” Marthe asked him in German.

“You may leave the cellar. We will escort you to the town of Roulers, as it is not safe here for civilians anymore.”

Marthe nodded her thanks to the hauptmann before leading her mother upstairs. Mevrouw Hoot followed closely behind.

They emerged in the Hoot’s kitchen to see five more German soldiers gathered around the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes.

Mevrouw Hoot coughed and waved her arms, but the smoke refused to dissipate. “Dit is mijn huis.”

“Not anymore, fräulein,” a man with a pock-marked face replied in German. “This house has been confiscated. Move along.”

Mevrouw Hoot, too emotional to process the soldier’s words, cast a helpless glance at Marthe, who motioned to follow her outside. She didn’t need the German soldiers to overhear her explain to Mevrouw Hoot that the house, which had belonged to the Hoot family for nearly a century, was no longer hers.

As the former prisoners walked out into the sunshine, their eyes traveled over the blackened remains of their village. The houses that hadn’t been completely burned down had shattered windows and doors—from the Germans searching for hidden villagers, Marthe assumed. Most of the trees that had once lined the broad main avenue had been felled and the street was littered with debris from the carnage: wooden shoes, broken saddle buckles, beer bottles, and other various discarded materials.

Marthe couldn’t bear to look at what remained of her beautiful village any longer. As she passed an abandoned spiked helmet, rage took over her mourning and she had to refrain from kicking it.

The soldiers accompanying them to Roulers allowed any woman whose house was still standing to collect a few belongings and pile them onto the dilapidated cart that would accompany them to Roulers. Most of Mevrouw Hoot’s clothing had been tossed out along with her family’s personal items, and she stood watch as the rest of the women gathered what was left of their lives.

As the women were escorted along a muddy highway, they frequently looked back to gaze at the ruins of their native village, wondering if they would ever see it again. It must have rained every day that Marthe was in the Hoot’s cellar as the mud, a constant presence in the low country of Belgium, was even more ubiquitous now that the masses of soldiers, horses, and guns had destroyed the roads. The Germans had tried to abate the flowing muck by strewing flax and looted curtains and carpets along the roadside, but still the sticky red sludge oozed, coating the refuges’ boots and skirts during the six miles to Roulers.

The larger town of Roulers was still unharmed, and Marthe stared wonderingly at the unscathed houses, their gabled roofs rising triumphantly over the intact cobblestone streets. When they reached the Grand Place, Marthe saw a market was taking place, with Belgian civilians readily mingling with German soldiers. No one paid much notice to the now homeless women and Marthe wondered what to do.

A kindly, gray-haired woman finally approached Mother. “You are refugees?”

Mother nodded.

The woman sized Mother up before stating, “I can take you as a lodger in my house, and I think I can find places for the rest of you.”

“And my daughter?” Mother asked, hugging Marthe to her.

“Yes, I suppose I can take her too,” the woman acquiesced.

A relieved Marthe began pulling their scant belongings from the cart.

That evening Marthe and her mother found themselves sharing a comfortable bed in a warm, spacious house. The gray-haired lady was the wife of a prominent grocer and she served them the first decent meal they’d had in weeks. After Marthe and Mother had explained their ordeal, the grocer’s wife promised to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Father. They still hadn’t heard any news of Marthe’s brother, Max, and she wished that all of her family could once again be united under one roof.

Wanting to make herself useful in the best way she could, Marthe set out for the Roulers hospital the next morning. She’d washed her face in an effort to look presentable, a task not easily accomplished in her ripped, muddy clothes.

The hospital was established in Roselare College on Menin Road and recognizable by the Red Cross flag that flew from a spire on the main building. An orderly standing propped against a pillar near the main entrance directed Marthe to the office of the senior physician, or Oberarzt.

The Oberarzt was a kindly-looking man with a well-trimmed beard. He nodded his gray head as Marthe explained her nursing background. “I am thankful for your presence,” he stated when she finished. “We are in dire need for a nurse as we have none.”

“None?” Marthe repeated. “That seems unusual for such a large hospital.”

“We have some Belgian women here who cook and wash, but none of them have any medical training.” The Oberarzt stood up. “Come, I will show you around.”

He led her into the first ward, where rows of cots in uneven lines filled the room. A doctor with drooping eyelids moved slowly among the men while two burly German orderlies assisted. The Oberarzt went to the aid of one man in the corner who was writhing in pain. Marthe could smell the gangrenous wound even before she looked down on the bandages covering his leg. The Oberarzt met the eyes of another doctor and mouthed the words, “amputate.” The other doctor signaled for the orderlies, who picked up the man’s stretcher and carried him away.

“It has been calm lately, relatively speaking,” the Oberarzt commented as he led Marthe into the civilian clinic, which was nearly empty except for an elderly man with a bandaged arm and a woman with a toddler on her lap. It seemed the Germans in Roulers were not nearly as barbaric as those who conquered Westrozebeke, or else they had paused their burning of homes and shooting of townspeople. Marthe bent down in front of the toddler to inquire what was wrong.

“It’s his stomach,” his mother told her.

“Right here,” the little boy added, pointing.

“It looks like you are ready to begin working here, then, fräulein,” the Oberarzt said, the approval clear in his voice. “I will see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, Herr Oberarzt,” Marthe replied, placing a stethoscope on the little boy’s chest.

Marthe soon fell into a routine where she would wake up early to arrive at the hospital by seven, and then leave by the same time in the evening.

A few mornings later, she was greeted by a new sight hanging on the door of the hospital: a piece of paper with a declaration from the new Town-Kommandant typed in large print:

My task is to preserve the public order in Belgium. Every act of the population against the German forces, every attempt to interfere with our communications with Germany, or to trouble the railway, will be met with severe punishment. Any resistance against the German government will be suppressed without pity.

The declaration, the type that would henceforth be known as an affiche, went on to establish a regular curfew from 7 pm until 5 am, stating that no unlicensed civilian should be out on the streets at that time. The Town-Kommandant ended his message by adding that, if he became displeased, he could move the curfew earlier and perhaps fine the town as well.

Marthe walked into the hospital with a scowl on her face. Roulers might have been visually in a better state than her hometown, but German occupation was equivalent to German tyranny. The Belgian government had left Brussels and was now in exile somewhere in France while King Albert was at the Yser Front with his troops, leaving the people of Belgium to be ruled by the iron fist of the Kaiser.

The Oberarzt greeted her with the same amicable tone as yesterday. “Ah, Fräulein Cnockaert, I am grateful to see you have returned.”

She forced a cordial smile. “Yes, Herr Oberarzt, I am reporting for duty.”

He nodded toward a smaller room off the main one. “We’ve had some Belgian soldiers arrive overnight. You can start with them.”

Marthe entered to find two men covered in bloodied bandages. She approached the first one, whose chest was wrapped in a dressing, the blood darkest on the lower part.

“He was shot in the stomach during the retreat to Namur,” his companion stated.

There was something familiar about his gravelly voice. Marthe turned to see her old schoolmate, or, what remained of him anyway. “Nicholas Hoot,” she remarked, surprised. Bandages covered his left shoulder, but she could see that some of the flesh of his upper arm was gone, and his left leg had been amputated below the knee. His face and body had been cut severely and the skin that wasn’t lacerated was peppered with bruises.

She poured him a glass of water and held it to his lips. “What happened?”

He took a small sip, but most of the water trickled down his chin. “The Boches. After that night they invaded Westroosebeke, I went out to look for Valerie.”

Marthe wiped at his mouth with a cloth. “She wasn’t with us in the cellar at your parents’ house.”

“I know.” He stared at the wall instead of meeting her eyes. “She tried to run from them…”

“Was she… did they…” Marthe couldn’t find the right words. She crumpled the washcloth in her hands instead.

“Kill her? Yes, but not before they’d each had their turn with her.”

“Oh Nicholas.” Marthe’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“I tried to get revenge as soon as I’d heard. I became a true franc-tireur and shot at them from the church tower.” The right side of his face turned upward in a strange half-smile. “I managed to wound a few of them before they found me. They shot me, beat me, and then left me lying on the road as a warning. The good nuns of Westrozebeke took me in and nursed me till the Boches accused them of being Allied informants. They ordered the nuns to strip down right in front of me. I swear, had I any strength left, I would have pummeled them until the Huns were bloodier than me if they so much laid a hand on them.”

“Did they?” Marthe was horrified at the thought of anyone, including the Huns, would even think of raping a woman of God.

“No. They just kicked them out of town and then evacuated the hospital. And here I am, a German prisoner. And a crippled one at that.”

“Nicholas, I…,” but once again Marthe had no words.

“Do you know anything of my parents?”

Thankful for some good news, she explained how Mevrouw Hoot had been taken in by Roulers townspeople. “I will get a pass for her to see you as soon as I can.”

“And Father?”

Marthe shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to him, or my father either.”

Nicholas shifted his body painfully.

“You should try to sleep now,” she told him. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

He didn’t reply as Marthe attended to the other, still sleeping, soldier, filling his water glass and then checking his bandages.

She could barely look at Nicholas’s pitiful form as she left the room.

Marthe checked on Nicholas one more time before she left the hospital that night. She had to hurry home, as it was nearly seven in the evening and the last thing she needed was a run-in with the military gendarmes who trolled the streets at night and harassed anyone about who was not a soldier.

She had just returned to the grocer’s house when she heard a rustling in the shrubbery outside the back door.

“Hello?” she called loudly.

“Shh,” a woman’s voice commanded.

Marthe blinked a couple of times as someone backed out of the bushes. “Aunt Lucelle!” she whispered in an excited tone.

Her aunt held a finger to her lips and, once again, shh’ed her.

Marthe opened the back door as Lucelle darted inside. Once in the kitchen, her aunt glanced furtively around. “Do they have a cellar here?”

Marthe pointed to the basement.

“Get your mother,” her aunt commanded before going downstairs. Marthe did as she was bid.

As expected, Mother was pleased to see her older sister. Aunt Lucelle seemed much more comfortable in the basement and stopped her shh’ing. “It’s the Berlin Vampires,” she explained, clearly referring to the German curfew enforcers. “They could be anywhere, and have the authorization to walk into houses unannounced.”

“Are you a criminal?” Mother asked.

Lucelle shrugged. She found a bottle of brandy and poured some into the cap before gulping it down. “I’ve come from the front. I have seen Max.”

“Max?” Marthe asked at the same time Mother said, “You’ve seen my son?”

Lucelle held up the cap of brandy. “He is fine and with the Army at the Yser. My own sons are also safe, thank God. But that is not why I’m here.”

“You are a spy.” As far as Marthe could tell, Lucelle had said nothing of the sort, but there was no question in Mother’s voice.

Lucelle nodded. “I am part of the British Secret Intelligence Commission.”

Marthe put a shocked hand over her chest. She’d heard of many Belgians accused of espionage, but had never actually met anyone who truly was a spy. The spy-paranoia of the Roulers Town Kommandant could have almost been laughable had the punishments not been so deplorable. When he accused the Staden town priest of spying, he ordered soldiers to drag the aged man out of the church to dig his own grave and then shot him into it. Marthe found it hard to reconcile the ill-famed notion of a spy with the gray-haired elderly aunt standing before her.

Marthe noted wonderingly that her aunt had lost her front teeth as she spoke again. “I have to do something to help our people fight off the Boches.”

“We all do what we can for the war,” Mother replied in a quiet tone. “Marthe here is a nurse at Roselare.”

Lucelle looked at her niece with renewed interest. “You are in contact with enemy soldiers?”

Marthe nodded.

“Do they ever talk of military formations or troop movements?”

“I just started there,” Marthe responded. “But I did overhear some talk yesterday, though all the places sounded foreign.”

“You must pay attention!” Lucelle hissed. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. “How would you like to do more for your country?”

“You mean like espionage?” Mother demanded. “No. It’s too dangerous. They hang people on mere suspicion now.”

“It’s no more dangerous than Max being at the front,” Lucelle challenged. “And may be even more necessary if we are to win this war.”

Mother opened her mouth again, but no words came out. She was probably thinking what Marthe was—of Max, of Father, of all the townspeople that had been harmed by the Germans.

Marthe drew in a breath, her thoughts traveling to all she had seen that day—the oppressive affiche and poor Nicholas’s broken body at the hospital. She would sacrifice anything to help her fellow Belgians. “What would you have me do?”

Lucelle tapped her lip in thought. “I must communicate with my intelligence handlers, for it is through them that I get my orders. But I will be back around Roulers in a few weeks’ time and will send for you. However I can get my message to you, Marthe, you must show no surprise.” She set the nearly empty brandy bottle on the shelf and wiped her mouth. “I must leave—I’ve been here too long as it is.”

Marthe and Mother followed her up the stairs, where Lucelle slipped out as quietly as she had come in. They watched as she headed toward the fields and then was eclipsed by the darkness.

Mother’s eyes were wide as she looked upon her daughter, but she did not speak of what had transpired in the cellar.

Chapter 6

Alouette

September 1914

When Alouette finally returned to her Paris home, she burst in, the heavy door no match for her excitement at seeing her husband again. “Henri!” she shouted, setting her valise on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. “Henri, I’m home.”

The maid, Hortense, appeared in her usual spotless uniform. “Madame Richer you’ve finally returned.”

“Where’s Henri?”

A flicker of disapproval flashed across Hortense’s face as she glanced at Alouette’s torn dress. “Monsieur Richer has left for the front.”

“No. He couldn’t have gone yet.” Alouette’s eyes filled with tears. “I was trying to get back, but the trains weren’t running from Crotoy.”

The maid handed her an envelope. “Monsieur Richer left this for you.” She gave the slimmest curtsy before she walked away.

Alouette frowned. Hortense had been Henri’s housekeeper for years and she’d clearly never cared for his young wife. Alouette wasn’t sure if it was the vast age difference between Henri and his new bride, her refusal to adhere to the strict rules that governed upper-crust Parisian society, or something else entirely that provoked Hortense’s distaste. Not that it mattered all that much. Alouette always did what she wanted, regardless of who found it unacceptable.

She walked into the parlor and sat down in a plush velvet chair before tearing the envelope open.

My dearest wife,

I was hoping to set my eyes upon your beautiful face one last time before I had to leave for the front, but alas I was called up. I heard that Amiens was now in German control, but I’m not worried. You have gotten yourself out of worse scrapes before and I am confident you will be able to take care of yourself. I know you wish that you could fight this war and while I believe that someday women will be looked at as men’s equals, this is not your time. Please look after the house. I will return soon.

Your affectionate husband

Alouette refolded the letter and put it in a nearby drawer. Henri had volunteered to be an ambulance driver, and she supposed she should be grateful that he wouldn’t be at the front line. And the monotony of military life would probably suit him very well.

As for her on the other hand… what should she do now? Ever since she’d married Henri, her life had been one carefree adventure after another, all financed by her husband’s considerable fortune, including her plane, which was now probably being flown by a French aviator. She stood, casting her eyes around the Victorian-styled parlor. Take care of the house, Henri had written.

Suddenly Alouette felt overwhelmed: the velvet drapes, the Persian rug, the gilded mirrors, even the various knick-knacks spread over the piano from their travels seemed to weigh on her. Hortense had kept everything impeccably neat and free of dust, but it appeared incongruous and foreign to the lifestyle Alouette had once led.

Still in her blood-stained dress, the sudden urge to flee came over her. She walked purposefully out of the house and back into the Parisian sunshine. As her stomach protested against her quick movements, she realized she hadn’t eaten anything for hours and, a bit slower now, headed down the street to her favorite café.

Instead of the familiar, chubby face of the shopkeeper, a hard-faced woman was behind the counter. “Husband’s gone to the front,” the woman replied to Alouette’s inquiry after the owner.

“I’ll have a croissant and a coffee, please,” Alouette requested.

The woman arched her eyebrow. “Croissants waste precious flour and butter, and we’ve been ordered not to produce them anymore. We just have plain bread.” It made a distasteful ringing sound as she dropped it onto a plate. “The Germans are approaching the Marne River. A battle will be on soon, if it hasn’t started already.” She handed Alouette the coffee. “But we will not know for weeks: the Parisian papers have stopped running since all the men have gone to war.”

“Will your husband be in the battle?”

She shrugged. “If he fights, he will fight hard, like every other Frenchman. And yours?”

Alouette gave her a small smile and nodded, embarrassed to explain that Henri was too old to be a soldier.

“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs!” the woman called as Alouette walked away from the counter.

She drank her coffee and ate the stale bread on a little table outside of the café, pondering the woman’s casual remark. It seemed that everyone, and everything, had gone a bit numb since the war started. Talk of the destruction of whole towns and the murder of innocent people had become almost commonplace now, and it was both spoken about and heard with a degree of indifference. But, Alouette supposed, maybe that’s to keep from surrendering to the ever-present misery that is war-time.

She dusted the crumbs off her dress, and, still avoiding returning to her empty house, decided to stroll down the street. She had gone a few blocks when she heard a plane overhead.

“Is it French?” a female passerby asked in a shrill voice.

“No,” Alouette said, gazing at the fan-tailed plane, which was flying just over the tops of the buildings. “It’s a German Taube.” Indeed the Taube—German for dove—resembled its namesake in both form and flight, yet she was sure its graceful maneuvering belied the plane’s menacing intentions. Alouette and the passerby stared warily at the black crosses on the plane’s wings as it made several passes, coming closer and closer.

Suddenly, Alouette caught sight of something small being hurled from the cockpit. “It’s a bomb!” she shouted. “Get down!” She flung herself to the sidewalk in time to feel a small tremor in the ground. When it stopped, she got unsteadily back to her feet. The buzzing of the plane was fainter now. Smoke filled the air and Alouette coughed.

When it began to dissipate, she ran toward the source of the smoke. Her heart sank as she saw that the café she had visited just half an hour before had been obliterated. She covered her mouth against the black smoke rising into the air, cloaking the bright sunlight and making the afternoon seem dark as dusk.

A crowd had gathered in front of the ruins. Alouette tried to move some of the debris in search of survivors, but she burned her hand on a still-hot piece of metal.

“It’s no use,” the woman Alouette had passed earlier on the street said as she came up beside her. “Anyone buried under there is now the latest victim of the Huns.”

“Look at this,” a young man said, waving a banner in German colors he had pulled out of the wreck.

Alouette reached for it. There was a message printed in German and she translated it aloud. “The German Army stands before the gates of Paris. You have no choice but to surrender.”

“Surrender?” the young man repeated, the indignation obvious in his voice. “To the Boches? Never.”

The skin on Alouette’s arm grew cold and, despite the warm day, she shivered as she took stock of the felled café, imagining the charred body of the owner’s wife among the smoking embers. Looks like a few eggs have already been broken. She glanced again to the sky, just being able to make out the dark form of the Taube over the eastern part of the city. She would have given anything to be in her own plane at that moment, armed with a machine gun, the German plane centered in the crosshairs. And suddenly she had an idea.

She rushed home, once again throwing her bag on the floor, before entering Henri’s office. She wrote a hasty letter to the Ministry of War, offering her aviation experience to France and the Allies. “It does not matter where I would be stationed, of course, but I request to be put to use. I have risked my life for sport as an aviatrix, and therefore the sacrifice I now propose to make is of no consequence.”

* * *

A week passed without word from either Henri or the Ministry of War. The Taube had become a frequent fixture in the skies over Paris, occasionally dropping its bombs, which were always accompanied by a note full of threats. There was nothing else to do but make light of the macabre matter. The clerk at the postal office had told Alouette that the German plane’s flight pattern was so regular he’d begun to set his watch by it.

Alouette’s restlessness turned to worry over Henri’s fate. Every day she awoke faced with two choices: carry on her day as she’d done before the war and pretend that everything was normal, or wallow in self-pity that her husband was at the front, possibly getting killed at that moment. Most days she went with the former choice, but one morning it was the latter, and she stayed under the covers until well past noon.

Hortense burst into the room with a tray of bread and tea. “Madame, will you not go out today?” She set the tray on the bed before raising the blinds.

Alouette blinked in the sudden sunlight before burying her head under a pillow. There was nowhere to go, anyway. Most of the population believed the Germans were indeed at the city gates and had fled for the countryside, turning the once-bustling Paris into a ghost town. The theaters and museums had all been closed, and the gas lamps that had given the city its nickname, “The City of Lights” remained dark.

“Madame.” Hortense’s voice was hesitant, but closer this time.

“Yes?” Alouette reluctantly pulled the pillow away.

“It is your husband you worry about, no?”

Alouette met her maid’s eyes without reply. For once Hortense’s gaze held no animosity, only sympathy.

She stepped toward the bed to set a gnarled hand on top of Alouette’s. “My son-in-law is also at the front. I pray for his safety each day. I will add Monsieur Richer’s name to my prayers as well.”

Alouette was uncomfortable with this unexpected show of affection from the normally aloof maid, but she nodded in agreement. “We must pray for all the Allies at the front.”

Hortense dropped her head in acquiescence. “Perhaps it's just that Monsieur Richer’s letters have been held up in a German blockade.”

Alouette’s indignation rose. Wasn’t it enough that the Germans were bombing their city and killing their men? Did they have to steal their mail as well? She turned away, and Hortense, taking the hint, left the room as silently as she had come in.

The next day Alouette was pleased when Hortense handed her an official-looking letter, with the Aéronautique Militaire, the aviation department of the French War Office, as the return address. Her half-smile soon drooped as she read the opening lines. The letter was written in a characteristically French style: polite but standoffish, telling her with regrets that only males could be employed in the French air force.

“Madame?” Hortense inquired, a helpless look on her face.

Alouette folded the letter into a mock airplane and sent it flying across the room. It landed, as intended, in the fireplace. “It’s nothing.”

A few days later another official-looking letter arrived. This one summoned her to the office of a man named Georges Ladoux, from the Deuxiéme Bureau of the Ministry of War.

Alouette hurriedly dressed and rushed over to the address given in the summons, thinking at last the men of the Aéronautique Militaire had changed their mind.

The building at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain had been built recently; the ornate doors led into a rotunda with high plastered ceilings and a mosaic tiled floor. None of it seemed like a suitable office building for the War Department.

Alouette was shown to an upstairs room and squinted at the hastily-scrawled lettering on the door indicating that this was the office of French Counterespionage Services. That’s odd, she thought as she pushed the door open. What do they want with me?

As Georges Ladoux stood in greeting, it was clear he was much shorter than Alouette. He was stocky, with black hair gleaming with brilliantine product and a well-trimmed toothbrush mustache. He nodded as Alouette sat down across from him. “I presume you know why I have sent for you, madame.” It was not a question. Ladoux’s eyebrows arched and he leaned forward expectantly.

“I do not,” Alouette replied as coolly as she could. Inside her heart was racing, but she relied on her experiences as a pilot to force herself to remain outwardly calm.

“I have proof that you have visited Germans in Paris.”

Alouette covered her confusion by pulling a lipstick out of her purse and uncapping it.

“German spies,” Ladoux continued.

She flipped open a compact mirror, hoping her shaking hands were not noticeable. The bewilderment in her voice was not fake, however. “And who would these German spies be?”

“Does it matter?” Ladoux sat back in his desk chair.

“I should think that it does. Such words could get me hanged, if they were true.”

“Then you are saying it is not true?”

She snapped the lid back on her lipstick. “Of course it is not true.”

He pulled a piece of paper from a file folder and unfolded it. “Alouette Richer was born in Lorraine, April 15, 1889. Her father was an adjutant in the Hussars. As a young girl, she took to sports with ardor. Before becoming an aviatrix, she had much experience with horseback riding and driving an automobile. She won second place at an international target practice competition in Lille, a sport which few women attempt.”

Alouette’s hands tightened, but he thankfully put the report down before he read any more. “Now, Madame Richer, if you could explain your recent visit to Crotoy.”

She met Ladoux’s eyes squarely. “I had to check on my plane. I am trying to join the air force.”

He gave her an oily smile. “A woman pilot in the Armée de l'Air?”

His condescending tone was beginning to grate on Alouette’s nerves. “Surely, if you researched me that much, you would know that I recently offered my services to them.”

He shuffled some papers on the desk, and Alouette caught her name written at the top of a file folder. “I can tell that you are a woman of some character, Madame Richer. If you would just tell us about these Germans—”

Alouette, sensing there was no point in continuing the conversation, grabbed her bag and stood. “I’m sorry you have been so misinformed, Captain. I have repeatedly offered my services to the government, to no avail. If I knew of any German spies, I would be the first person to report them. But alas, I do not.” She started for the door.

“Will you join my department?”

Alouette nearly dropped her purse.

“We need women like you—patriotic, sporty, not fearful of anything.”

She stood frozen, thinking that only two of those descriptions were true. “If you are so convinced I’m a German spy, why are you inviting me to join your staff?”

He indicated her unoccupied chair in lieu of answering.

As much as she longed to leave this odious man’s office, here he was offering her the chance she’d been longing for. She sat. “What would you want me to do?”

“I want you to, in fact, find the German spies I have been referencing.” The hairs on his mustache fluttered with his breath.

Alouette replaced her purse on the floor and folded her hands in her lap as he continued, “When Germany closed its borders, we had not a single French agent within her lines, whereas they had managed to infiltrate France and many other Allied and neutral countries with liaisons ready to act at a moment’s notice.”

“And do what?” Alouette asked.

He stretched his hands out. “Spy. Spread German propaganda. Steal supplies. Defy the blockade.”

“And we are at a loss as to the identities of these liaisons.”

“Indeed.” He pulled out a cigarette before offering her one. She declined. He lit it before continuing, “France’s ability to detect these Trojan horses, if you will, was almost nil. That’s when General Joffre recognized the necessity of a Department of Counterespionage. I am the man whom he appointed to begin this new type of combat, what I am dubbing the Secret War.”

“What role would I play?”

“I’m told you speak German.”

She gestured toward her file. “As you know, I grew up in Alsace. I had no choice but to learn the language.”

He flicked ash into a nearby tray. “Our frontiers are like sieves: full of holes. Everybody and everything can pass through our borders at their will. I will give you 25,000 francs for every spy you expose.”

The growl in his voice contained hints of intimidation and Alouette had the notion that his offer was as much of a disguised threat as the German liaisons that, according to him, lurked on every corner. Once again, Alouette stood. “You must know, of course, that I do not need the money. And also that I would need to consult with my husband before I can accept your offer.”

He rose from his chair and bowed. “Of course. Take what time you need. Contact me when you are ready.”

Alouette’s demurral of Ladoux’s offer was not merely an excuse. As typical of most marriages, she consulted Henri on all of her decisions, but he often did the same. They’d shared the same interests and had a trusting, if passionless, marriage. Still, they had never spent so much time apart, not since Henri had rescued Alouette from poverty when she had, misguidedly, left her hometown for good at sixteen to follow a lover to Paris.

She wondered what Henri, with his old-world sense of chivalry, would think of the pompous little Ladoux. She would never know if his letters couldn’t get past the blockade.

The next afternoon, when Alouette finally got the motivation to get out of bed, she decided to demand news of Henri at the town hall. While she was getting dressed, Hortense entered without knocking and set an envelope on the bed. “Madame, this came for you by courier this morning.”

Alouette could feel her maid’s eyes boring into her back as she lifted the bulky letter with an equally heavy heart. Ironically it had come from the Sixteenth Arrondissement, the same destination she had been gearing up to set out for later that morning.

She tried her best to rip open the envelope in spite of her shaking hands.

Dear Madame Richer,

We regret to inform you that the soldier, Richer, Henri, aged 42, was engaged in bringing up transports while exposed to military artillery fire.

She looked up, her mind racing with indignation. I know that already. What do they think, husbands don’t communicate with their wives?

She forced herself to read on:

After being wounded by a highly explosive shell, he showed an extraordinary coolness in bringing his lorry into a position of safety.

“Thank God,” she exclaimed out loud, expecting the rest of the letter to contain news of Henri receiving the Croix de Guerre.

But the letter ended simply with the words, A few minutes later he died.

“No!” The letter landed on the bed as Alouette’s hands flew to her mouth. She tasted blood and forced herself to look at her fingers. She must have sliced the tip of her finger opening the envelope, but sensed no pain. She felt nothing, in fact, but a numbness that penetrated her body.

“It’s Henri,” she told Hortense helplessly. Her eyes dropped to the terrible letter sitting on the bed. “He’s dead.”

“Oh madame!” Hortense glanced at the cream-colored letter, as if the French government, in opposition to their callous explanation, had included some sort of blueprint for what to do next. “Madame?”

Alouette glanced at Hortense, who was standing with her hefty arms opened wide. Wordlessly Alouette stepped forward until those arms were around her back and she was standing in Hortense’s embrace. She clung to her maid, feeling as though the floor was sinking beneath them.

Chapter 7

M’Greet

October 1914

M’greet’s letter to her daughter was returned unopened, accompanied by a note from her ex-husband. He stated that if she wished to see Non, she should ask permission from him first. M’greet responded with a letter written, perhaps a bit pretentiously, in French, knowing that Rudy did not readily speak the language.

My dear friend,

If you so wish, I will ask you personally: be kind and let me see my daughter. There is much hate between us, but Non should not be deprived of a mother because of our bickering. I thank you in advance for allowing me what I’ve been craving all these years.

Sincerely, Marguerite

Finally, Rudy agreed to a meeting, though he was reluctant to meet in Amsterdam, where he lived, or even in the Hague. Instead he suggested lunch in Rotterdam.

The last time she’d seen Non was nearly ten years ago, at the railroad station in Arnhem. It had been shortly after M’greet had started to make it big as Mata Hari. She’d traveled from Paris in the first-class car, and was helped down by the liveried footman who’d been assigned to personally look after her luggage.

Non’s eyes grew wide as she gazed at her mother’s finery. She reached out to touch the fur lining on M’greet’s coat, but Rudy brushed her arm away.

“You’re looking… well.” He had spat out the last word, as if it pained him to say it.

She glanced at him disdainfully, telling him she felt just the opposite about him with her eyes. She turned to her daughter and swept her into her arms. “Oh, Non, my baby girl. How would you like to visit Mammie in Paris?”

“That’s not possible,” Rudy replied.

“Oh, but she would love it.”

Non’s enthusiastic nod showed she agreed.

“What she would love is to have school supplies.” He put his hand on M’greet’s arm to pull her to the side and tell her in a gruff voice, “We are in a little bit of a financial problem.”

“Of course.” She shrugged off his arm; his grip and rough manner reminded her all too well of their terrible marriage. She then pulled out a wad of bills and counted them aloud before handing them to Rudy. Catching sight of her daughter’s dirty face, she wet her thumb and swiped at Non’s cheek. Non smiled up at her and M’greet pulled the rest of the money out of her purse. “Make sure you buy her a new dress,” she told Rudy.

He had nodded and led Non away.

Throughout the years that had passed since, M’greet had often become melancholy when she thought of Non. How could she grow up a proper lady without a mother? But Rudy had always refused her visitation, though he never returned any of the money M’greet sent.

Now M’greet agreed enthusiastically to a visit, writing to Rudy, this time in Dutch, that she’d like to discuss the possibility of contributing to Non’s secondary education. She wondered what her daughter looked like, if what Anna had said was true and her hair had darkened since she saw her last.

Rudy answered that if M’greet wanted to help with money, she should send five thousand florins for Non to take voice and piano lessons. He ended the letter stating that he had not received his pension that month and would not be able to meet in Rotterdam after all.

“Is something wrong, madame?” Anna asked, entering the room with a basket full of M’greet’s stockings.

“It’s Rudy.” She wiped at a tear that was threatening to fall. “It’s always the same with him. He tells people that he doesn’t want any of my ‘dirty cash’ but at the same time insists I contribute something to Non.” She clenched her fists. “But he won’t let me see her. How can he deny me that, me, her loving mother?” M’greet finally broke down and wept openly.

Anna, unaccustomed to such a display of weakness from her mistress, seemed unsure what to do. She set down the basket and sat beside M’greet. “Madame, how is it that he can make such demands of you?”

M’greet focused her red eyes at a spot on the wall and shook her head. She’d spent most of her adult life spinning fantasies—it helped her escape from the fact that she was a penniless divorcé forbidden to see her daughter. Now she cried for the reality that was her existence, soaking her servant’s blouse with makeup stained tears.

M’greet cleaned up in time to accompany van der Schalk to a dinner party hosted by Lady Hendriks, one of Amsterdam’s most distinguished women. The guest of honor that night was the Baron Willem van der Capellen.

“Ah, the beautiful Margaretha MacLeod,” the Baron said, kissing her ring. His lips lingered a bit too long on M’greet’s hand as evidenced by the tsk-tsking emulating from his wife, a stick-figured woman with a pinched face and graying hair. The Baron himself was about fifteen years older than M’greet, and for a moment she was drawn back to those horrifying days after she’d returned on an errand to find that Rudy had left, absconding with everything in their little apartment, including Non.

She had met the Baron on the street one day soon after that. He approached her at a flower stall, and she asked him back to the small apartment she’d rented. She’d slept with him that first afternoon, and many afternoons after that. In return, the Baron paid her rent and bought her some clothes to replace the ones that Rudy had stolen.

Over dinner that night at Lady Hendrik’s, the Baron mentioned he’d seen M’greet dance once. “I couldn’t believe the little Margaretha MacLeod that I knew had become the famous Mata Hari.” His wife’s face seemed to become even tighter, her lips forming a hard line.

“Mata Hari?” van der Schalk coughed down the food he’d been chewing before turning to M’greet. “I thought you were Russian.”

The Baron laughed heartily before hitting his heavy fist on the tablecloth. “Russian. That’s rich. That’s really rich.” He gave M’greet a glance of appreciation before wiping his eyes with his napkin. “Russian,” he repeated.

Lady Hendriks, evidently believing such conversation was not to be had at the dinner table, changed the subject to talk of the front. M’greet tuned out as she always did when the war was brought up.

After the second course, M’greet excused herself to go to the balcony for a smoke. She’d just lit her cigarette when she heard the door slide open.

“Mind if I join you?” the Baron asked.

“Are you not still married?”

He threw his head back and let out that same belly laugh from before. “Are you not still a courtesan?”

“Hush,” M’greet said, looking around the empty balcony. While paid women were perfectly acceptable in Paris, it was still looked down upon in sanctimonious Holland. “I don’t need to do that anymore. As you said, I am the famous Mata Hari.”

“Then what are you doing with van der Schalk? And why did you tell him you were Russian?”

M’greet tipped ash from her cigarette onto the lawn before glancing inside at her latest lover, who was still seated at the table. He met her eyes, and she could tell by the barely concealed hatred on his face that their tryst was over.

It was no matter, M’greet decided. The Baron would keep her just as well. She took a step closer to him. “Are you staying in Amsterdam for long?”

“No. Holland has mobilized her forces against the possibility of a German attack. I must report to the border.”

She angled herself so that no one inside could see her put her hand over his. “How will I see you?”

The Baron, pleased as pie to have her attention again, beamed. “I’ll think of something.”

The Baron’s solution was to buy her a house in The Hague, at 16 Nieuwe Uitleg, facing a canal. The house was a charming three-story brick building, decorated with a quaint, old-fashioned air, which M’greet immediately decided would never do. She was able to find a Dutch contractor with Parisian taste, and, using the Baron’s money, commissioned an entire redo of the house’s décor, including putting in a bathroom with running water.

In the meantime, M’greet took a room at the Paulez Hotel. At the Baron’s urging, she called Paris and requested to speak to her lawyer, Edouard Clunet.

“Margaretha?” Clunet asked when he got on the line. “What’s your ex-husband done now?”

She filled him in on Rudy’s latest antics. When she’d finished, he told her, “We’ve been through this before.”

“I want to see her.”

“Monsieur MacLeod has maintained—”

“Lies. They are nothing but lies.”

Clunet knew they weren’t. “I’m sorry, Margaretha.”

Her voice rose as tears threatened to fall again. “Are you saying I have no recourse? That I can’t see my daughter because he says so?”

Clunet was silent for a moment and M’greet imagined him biting his fingernails the way he always did when he was thinking. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but...” she heard a drawer open, “she’s in The Hague.”

M’greet grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the address he dictated. “She’s attending school to become a teacher.”

She set the pen down with shaking hands. “I went to school to become a teacher once.”

Clunet’s voice softened. “I didn’t know that.”

“I got kicked out for attempting to seduce the headmaster.”

He cleared his throat.

She supposed he wasn’t used to hearing women talk of such things, even after all those months they’d spent time together when Rudy had filed for divorce, claiming—falsely—that M’greet had committed adultery. Back then she’d been on her best behavior, trying to pretend she was more than the nearly naked woman in the picture Rudy had sent to Clunet. The lawyer had told her that any Dutch judge would have agreed with Rudy that his ex-wife was a depraved woman.

“Anyway, thank you for telling me.” She pressed the address to her heart.

“You’re welcome.”

Without thinking, M’greet stepped outside to hail a cab, giving the driver the address on the paper. She had no idea what she would do when she got to the school. She feared that her daughter, who’d been forced to grow up without a mother, would be taken advantage of the way M’greet had.

M’greet was just an innocent teenager when Wybrandus Haanstra, the headmaster at her teacher-training school, had asked her to stay after class one day. He’d forced himself upon her, his bristly mustache chafing her face, his drool running down her school uniform. M’greet had tried to push him off, but he was far too heavy. He’d forced her to touch him and kiss him down there. Although he never entered her—even Rudy, who had invented many falsehoods against her, had never accused her of not being a virgin when they married—it was enough to get her expelled.

She’d seen Headmaster Haanstra as a sort of substitute father figure, and, like her real father, he had betrayed her. No one ever accused Haanstra of having corrupt morals: he kept his job at the school and was probably doing the same thing to some other girl. M’greet never wanted Non to experience such heartbreak. It was enough that she’d barely survived the mysterious illness that killed her brother.

“Slow down,” she commanded the driver as they approached the school. Classes must have just let out as there were dozens of girls in maroon uniforms milling about the grounds. “That’s her,” M’greet said aloud as she spied a tall girl with long black hair. “That’s my daughter.”

M’greet pulled down the brim of her hat when Non laughed at something her companion said. She did resemble her mother, more so than even M’greet would have predicted, but there was a light-heartedness about her spirit. Non had something that she herself had lost a long time ago, or perhaps, with her tumultuous upbringing, she’d never had. Innocence. M’greet would never willingly take that away from her, no matter how much she longed to envelop her in a never-ending embrace. And, despite whatever lies Rudy had told her, that innocence would be shattered as soon as Mata Hari stepped out from the car and approached her daughter.

“That’s enough,” she told the driver. “Let’s go.”

She had the driver drop her off at the hotel in time to meet with her house decorator, Jan Dekker.

“Ah, madame, you will be so pleased with these newest plans,” Dekker stated. He unrolled a long piece of paper that had been colored in with pencil.

“Is that lavender?” M’greet asked, her lip curling upward.

“Yes, as we had discussed, the main room will be a light purple.”

M’greet sat back and crossed her arms. “I thought we agreed on pink. I want everything in shades of pink.”

“But madame,” Dekker had a confused look on his face. “You said…”

“You heard me wrong.” M’greet tapped her finger on the plans and repeated very slowly, “Pink. Everything pink.”

“Yes, madame,” Dekker said, rolling up the plans again.

Chapter 8

Marthe

October 1914

After the meeting with Lucelle, several weeks passed and Marthe nearly forgot about her aunt’s promise to make contact. She was just leaving the house on her way to the hospital one morning when she saw Canteen Ma, her wild gray hair dancing in the wind, humming to herself as she pushed her loaded cart up the street. The old lady was a favorite of the German soldiers because she had fresh fruit and vegetables for sale a few days a week.

“Good day, mademoiselle,” she called to Marthe in a raspy voice. “What a beautiful morning to be out so early.” She approached with a basket. “How about some nice beans, mademoiselle? For you, I give a special price.”

She came up onto the porch and was so close that Marthe could see her cheekbones through her translucent skin.

Marthe was about to refuse when Canteen Ma shoved something into her hand. “Only look at that when you are alone,” the old lady said in an uncharacteristically lucid tone before she resumed humming. As soon as Canteen Ma moved on to another house, Marthe ran upstairs to her room and unfolded the note.

Come to the second farm on the right-hand side of the road to Zwevezeele at nine tonight. Ask for Marie.

Marthe sat on the bed, her heart sinking. There was no way she’d be able to be on the streets at nine—the Berlin Vampires would be out in force and there would be nothing to explain a woman’s presence outside so late at night.

“Marthe, aren’t you going to be late for work?” Mother called from downstairs.

With that, Marthe had an idea.

When she got to the hospital, the first thing she did was find the Oberarzt. “Herr Oberarzt, now that I have been working here for some time, do you not think it necessary for me to be available for emergencies?”

The Oberarzt mulled this over. “Yes, I suppose I can write you a pass to come to the hospital if we need you at night.”

“Thank you, mein herr.”

She headed into the little room to check on Nicholas Hoot, only to find it empty. She ran into the hall and accosted the first orderly she came upon. “What happened to the two men who had been in that room?”

He scratched at his scraggly beard. “Weren’t they Allies? They probably got moved to a prison hospital.”

“But they were injured. You can’t mean they just up and transferred them in the middle of the night.”

He shrugged. “Then maybe they were shot.”

Marthe frowned but didn’t want to make a scene. She was still the lone Belgian woman amongst a sea of German men. She took one last look at Nicholas’s empty bed, determined to learn of his fate for Meneer and Mevrouw Hoot’s sake.

The day passed slowly, as did most in the hospital. There had not been much fighting nearby in the past week; the patients were therefore really only suffering from minor pains, such as earaches and blisters on their feet.

Marthe left the house at eight that night, giving her a full hour to get to her destination. She made her way through the same fields Lucelle must have used, the Oberarzt’s hastily scrawled pass clutched in her sweaty palm. The ground was hard with early fall frost so her feet thankfully did not sink into the mud. Her heart was in her throat at the thought of the Berlin Vampires coming upon her. She intended to state that she was on her way to visit a sick patient should she encounter the gendarmes.

Marthe found the road and counted the farms with her finger, deciding that the red-roofed home must have been the farm referred to in the note. If it were possible, her heartbeat sped up even more as she knocked on the door. Perhaps it was a trap.

The door creaked and a gruff voice demanded, “What do you want?”

“I have come to see Marie,” Marthe replied, wiping her hands on her skirts.

The voice gave a grunt and the door opened wider. She stepped inside to the dark hallway. A cool hand took her hot one and led her up the stairs to the back of the house before pushing her into a room illuminated only by a small fireplace.

“Thank you, Pierre,” Marthe heard her aunt say. “Give me a warning if you hear anything suspicious.” Lucelle sat in a high-backed chair facing the fire, but turned as Pierre shut the door. “I rejoice to see you, my child.” She motioned for Marthe to come closer. “The British Intelligence Service has accepted my proposal. They have given you the code name ‘Laura.’”

Marthe’s tone was awed. “Thank you, Aunt.”

Lucelle shook her head. “I’m not sure you should be grateful to me, but hopefully someday the Allies will feel the same way toward you. Spying is dangerous work and your mission at all times will be to avoid detection. You will therefore send all your messages in code. Your first task will be to memorize the key for this code so thoroughly you will never make a mistake. As soon as you have committed it to memory, you will destroy the formula.” She handed Marthe a small piece of paper. “As I’m sure you well know, the sooner you burn this, the better.”

Marthe began to stuff the message into the top of her stocking while Lucelle chuckled to herself.

“That is not a very clever place to hide such a damning piece of evidence—it’s the first place anyone searching you would look.”

Marthe cast a helpless look at her aunt, who tapped her bun. Marthe followed by tucking the paper in her hair under a pin while Lucelle continued. “You will receive your instructions through the old woman known as Canteen Ma. When you have a message to send, you will code it and then go down the Rue de la Place to reach the Grand Place. On the right you will see an alleyway. Stop at the fifth window on the left-hand side and tap three times, pause, and then two more times. Agent 63 will then take your message to be transmitted to the British Intelligence Service.”

Marthe’s head was spinning and she spoke slowly. “Fifth window, Grand Place, knock three times, pause, then two more. Agent 63.”

Lucelle nodded approvingly. “It will be your duty to report any military information you overhear, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you. Whenever you have something to transmit, you must take it to Agent 63 immediately. Do not try to conceal it in the house until a more auspicious time. That puts everyone in danger.”

“Yes, Aunt, I understand.”

“In a few days’ time, a man will call at the house and ask for you. He will show you two safety pins on his lapel. These ‘safety-pin men’ are an active branch of an anti-German espionage system and you must persuade your hostess to give the man lodging.”

“There are German soldiers billeting with us now,” Marthe informed her.

“It is no matter. He is on a special mission and will only be in Roulers a short while. During this time, you must code any messages he wishes to transmit and then deliver them to Agent 63.”

Marthe nodded.

“And now, my dear child, I must leave as soon as you have gone. I have reason to believe the Vampires know that I am in the district.” She rose and looked at Marthe. “A spy needs to keep her wits about her at all times, whether asleep or awake. Intelligence is an important tool of a good spy: if you are caught, in all probability it will be your own fault.”

Her words struck a chord in Marthe and she decided to change the subject. “Where will you go?”

She waved her hand. “The less you know of my whereabouts, the better. And that goes for all other people in our network: the less you know about your fellow spies, the less the Vampires are likely to wring it out of you if they catch you.”

Marthe shot her aunt a tentative smile, doing her best not to show how nervous she was. “God be with you, Aunt Lucelle.”

“You too, my child.”

The hallway seemed deserted as Marthe let herself out of the little room, but once again a hand grabbed her wrist, leading her through the dark house and to the same door she had entered.

As she made her way back to the grocer’s house, she wondered exactly what her aunt had gotten her into. Marthe had always been an intelligent girl, but would she be able to outsmart the Germans enough to sabotage them… and stay alive?

Her stomach suddenly heaved and she had to pause her rapid pace to bend over and retch. After she was done, she stood up and glanced about the streets, which were mercifully still empty. She wiped her mouth and then started walking again, albeit at a much slower pace.

Chapter 9

Alouette

October 1914

Alouette climbed the steps to the Deuxiéme Bureau with a much heavier heart than last time, her movements made difficult by the heavy mourning veil that covered her face.

If Ladoux was surprised to see her dressed all in black, he made no comment.

This time Alouette did not bother sitting. “I accept your offer.”

“Your husband—”

“Has been killed.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.

Ladoux’s hand massaged his beard. “I’m not sure this would be the right time.”

“If you please, Captain. As I have stated before, I am willing to do anything to help my country, and the timing is perfect: I need a distraction to keep me from brooding over the loss of my husband. Not to mention I’d like the opportunity to avenge his death.”

“Come again to see me in two days. That will give you time to change your mind if need be.”

“My mind will not be changed, Captain.”

A wan smile appeared before he covered it with his hand. “The Secret War is more ruthless than what goes on at the front, madame.”

Alouette, her face steely, did not reply.

“Very well, then. Go to 26 rue Jacob tomorrow. You will ask for Monsieur Delorme.”

26 rue Jacob was an apartment on the ground floor of an opulent building with a courtyard in front. When a butler answered the door, Alouette requested Monsieur Delorme. He led her into a spacious but dark room with Persian carpets and brocade wallpaper.

The man sitting on the satin couch was none other than Captain Ladoux himself, dressed in civilian clothes. “I see you did not change your mind, madame.”

“No.” She looked around the parlor. “Why did you want to meet me here?”

“In case you were followed, it looks less suspicious than if you once again walked into the offices of the Ministry of War.” He peered into her veil to catch her expression, but Alouette kept her face neutral. She would not show him that she was intimidated at the thought of being tailed.

“Very well, then,” he continued finally. “You will travel to Geneva, Switzerland next Saturday.” He seemed disinclined to provide any more details.

The possibility that the Deuxiéme Bureau was setting her up flashed through her mind. She sat in a nearby armchair. “Pardon me, Captain—Monsieur Delorme—” she quickly corrected. “But isn’t looking for a German spy quite like searching through a haystack for one needle?”

“Indeed.”

Even from across the dark room, Alouette thought she saw his eyes glitter.

“But that needle has a thread through it that extends beyond the haystack and leads to the center of the enemy espionage network. You must find a way to infiltrate the German Intelligence Department.”

Alouette thought of exposing this so-called enemy network once and for all, the dream of glory trumping the gloom she’d found herself in since being informed of Henri’s death. She forced herself back to reality. “Surely it cannot be that simple to secure employment as a German spy.”

“No.” He struck a match and the embers of a cigarette began to gleam. “But you have both beauty and brains, two traits that will entice our enemies. You will be engaged in an intelligence conflict, one for which I believe you are well suited. You wanted to play a part in the war so that must mean you do not value your life greatly. I would bet this role is even more dangerous than that which your fellow pilots have undertaken.”

Alouette drew in a deep breath, picturing all of the closed doors and rejection letters she had received from the men in charge. This man, this Ladoux, was intimidating—she still got the feeling that he did not trust her—but he was giving her a chance. “Danger and I are familiar comrades, monsieur. I am aware of the perils that lie ahead, but I accept the mission.”

He exhaled, the ring of smoke encircling his head. “We are not a wealthy department. Our funds are quite limited.”

Alouette was taken aback by this admission, considering his initial hefty offer. She glanced around the room with all of its luxurious décor. “Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

The smoke from the cigarette burned her eyes. “I have enough francs to assist me now, and my lawyer will allocate more money once my husband’s will is settled.”

“Good. However, I encourage you to demand money from the Germans after they employ you, in order to help deplete the enemy’s war funds sooner and expedite an Allied victory. Wars are won with weighty pocketbooks and lost by lack thereof.”

“Very well, monsieur.”

He rose and, as he approached her, Alouette had a vision of a snake slithering toward its prey. He dropped something in her lap. She used the last of the light from the setting sun to see that it was a passport with her maiden name on it. That was fast. But then again, she supposed that the Ministry of War had the ability to get passports quickly. Or else Ladoux knew she’d be coming back the first time he met her.

“It is best for you not to travel as a widow or a married woman.”

She nodded.

“If you need to contact me, write to Monsieur Delorme at this address.” He held out his hand. “And, Alouette, be careful.”

Alouette’s smooth hand met his rough one. As she shook it, she realized that was the first time he’d called her by her given name.

Chapter 10

Marthe

November 1914

The man Aunt Lucelle had mentioned arrived a few days later. He was dressed in the clothes of a laborer. He must have been at least fifteen years older than Marthe, and was tall, with thick glossy hair and a neat mustache.

“Good day, mademoiselle. is there any chance of finding lodging here? I’ve lost pretty much everything in the invasion, and I heard they still pay for work in this town.” He shot a quick glance around and, after seeing they were alone, lifted his lapel for an instant, showing Marthe the two metal safety-pins underneath.

“Step inside for a moment,” Marthe invited. “I will ask the owner of the house what she can do for you.”

The grocer’s wife had a reluctant look on her face when Marthe brought her to the door, as if she was going to refuse him. Upon catching sight of the handsome, friendly-appearing stranger, she must have changed her mind. “We only have a small attic room available. Is that acceptable?”

He gave her a grateful smile. “Perfectly so. Thank you.”

The man carried himself with dignity and spoke fluent French and German and fair Flemish. At dinner that night, he beguiled the entire household, including the two German soldiers, with tales of his travels. He’d traveled to the Argentine as a sailor, and became somewhat of an engineer for a year while he was there.

“Say, Herr...” one of the Germans said through a bite of dinner. He swallowed before continuing. “I realize I don’t know your last name.”

“Jacobs,” the man supplied.

“Herr Jacobs, I don’t suppose you would want to join us for an after-dinner cigar?” the soldier inquired.

“I wouldn’t mind it at all.” Marthe couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though Herr Jacobs winked at her.

A week passed and Herr Jacobs said nothing more to Marthe than good day and good night. She was beginning to wonder if he was indeed the man Lucelle had predicted would come until she returned home from the hospital one evening to find him standing alone in the kitchen.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” he said, taking a cigar out of his mouth. “It’s a cold night outside, no?” He had the same furtive look on his face that Marthe saw the first day. He gave a searching glance about the kitchen before opening his cigar case and withdrawing a small cylinder. “I think, perhaps, you will know what to do with this,” he murmured, placing it squarely in Marthe’s palm.

She wrapped her hand around it. “It will go tonight.” She tried to meet his eyes, but Herr Jacobs was staring into the fire. “What are you doing here?” she ventured.

“Secret service.” He spoke so quietly it almost sounded like a sigh.

“Are there others like you?” She gestured toward his lapel.

“Yes, though as a rule, we safety-pin men prefer to work alone.” He glanced at her sharply. “If you are approached by one of those others, make sure you note how the pins are placed. If they run straight, not diagonal, pretend to be puzzled… that means he is a Vampire masquerading as anti-German.” He grimaced. “These so-called ‘false safety pin men’ are one of the reasons I am here.” His voice had become a growl. “When I find one of these imposters, trust me when I say he will not get off lightly.” His frown faded as quickly as it appeared as the German officers’ voices could be heard in the hall.

Marthe loosened the fingers clutching the cylinder as best as she could as she passed by them on her way to her room. Inside the cylinder was a small piece of paper written in an unfamiliar code. She tucked the paper under a hairpin the way Aunt Lucelle had taught her before donning her nurse’s cap.

No one was awake when Marthe left the house that night. The church bells rang the ten o’clock hour as she set out on her first mission. She was curious to find out whether Agent 63 was male or female, old or young like herself.

She carried the Oberarzt’s pass, but knew that it would offer no protection should a Vampire wish to search her and find the paper in her hair. The streets were dark and she passed a few soldiers returning to their billets. Thankfully they mostly ignored her. Near the corner of the alleyway on Grand Place, a German gefreiter was speaking to a Vampire. Marthe felt a bead of sweat trickle down her face and she pulled her nurse’s cap down further. Her heart thudded as she caught movement from the men, but when she glanced up again, they had moved on, revealing the black mouth of the alley. She walked quickly through it, counting to herself.

At the fifth window, she knocked in the way she’d been instructed. The window, like the others in the alleyway, was covered with brown paper. She startled when she saw it begin to rise. A white hand came out. After a quick glance up and down the alleyway, Marthe tore the paper from her hair and placed it in the extended palm. The hand retreated, the window closed, and she found herself staring once again at the opaque paper, wondering if she’d just dreamt what had happened. A stray tendril of loosened hair grazed her face, proving that she had indeed extracted the message.

She straightened her nurse’s cap and started back up the alleyway, pausing as she saw a soldier approaching. She threw herself against a house until he passed and then hurried into the wide street off the Grand Place, breathing a sigh of relief. Now if she was stopped, she could say she was returning from the hospital. Still she kept to the shadows as much as possible. When she finally reached the grocer’s house, she congratulated herself. She’d successfully delivered Herr Jacobs’ message. She hoped that whatever it was would soon bring an end to the German occupation of Belgium… and the war.

Chapter 11

M’greet

November 1914

Van der Capellen was called away for a few weeks in the beginning of November, but he left M’greet several hundred dollars, “in case of emergency.” She decided to use the money to travel back to Paris.

She was unable to go through Belgium due to the German occupation, so she set off by ship for the British port of Folkstone.

When the ship arrived, she was sent to a small room without any of her things. “Where is my luggage?” she demanded as soon as someone entered.

The man, of slight height with a clean-shaven face, looked taken aback. “Your luggage?” he repeated.

“Yes. You better not take it away from me. I have very expensive items in there.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s in your suitcase that you are so concerned about?”

“My furs.” He didn’t seem impressed, so she continued, “The Germans confiscated my beautiful muskrat shawl at the beginning of the war.”

“The Germans? What were you doing in Germany?”

“I was dancing. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Should I?”

“I’m Mata Hari.”

Again, the officer seemed nonplussed. He opened a notebook and flipped to a clean page before sitting across from her. “Okay, Miss Hari… is Mata your first name?”

She heaved a sigh as she sat down. “My name, my proper name, is Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod.”

“Ah.” He glanced at her ring finger. “Are you married, then?”

“Wid—divorced,” she corrected herself.

“I see.” He scribbled something in the notebook. M’greet tried to see what, but his hand blocked it. “You are obviously well-traveled. What languages do you speak?”

“All of them.”

He looked up, his hand still covering his notes. “All?”

“Obviously English and Dutch, but also French and German.”

He noted this new information before asking, “What is your intention in Paris?”

M’greet bristled at his tone. “If you must know, I am traveling there to collect some items from my house in Neuilly, as well as sign some contracts for my dancing performances.”

“Your house in Neuilly… how long have you had it?”

M’greet was growing bored and no longer felt it necessary to explain to this low-class police officer the intimate details of her life. “Are we quite through now?”

“Mrs.—” he glanced down at his paper. “MacLeod. This interrogation is well within the provisions of the Aliens Act of 1914. Now if you would just tell me about the house in Neuilly.”

M’greet answered with her usual blend of half-truths, half-inventions until at last the man got up to leave.

“What about me?” M’greet demanded.

“Mrs. MacLeod, I’m going to need you to stay here.”

“What?” She rose out of her chair, but he had already walked out the door. She tried the handle to no avail. He had locked it.

They kept M’greet waiting for almost two hours. Her stomach was rumbling and she grew warm in her racoon-trimmed traveling clothes. Finally another man in uniform entered the room.

“Mrs. Zelle-Macleod, I am Captain Dillon of MI5.”

“The what?”

“Military Intelligence, Section 5.”

“My goodness, what do you want with me?” She pulled an old brochure out of her purse and began fanning herself with it. “It’s mighty hot in here, don’t you think?”

“Not overly.” He sat in the chair across from her. “This house in Neuilly...”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that again. I am planning on selling that house. I’m moving in with my lover, Baron van der Capellen.”

Dillon paused, his pen in mid-air. “Your lover, you say?”

“Yes. He is a colonel in the Dutch army. I am relocating to The Hague to make it more convenient for his visits.”

The captain rubbed at his chin. “We’ve searched through your baggage—”

“Did you take anything?”

He dropped his hand. “Of course not. We’ve found nothing incriminating thus far.”

“And you won’t.” She rose. “Am I free to go?”

“Just one minute.” Now he scratched at his hair. “Why didn’t you tell Constable Bickers that you were selling the house in Neuilly?”

“I didn’t think he needed to know everything.”

“You are an educated woman traveling alone, not to mention this talk of…” he coughed, “an affair with a Dutch baron. Can’t you see how this looks suspicious?”

“No, I can’t. Women should be able to come and go as they please, educated or not.” She hoisted her purse onto her shoulder. “May I go now?”

He gave his chin a final rub before raising a hand, as if in defeat. “Yes, you may.”

After the unpleasantness in Folkstone, M’greet managed to make it to Paris without any further delays. Once there, she installed herself in Le Grand Hôtel Francais on the Boulevard Voltaire. She spent her days sauntering around the city, recalling when she was one of the most sought-after women in France.

The Paris of war-time was remarkably different from when she had been there last: darker, more depressing. The once-familiar monuments had been hidden by sandbags and the churches’ beautiful stained-glass windows had been bisected by wooden beams to protect them in the case of a German attack. But it was still a world away from her monotonous life in The Hague.

One morning she took a carriage to the Musée national des arts asiatiques, where she had made her debut as Mata Hari. After perusing the large collection of Asian art, she inquired after the museum owner, Émile Guimet, but was told he was away.

She decided she could use some air and sat on a bench outside. The November day was cool but sunny and there were a few people who had emerged from their cocoons to enjoy the weather. Across the Rue Boissière, two men in business suits stood talking. One of them looked familiar and M’greet squinted her eyes against the sun. She could have sworn that the taller man was Harry de Marguérie, an old lover of hers.

M’greet had known Harry since those early days in Paris, right after Rudy had left with Non, when she was dirt poor. A perpetual bachelor, he had been a rising diplomat. He called her Marguérite, a combination of his last name and her own given name, and paid for anything she needed.

Back then she’d been working as a riding instructor and barely paying off her enormous bills when her boss, Ernest Molier, had suggested she take up performing the can-can. M’greet knew that some of Paris’s dancing girls had been able to land rich men as either lovers or husbands. But she was too tall and thick, not to mention untrained, to perform at the ballet or even at the Folies Bergére.

If that were indeed Harry, the years had been kind to him. Even from across the street, M’greet could see traces of the man he’d been ten years ago, when he’d taken her out to dinner and introduced her to the retired singer, Madame Kireyevsky. M’greet had told the Parisian socialite that she’d been born in the Orient, the daughter of a Buddhist priest, skilled in the art of holy worship in the form of dance. Kireyevsky styled herself as a patron of the arts and invited M’greet to show off these sacred dances at her next party.

“Why did you concoct that crazy story about being Buddhist?” Harry had asked in the carriage back to his apartment.

M’greet shrugged. “Why not? Didn’t you see that she fell for it?” She giggled. The wine she had drunk at dinner had obviously hit her hard.

“But you know nothing of these so-called sacred dances.”

“I know enough.” She’d seen many performances when she’d been a bored housewife in Java. “And what I don’t know, I’ll improvise. You mustn’t forget all I have experienced, which is worlds more than you have.”

He touched the feather on her hat. “I am older than you.”

“Yes, but it has not been so hard for you. You have yet to realize that life is an illusion.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that what you believe is true one minute becomes a falsehood the next. Loving fathers desert you when times get tough, handsome young officers become heartless brutes the minute you marry them, and,” she forced the sob out of her voice, “perfectly healthy, wonderful sons die without any warning. Then…” she took a deep breath, “said brutes could steal your last living child away from you.”

They arrived at his building in silence. M’greet knew she had broken the cardinal rule for being a Parisian courtesan: remain flirtatious at all times. Although Harry was, as yet, unmarried, he still expected her to act a certain way. Mistresses were supposed to be entertaining, mysterious, and—unlike society wives—remain unburdened by tasks like raising children or running a household.

“So you see...” M’greet faked a light-hearted tone as she exited the carriage, her gloved hand in Harry’s, “life is but an illusion. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Very good point.” He kept her hand as they walked up the steps. “But next time try this one: your father, now deceased, was a British lord, your mother Indian—”

“Why Indian?” she asked as he opened the door to his apartment.

“Because of your dark coloring. Your seductive coloring,” he added, his eyes traveling up her body. “Anyway, you were raised to be a sacred Hindu dancer in a temple on the Ganges.”

M’greet nodded thoughtfully as she sat on his couch. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

They’d consummated their relationship that night. Harry had been a gentle, thoughtful lover. When they had finished, he sat up and reached for a cigarette. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

M’greet took the cigarette from him and drew in a breath of smoke. “Don’t get such a big head—it was no more spectacular than any of the other men I’ve been with.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He bent his head toward her and M’greet held the cigarette to his lips before taking another puff of her own. “Respectable women are not supposed to enjoy sex. Wives use it to make babies, and mistresses use it to hold power over their men.”

He blew smoke out in a perfect ring. “But you do find the act itself pleasing, don’t you?”

“Perhaps.” She put the cigarette out. Her role as a courtesan should have been passive: she was supposed to wait for men to make overtures to her, and never have more than one lover at a time. But, save for those long years when she’d been married, M’greet was never a patient person, and she definitely did not abide by society’s rules. She chose which men to invite to her bed. And while she did enjoy sex to a certain extent, she found the most pleasure in the material things these chosen men provided her after the act was over and in promise of more to come.

Harry and M’greet managed to see a great deal of each other before he left for some appointment in St. Petersburg the day before her big break at Madame Kireyevsky’s. One of the guests that night had been Émile Guimet, who invited the then-styled Lady MacLeod to dance at his museum for an audience of a few hundred people, including the German ambassador. Guimet had also encouraged her to take on a more exotic stage name; hence ‘Mata Hari’ was born. After the performance at the Musée national des arts asiatiques, her star had risen quickly and Harry was soon forgotten.

But there he was now, standing on a street corner outside that same museum. He must have sensed M’greet’s staring because he suddenly looked up.

Chapter 12

Alouette

December 1914

Alouette did not necessarily make any mental preparations before she embarked on the journey toward her new career; instead, she decided to rely on her instincts as an aviatrix to keep her out of trouble. Although Switzerland had declared neutrality at the onset of the war, Ladoux seemed to think the German espionage system was active in Geneva. Hence, Alouette’s destination was the country placed both geographically and politically between Germany and France.

Her heart raced uncontrollably on the train ride to Geneva. She tried to calm it by sitting back in her seat and focusing on the tranquil, snowy landscape passing beyond the windows.

She caught the eyes of the man across from her. Knowing Ladoux would want her to use her youth and beauty to its full advantage, she shot the man a sweet smile. He nodded and then returned his gaze to the newspaper in front of him.

In the early evening, there was a commotion at the front of the cabin. A shiver traveled down Alouette’s spine as she saw that the men boarding the train wore the uniform of the Swiss Army.

“What is happening?” she asked.

“We are about to cross the border,” the man with the newspaper replied.

“May I see your ticket?” an austere officer asked in French as he approached her.

Alouette handed hers over, a coldness spreading through her entire body. It felt as though it took months instead of mere seconds for the Swiss officer to examine her ticket, but to Alouette’s relief, he appeared satisfied when he returned it.

The Swiss officers did much the same to the rest of the passengers, going about their work methodically, with no undue sense of urgency yet they wasted no time. When the train stopped at Bern, the man across from her folded his newspaper and stood. As he passed Alouette’s seat, he bowed toward her. “I wish you a pleasant journey, Madame Richer.”

Alouette watched him disembark, her mouth open. She had not told him her name, and even if she had, she would have used her maiden name, the one she was traveling under—Betenfeld. Her only conclusion was that the man must be employed by the Deuxiéme Bureau. Ladoux must still suspect her motives and intended for her to know that she would always be under his surveillance. Trust no one, she reminded herself.

As the train continued on to Switzerland, a handsome dark-haired man sat next to Alouette. “You are French, no?” He spoke with a Spanish accent.

“Oui,” she replied.

“I am so very fond of the French,” the man replied. “Are you traveling alone?”

She thought fast for an excuse that would double as a reason for being unattended as well as to keep her distance from the man. “I am meeting my fiancé in Geneva.”

“Oh?” His voice contained a note of disappointment. “I pride myself in knowing quite a few members of Genevan society. What is the name of your intended?”

Alouette narrowed her eyes. She wanted to retort that it was none of his business, but making enemies of fellow passengers would not heed her mission. “Karl Mather,” she replied finally. Karl was the boy that she had traveled to Paris for in her youth, before she’d met Henri. Last she’d heard, he had left for medical school in Switzerland.

“I am not familiar with the man,” the Spaniard replied and Alouette gave an inward sigh of relief.

The train arrived in Geneva a few hours later. To Alouette’s delight, the city contrasted greatly with gloomy, dark Paris. Christmas wreaths and bright paper angels decorated the chalet windows and red ribbons were tied around the street lanterns. The cheery city seemed to be unaware that the rest of Europe was engaged in war.

As Alouette left the train, she asked a passerby to recommend a hotel. Since Switzerland had no official language of its own, Alouette used German, which resulted in him directing her to the Hotel Blumenhaus, which he said was run by a German man.

* * *

Alouette had only been in Geneva for a few days when she was awakened by a loud pounding. Her heart raced as she threw on a robe and opened the door.

“Polizei!” a man shouted with a Swiss accent as he and another officer charged into Alouette’s room.

“What is this about?” Alouette asked in German.

“Hand over your papers,” he repeated, louder this time.

Alouette went to her suitcase and fetched her passport. The man scrutinized it and then turned to his companion, a stocky man whose uniform buttons were threatening to burst, and shrugged. The first man turned to Alouette’s suitcase and began tossing its contents onto the floor. Alouette sank down on the bed, wondering what she had done as the stocky man fingered her fine linens and underwear and the other officer searched every square inch of her hotel room.

“What are you looking for?” Alouette asked when she finally found her voice.

Neither man replied but the stocky man picked up Alouette’s passport from the dresser and headed toward the door. The other man commanded her to get dressed.

They were both waiting in the hall when she emerged a few minutes later.

They took her to the police headquarters. An elderly man in the same uniform as her inquisitors demanded to know what she was doing in Switzerland.

She told them how she had come to see her fiancé, Karl Mather, but had discovered on arrival that she could not find his address.

“Why did you leave France?” the elderly man demanded in German.

“The atmosphere there was affecting my health.” She coughed delicately. “I have come here to rest.”

The two officers stood on either side of Alouette. The elderly man asked the stocky man something that Alouette couldn’t discern.

“Nein,” he replied, holding out his hands.

The elderly man handed Alouette her passport back. “Geneva is not a place for the French at present. We’ve caught several belligerents recently crossing the border. Although we’ve found nothing to compromise you thus far, I’m going to give you some advice: go back to your own country.”

Unsettled, Alouette returned to the hotel. Clearly she had made a bad start.

After her close call, Alouette made up her mind to leave Switzerland. Ladoux had been wrong: this was not the country to gain an introduction into the world of espionage.

At dinner the night before she planned to embark, a woman in a well-cut suit sat beside her. “Gerda Nerbutt.” She held out a manicured hand covered with rings, their jewels flashing brightly.

“Alouette Richer.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she should have used her maiden name.

“You’re French,” Gerda replied in a surprised tone. “What brings you to Switzerland?”

Alouette told her the Karl Mather story in her best woebegone voice. “But as I cannot locate him, I’ve decided it best to return to France.”

“Oh no,” Gerda replied. “You cannot give up so easily!” She broke open a roll and buttered it. “You know what you need?”

Alouette shook her head.

“A holiday! You must be so lonely here in Geneva, wandering about an unfamiliar city, searching in vain for your lover. Why don’t you come on a trip with me? Some friends have invited me to Zurich for the New Year.” She set the butter knife down and gave Alouette a searching look. “That is, if my company isn’t boring you.”

“Oh no,” Alouette dutifully replied. She watched as the older woman took a bite of bread. Gerda was obviously intelligent, and German. Perhaps these friends of hers would have some information that would be useful to Ladoux. At the very least, an impromptu holiday sounded better than returning to France a failure.

Alouette smiled. “That sounds lovely. When do we leave?”

Chapter 13

Marthe

December 1914

Christmas Day 1914 was bright but very cold. With the Oberarzt’s permission, Marthe decorated the bare hospital walls with green paper trees and gold crosses. Mass was offered in the largest ward, and voices from a boys’ choir echoed through the rooms filled with wounded men. The pleasantries of the carol singing were enhanced by the absence of cannon fire—Marthe overheard an orderly say that the soldiers in the trenches must have declared a temporary cease-fire.

The sound of artillery fire could be heard once again the morning after, however, dulled only by the whistle of a train as Marthe passed the station. She always took the same route to work, and, as her daily hours varied little, she noticed the same couldn’t be said about the trains, which arrived and departed at very irregular intervals. One was arriving now, puffing large clouds of black smoke as it pulled in carrying weary soldiers in rumpled uniforms and carts of ammunition from the German line.

Marthe watched the men hustle to unload an enormous gun. The thought occurred to her that an ordnance train such as this one would make a great target for the Allies. One of the soldiers gave her a strange look and she realized she had been caught staring. She hurried along, daring herself to not think such thoughts.

But what if? Marthe thought as she sat down to lunch. What if she could pass on the schedule of an ordnance train to Agent 63? Nonsense, she replied to herself as she chewed on a piece of stale bread. The ordnance train always came at random days and times and she had no way of predicting the arrival of one.

“Fräulein Cnockaert?” the Oberarzt approached her. “Will you be done with lunch soon? We need to send some of our men to another hospital, and I was hoping you would escort them to the train station.”

She couldn’t help her mouth from falling open. It was as if he’d just read her mind. The Oberarzt averted his eyes and she realized she’d just displayed the half-chewed contents of her lunch. She coughed. “Of course, Herr Oberarzt. I was just finishing.”

“Very well then,” he replied with his usual impersonal politeness. “We are not too busy today, so take your time.”

The day was sunny and unusually warm for December, and, after loading the men on the train, Marthe told the ambulance driver she’d prefer to walk back to the hospital. She thought perhaps she’d be able to pick up some information on the arrival of the next ordnance train.

He replied that he was going to the pub for a quick lunch. “Would you care to join me, fräulein?”

She shook her head, hoping he would blame her denial on her shyness.

He shrugged and headed off as Marthe turned back to the platform. There were no posted time tables anywhere at the depot, no signs, no coded numbers, nothing.

A short man came out of the small train station. From the way he paused to admire the shine of his new field boots in the sunlight, Marthe could only guess he hadn’t held his post for long.

“Ah, fräulein,” he said upon catching sight of her. “You are on nurse duty today?”

“Yes, mein herr.” She had never noticed the little man before and was surprised he recognized her. “I was just enjoying the beautiful weather today.”

“Me too,” he replied. “I am usually very busy, but thought I could spare a few minutes to speak with a lovely lady.” He peered up at her before digging a cigarette case out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?”

Marthe usually didn’t, but she suddenly had an idea. Perhaps, if she could maneuver her way into the inner station offices, she could get a hold of a schedule. “Not in the open, mein herr.”

“My name is Alfred Fischer.” He paused in fiddling with the case. “You will come back to my office for tea and a smoke?”

Marthe nodded her consent.

“This way, this way,” Fischer waved her on.

Marthe followed, determination outweighing any nervousness she might have about going to a strange man’s office. There was something endearing about the little man, however resolved she was in using him for information to supply to his enemy.

He escorted her through a large front room filled with close-shaven men answering phones and banging away on typewriters before ushering her into the inner office. The clamor from outside ceased mercifully when he shut the door.

“I am happy to finally have company,” he told her as he sat in his desk chair. “I’ve just recently lost my wife, and I’m lonely in Belgium.”

“I’m sorry,” Marthe told him, accepting the proffered cigarette.

“And you? I do not see a wedding ring.”

“I am not married.”

“Do you have a boyfriend? A soldier serving in the war?”

She shook her head. “No boyfriend. But my brother is a soldier. He was somewhere in Liege last I knew, but I have heard no more of him.”

The man’s pudgy hand closed around hers. “I am sorry. War is a terrible thing, but sometimes it is necessary.”

She agreed with him on only one of those assertions, but smiled at him anyway.

Just then the door opened, bringing in a gust of air and the commotion from the outer office. A soldier stuck his head in. “You are wanted on the telephone, Herr Fischer. Headquarters.”

“Will you wait here, fräulein?” Fischer’s pleading eyes appeared ready to pop out of his head. Marthe nodded demurely as he rose.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she leaned forward and gazed about his desk. There were papers everywhere, and a few that resembled a train log, but Marthe did not want to be caught reading them and kept her hands tightly clasped, her cigarette still burning in the ashtray.

Fischer returned a few minutes later, and Marthe stabbed her cigarette out. “I must be getting back to the hospital.” She stood up.

“I’d like to see you again. Would you mind?”

Marthe hesitated, thinking about how to once again demur, but then an idea popped into her head. “My job keeps me quite busy, as I’m sure yours does as well. It would be hard for us to find a time to get together.”

“Oh,” he said, reaching under a pile of papers to pull out a leather-bound book. “I’m sure we could find a day that could work for us both.” He flipped through the book. “Today is Monday…hmmm.” As he ran his pudgy finger down his datebook, Marthe had no trouble reading it upside down. An ordnance train was scheduled to arrive at 3 am this Wednesday.

Marthe looked away as the little man glanced up. “Would Friday afternoon work for you? I could get us a special pass to go to Ghent.” His eagerness reminded Marthe of a puppy.

“Friday will work just fine,” she assured him. “Goodbye, Herr Fischer, and thank you…” Her mind raced. She couldn’t thank him for revealing the schedule. “For the cigarette,” she quickly filled in.

“Any time, fräulein.”

Marthe felt not a little sad as she made her way back to the hospital. If her plan actually worked, there would be no more Fridays, or any days past Wednesday, for the little man.

She paused her steps as a ghastly terror overtook her. Could she really go through with it? She thought back to her childhood: she’d always been quiet little Marthe Cnockaert, going out of her way to please everyone. Max was the one who did what he desired without worrying how it would affect others. Her brother was so personable that people barely noticed how he manipulated them into doing exactly what he wanted. And, on the rare occasions when his victim figured out they’d been duped, he would bestow his customary grin on them, and they had no choice but to forgive him.

If those Germans so much as dare lay a hand on Max. She had a vision of many short men in shiny boots rushing forward with guns to harm her brother and his fellow soldiers. A grey tidal wave of destruction, like what she had witnessed from the window of her family’s home in Westrozebeke. At that, Marthe took a deep breath, knowing what she had to do.

Upon returning to the hospital, Marthe found a scrap of paper at the nurses’ station. She took a pencil and then went into the bathroom and wrote out what she had seen in Fischer’s diary before rolling up the paper and sliding it into her bun.

When she returned, the Oberarzt was rushing by. “Ah, Marthe, I’m glad you are finally back. We have an emergency surgery I will need you to assist with. An amputation.”

Marthe patted her head to make sure the message was secure in its hiding place. “Trench foot?”

The Oberarzt nodded. “Turned gangrenous. Are you ready?”

She followed him into the operating room. He threw back the sheet of the patient, revealing the man’s legs. The skin that was not red, raw, and covered with blisters had turned an unearthly black color. The Oberarzt began washing his hands as Marthe lined up the surgical instruments on a nearby tray.

She had witnessed several amputations in her short time at the hospital, but there was something about this one that made her sick to her stomach. Perhaps it was how young the soldier was, or the fact that his beardless face was handsome, or—most likely—the realization of what she was about to do regarding the train station was manifesting itself physically. Would she have to stand over surgeries of Fischer or anyone else if she succeeded in her mission to bomb the ordnance train? Would they die horrible, painful deaths because of her? How could she reconcile destroying lives as a spy with her duty to save lives as a nurse?

“Excuse me,” she croaked before grabbing a bedpan and retching into it.

The Oberarzt paused and looked up from the leg, scalpel in hand. “Fräulein Cnockaert, are you well?” he asked through his surgeon’s mask.

“I’m so sorry, mein herr. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s alright,” his muffled voice replied. “This is hard to handle even for a man. Can’t imagine how a woman could stomach it.” He resumed his cutting. “You go home and get some rest and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Herr Oberarzt,” Marthe said, leaving the room with the bedpan. She rinsed it thoroughly before she left.

It was already dark when Marthe set out for Agent 63’s. The veiled streetlamps threw a muddled gray light onto the pavement, only to be disturbed by distant flashes of light in the West. Véry shells, she thought before quickening her pace.

Everything was quiet as Marthe entered the alleyway. She passed the windows without counting and then tapped on the fifth. As before, the pane slid open noiselessly. Marthe pulled the paper from her hair and placed it into the white palm. The hand disappeared and the window was dark again.

She headed home, relieved that the responsibility was literally out of her hands and into Agent 63’s… and then hopefully the Allies.

As Marthe crept to the back door of the house, she was surprised to see the kitchen light on. Her heart dropped into her raw stomach as she saw a tall man in a German uniform standing under the dim porch light.

“Fräulein Cnockaert?” he asked.

As Marthe’s mouth had gone numb, she could only nod.

He opened the porch door. “Please come inside. There are some officers with questions for you.”

Two men in the uniforms of the military police were seated at the kitchen table. They rose as she entered.

“Please sit, fräulein,” one of them said, extending his hand toward an unoccupied chair.

As if a dream, Marthe sat. It was only her first true coup, and she had already been discovered before she had a chance to be successful.

The other policeman, a red-haired, stocky man, leaned forward. “What can you tell us of Lucelle Deldonck? I hear that she is of relation to you and that she was recently seen in Roulers.”

Marthe dug the nails of one hand into the sweaty palm of the other at the mention of her aunt’s name. She hadn’t seen her since the night at the farmhouse, but hopefully these men hadn’t learned anything of Aunt Lucelle’s business with the British Intelligence Service.

The red-haired man searched Marthe’s face. “Lucelle Deldonck?” he prompted.

She blinked rapidly.

The man from the porch had come in as well, and Marthe could feel three pairs of eyes boring into her. Speak. Say something! she urged herself. But still nothing would come from her mouth.

“There is no reason to be afraid, fräulein,” the other man said. “Just tell us what you know.”

Marthe met his gaze. His eyes were brown and drooped at the corners like a basset hound. And basset hounds really aren’t that scary, after all. She took a deep breath. “My aunt Lucelle disappeared when your soldiers raided Westrozebeke.” She let her voice raise in anguish. “Most of them were drunk that night. I wouldn’t be surprised if they shot her accidentally, or on purpose.”

The red-haired man took a cigarette out and lit it in the kitchen fire. “We heard she was in Roulers a month ago.”

“In fact,” the other man laid his forearms on the table, “we’ve heard she was in this very kitchen.”

“No,” Marthe replied. “I have not seen her since we left Westrozebeke.” She forced herself to look straight into the man’s face.

His arms dropped back to his side. “Very well then.” He nodded at the red-haired officer, who tossed his cigarette into the fire. “It is Lucelle Deldonck we want, not you. I have good information that places her here, but if you insist you have not seen her, I have no choice but to believe you. I hear you are doing excellent work at the hospital.” He nodded at his comrade before starting for the door. “However, if you are lying, I would hate to have to report you to the Town-Kommandant.”

“I assure you that I speak the truth, mein herr,” Marthe stated as she crossed her arms in front of her.

Each man gave a small bow as they walked out. Marthe stared out the window, making sure they had really left, before she went upstairs to her room. She fervently hoped that her lies would help Aunt Lucelle avoid detection by the suspicious Germans.

The interrogation in the kitchen almost made Marthe forget about her previous mission that night. As she laid in bed, she wondered if the Allies would receive the message in time. If so, and they decided to bomb the ordnance train, the whole town might be destroyed. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of explosions and amputees.

Chapter 14

Alouette

December 1914

Gerda’s friends turned out to be two German brothers, Otto and Charles. They were both handsome in the coolly-indifferent way that Alouette recognized as being inherently German. They greeted the women at the railway station, and when Alouette asked them to direct her to the nearest hotel, both men protested loudly.

“Any friend of Gerda’s is more than welcome to stay at our house. We have plenty of room,” Charles, the elder brother, stated. In contrast to his brother’s light hair and blue eyes, Charles had dark hair, with matching, soulful brown eyes.

“Thank you for the lovely offer, but I do not wish to intrude,” Alouette replied.

Gerda’s slim hand gripped Alouette’s. She gave the brothers a flirtatious smile before leading her aside. “Accept their invitation, my friend. They are sincere, and would be terribly hurt if you refused their offer of hospitality.” She narrowed her eyes, her tone challenging. “Or are you afraid?”

Alouette gave a nervous laugh. “Why should I be afraid?”

Gerda’s half-whispered reply almost sounded like a hiss. “Well, we are all German, and you are French.”

Alouette stuck out her chin. “If I were as tainted by narrow-minded nationalism as some of my compatriots, I wouldn’t have come here looking for my Swiss fiancé. I just don’t want to cause anyone inconvenience.”

“Nonsense, Alouette, you are not inconveniencing anyone.” Gerda led her back to the gentlemen. “My friend has decided to accept your offer,” she told them.

“Wonderful,” Otto declared.

They all piled into an enormous motor car. Gerda sat up front with Charles while Alouette got comfortable in the backseat beside Otto.

“What brings you to Switzerland?” he asked.

Once again, Alouette related the lost fiancé fable.

“That is so heroic of you, facing the perils of the mountains and the frontier of a foreign land in the middle of a war to find your lost love.”

Alouette realized that the Karl Mather storyline also provided her a convenient way to fend off any advances Otto might make, a likely possibility considering the way he was staring at her. “Yes, indeed.” She gave a deep sigh. “This will hopefully be a nice break from worrying about him all the time.”

Otto nodded as the car pulled up in front of a large, hammered-iron gate. A guard in uniform nodded at the car as he opened the gate. The long driveway eventually curved past an enormous snow-covered park to reveal a typical Swiss mansion with a grand turret peeking through a maze of tiled roofs and arched windows. The house was painted a friendly yellow, which was like a ray of sunshine over the white landscape and immediately appealed to Alouette.

As soon as she crossed over the threshold, however, the feeling that she had just entered a hot-bed of German spies washed over her. There was nothing tangible to indicate this, just a general notion that stemmed from the trio’s watchful eyes. It struck her that Gerda Nerbutt was testing her and Alouette made up her mind right then that she would pass any challenges the brothers and Gerda put forth to convince them to recruit her in whatever game they were playing.

After a five-course dinner, the foursome sat in the drawing room and chit-chatted. Her companions stuck to banal information: where each of them had grown up, where they had gone to school, their most and least favorite subject matter at said schools. The heavy food had caused Alouette to become sleepy, but she forced herself to remain alert and not give away too much information. However cautious she was, it seemed that whenever she spoke, her hosts would exchange knowing smiles with one another.

“Did you know that Gerda graduated from the University of Freiburg?” Otto asked.

“No,” Alouette replied. “I didn’t know such a prestigious school allowed women.”

“She was one of the few they let in,” Charles added. “She earned a doctorate in political science.”

“Congratulations,” Alouette tried to fake a bright tone. “Your line of study must have been fascinating.”

“Yes,” Gerda agreed before taking a long drag on a cigarette.

Alouette looked down. In another life, she supposed she and Gerda might indeed have been at least allies, having the ability to prove themselves as women in spheres normally reserved for men—Gerda’s at university and Alouette’s in aviation. However, the German woman’s dismissive tone, combined with their opposing allegiances, made it clear that the two would probably never truly be friends.

Alouette yawned. “I should be getting to bed. I’ve had a long day of traveling, and that wonderful food at dinner did me in.”

At this, Gerda exchanged a furtive glance with Charles. “Do you need me to walk you to your room?” he asked.

“No thank you, I’ll be quite all right.”

* * *

At breakfast a few days later, Charles leaned in toward Alouette. “I have news of your fiancé.”

Alouette, feeling both Charles and Gerda’s eyes on her, refrained from dropping her fork. “Karl? You have heard of him?” With great effort, she managed not to stumble over her words.

“Yes. Guess where he is.”

Her heart pounding, Alouette ventured, “Is he in Zurich?”

“No, he is at a hospital outside of Munich.”

She looked down and sniffled, doing her best to conjure up tears.

Gerda shifted in her seat with a derisive sneer on her face, obviously not fooled by Alouette’s crocodile tears.

“I must return to France immediately. It is clear that I have no business being here,” Alouette added for good measure.

Otto put his hands on her shoulders. “I can help you,” he whispered.

Alouette shook her body, giving the effect she was heaving with sobs. “What can you do? I cannot get to Germany to see him. I am French, remember?”

“Don’t despair,” Gerda’s tone was sympathetic, but Alouette detected a sinister note underneath it. “Otto here has a plan.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m just off to Munich myself. I will look up Karl and ask him to give me a letter for you.”

Alouette glanced at Gerda. She had never noticed how cruel Gerda’s eyes were. She had thought they were blue when they first met, but now they had become steely gray. “Why don’t you go with Otto, Alouette darling?” Her voice dropped on the word darling. “I’ll lend you my passport—Charles can substitute your photograph for mine. He’s very clever at that sort of thing, aren’t you Charles?”

“Oh yes,” he answered, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s quite easy.”

Alouette felt like a butterfly on whom the net was closing in. “I couldn’t possibly manage it—my French accent would surely give me away in Germany.”

“Oh bother,” Gerda dismissed Alouette’s misgivings with a wave of her bejeweled hand. “Otto will do all the talking for you. You won’t even have to open your mouth.”

“I’m not sure I’m willing to risk paying so dearly to see Karl.” Alouette tried to make light of the situation. “Imagine how awkward it would be for Otto if I were arrested and shot before a firing squad!”

Gerda narrowed her eyes as Otto burst into laughter. “Don’t worry about me—they would never dream of suspecting me of being a spy.”

Although they had not accused her of anything, Alouette was convinced they knew she was a spy for France and were trying to do exactly what she’d joked about—get her shot.

Gerda insisted Alouette was making a great mistake in throwing away the chance of accompanying Otto and seeing her fiancé.

Alouette was so preoccupied in her own thoughts that she only half heard her, but replied anyway. “Please don’t insist. I shall not go.”

“But why not, Alouette?” Gerda inquired, her eyebrows raised over those gray eyes. “There would be no danger involved whatsoever.”

Alouette thought fast, and began, in a halting tone, “If you must know, it’s because I do not have enough money for such a journey. I spent all of my savings just coming to Switzerland. If Karl had been in Geneva, he would have replenished my bank account, but as it is, I only have enough to return to France.” If they did suspect she was a French spy, she’d just admitted that she was low on money, daring them to recruit her to spy for Germany.

Charles smiled as though he thought Alouette was cracking another joke and then changed the subject, begging his brother to bring back samples of his favorite chocolates from his visit to their home country.

Later that afternoon, Alouette decided to take the house dog, Mina, for a walk in the park. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and it was the perfect excuse. Although the sun shone brightly, the weather was cool, and she quickened her stroll in an effort to keep warm.

She was still cursing herself for the Karl Mather story, never having figured he would have joined the German Army. What excuse did she have for staying in Switzerland now? And they had definitely not taken the bait she’d laid for them to recruit her as a German spy.

Alouette and Mina walked down through the thick trees at the back of the mansion. As they came to a clearing, she noticed a little wooden hut tucked underneath several pine trees. She started on the path toward it, but then Mina broke free and ran… straight to Charles who was just coming out of the hut.

“Oh, do you sleep here?” Alouette asked, rather stupidly she thought, since she knew perfectly well where Charles’ bedroom was.

“No. Our workshops and offices are here.”

“Workshops?” Her voice was tentative. She didn’t want to let on how curious she was. She realized that the subject of how Charles and Otto were able to afford such a lavish lifestyle had never come up. Some spy you are, Alouette chided herself.

“Come in,” Charles said. “I’ll show you around.” Inside the hut were two large desks upon which sat fat typewriters, with paper strewn all over the desks and floor beneath them. The wall behind the desks was covered with a large map studded with colored flags.

Charles waved at the map. “The green flags represent the German armies. The black show the Belgian positions while the red and blue flags represent the French and English positions, respectively.”

“What are these?” She pointed to a conglomeration of differently colored flags to the right side.

“Those are for Russia. Otto’s favorite pastime is moving the flags to keep up with the latest news from both fronts.”

He led Alouette closer, taking a green flag from the desk drawer and placing it in Germany, just a little east of Switzerland. “That’s where your boy is.”

Alouette ignored his comment. She started toward an open doorway in the back which led to a smaller room with no windows. “What is this?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Charles replied tersely, hurrying ahead of her to shut the door, but not before she spied a bunch of chemicals and large trays.

“Are you a photographer?” she asked, trying to cover up her nervousness at Charles’ abrupt change in manner.

“Yes.” He glanced down at Mina, who seemed as anxious to leave the little hut as he was. “I think the dog needs to make it.”

Alouette wanted to stay and find out what exactly Charles and Otto were up to, but she realized her curiosity had made her wear out her welcome. “C’mon Mina, let’s leave Charles to his work.”

At dinner that night, which was served earlier than usual, Gerda appeared as distracted as Alouette. Alouette was trying to come up with a plan to investigate what the little room in the hut was for while Charles and Otto were deep in conversation. She half-heartedly tried to follow, especially after she thought she heard the word for “develop,” but they were speaking Italian and she was unfamiliar with the language.

“Well,” Charles spoke at last in German. “It can only be done during the day. You must telephone the Schwartz Brothers that we expect them this evening. They can find me in the office.”

Gerda gave him a strange look before setting her fork down and turning to Alouette. “What will you do when you get back to France?”

“Probably take up nursing.” She wanted to add that she’d help the war effort however she could, but didn’t think her German dinner companions would appreciate her enthusiasm to aid the French army.

As they left dinner, Gerda said she had some letters to write in her room. Charles and Otto were obviously going to be meeting with the Schwartz Brothers, whoever they were. Alouette declared she was tired and would retire early.

When she got to her room, she chose the darkest dress she had, a dingy shade of gray, and a matching overcoat to protect her from the cold. She walked as quietly as she could through the forest to the hut. Heart pounding, she crouched in the darkness of a large tree. It was only a matter of minutes before she saw Charles and Otto exiting, accompanied by two short, heavy-set men. They paused in front of Alouette’s tree and she bent lower, trying to make herself nearly invisible despite the bare branches.

Otto’s voice rang out clearly as he spoke in German, “You must hurry up because she is leaving soon.”

She was sure they were talking about her.

Alouette had just changed into her nightdress when she heard a knock. With a heavy heart, she put on her dressing gown and then opened the door. She was not exactly surprised to see Otto standing in the hallway, but the look on his face plunged her into terror.

She forced the fear out of her voice. “What do you want with me?

Before he had time to reply, Gerda barged in. Behind her were the two heavy-set men from the hut. Alouette backed into the corner of the room.

“Do not be afraid,” Otto stated. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Yes?” She sat down in the corner chair, acting as nonchalantly as she could.

Gerda looked at her. If it were possible, her eyes were even colder than they had been at breakfast the other day. “Alouette, you came to Switzerland to spy for France.”

“We can prove it,” Otto added.

Alouette laughed, a hollow laugh, but she hoped her interrogators wouldn’t notice her lack of mirth. “I am very surprised to hear this. I have been living in this house for nearly a week. If I’ve overstayed my welcome, you could have simply said that. Although I intended on leaving tomorrow, I could go tonight.”

“We want to know why you came to Switzerland,” one of the unfamiliar men said.

“I’m getting tired of explaining my situation,” Alouette replied.

“Your story is a lie,” Otto said, his voice filled with an uncharacteristic rage. “Karl Mather is married and has two children. You couldn’t possibly have been engaged to him.”

Alouette could feel her face blush. “Gerda,” she turned to the woman she once thought of as a friend. “Gerda, haven’t I always stated that I haven’t received news from Karl for years?” She took a breath. “I went looking for him because I was tired of the war and wanted to get away from it. But what I would like to ask you is why you are demanding all of these explanations. Why do you need to know my personal business?” She cursed herself for that last statement: clearly it was because they were suspicious of her.

Otto got into her face. “You are a spy for France and you cannot deny it.”

“Fine, then I will leave.” All five pairs of eyes fixed themselves on her suitcase in the corner. It was open, and obvious to Alouette that someone had ransacked it earlier.

“You know what your fate will be in a neutral country if you are found guilty of espionage, don’t you?” Gerda asked. “You would be endangering Switzerland’s declaration of neutrality, and they won’t take kindly to that.”

“Dear Gerda,” She made her tone equally derisive. “If there are spies in Switzerland, you are on the wrong track if you suspect me.” Gerda’s expression did not change, so Alouette added, “At any rate, I presume they don’t condemn people in Switzerland without having proof.”

As calmly as possible, Gerda went to the suitcase and pulled out two envelopes that Alouette had never seen before.

“Can you explain these?” Gerda asked.

The two unfamiliar men, whom Alouette now assumed were policemen, followed Gerda’s movements with keen interest.

“What a dirty trick!” Alouette shouted. “You must have put those in earlier, when I was…”

“Spying,” Otto filled in.

Alouette grabbed the envelopes from Gerda. One had been addressed to the Hotel Blumenhaus in Geneva, postmarked from Germany. The other was purportedly from France and addressed to Alouette care of the mansion. She tore out this letter and gazed over it. The lines between the original words had been painted over with a glaze and showed a lightly stained code. She dropped the letter. “These are forgeries.”

Gerda narrowed her eyes, but Otto’s glance at the policemen revealed his concern they would believe Alouette. “You must go with these two gentlemen,” he stated tersely.

“I presume there is a French consul in this town. I will go to them in the morning. Kindly clear out of my room. Now,” Alouette emphasized.

One of the stock officers stepped forward. “Madame, he’s right. You must come with us.”

Alouette gave a deep sigh. “Do you mind if I change first?”

The man looked uncertainly at his companion, who conceded. The first man bowed, and then left, the other police officer following suit. Gerda planted her feet and crossed her arms, as if to say, you can’t make me leave, but Otto told her, “She’s in the hands of the police now. She can’t do any more harm.”

“How do we know she won’t escape through that window?” Gerda asked, nodding at it.

“She won’t. Come on.” He grabbed her by the elbow and practically pulled her out of the room.

Overcome by an inexplicably childish impulse, Alouette stuck out her tongue at the closed door. She dressed slowly, mulling over Gerda’s suggestion as she tied a scarf around her neck.

She walked to the window and pulled back the curtain to reveal a peaceful view of the countryside, the light of the moon outlining the roadway beyond the mansion. Her room was on the second floor, and she therefore risked breaking a leg, or both legs, if she jumped to the ground. Not to mention escaping would be a full admission of guilt. But then again, she was accused of spying in a neutral country, and even the flimsiest proof would land her in prison, not to be liberated until the war was over.

She sighed, deciding it would be better to face the charges brought against her rather than run from them. She emerged from her room to find the policemen waiting in the hall.

“Gentleman, I am ready,” Alouette told them.

It must have been around 9 pm, Alouette guessed as the police led her to a carriage in the driveway. They rode into town and parked in front of the police station. There was not a gleam of light in any of the shop windows facing the deserted streets. Only the footfalls of the three of them broke the silence of the night. Everything in the town appeared strange to her; if the Swiss police decided to throw her into prison, Alouette knew no one would ask any questions. She was absolutely alone.

One of the men opened the door to the station and gestured for her to enter first. As she stepped into the dimly lit room, another man who had been dozing in a corner woke up with a start. He sleepily led Alouette to yet another badly lit room, this one windowless with only a sorry-looking bed in the corner for furniture. She heaved her bag onto it with a sigh. Swiss jails were apparently no better than French ones.

The new policeman told her that the commissary had gone home for the night and she would need to spend the night in the lock-up.

Somehow Alouette managed to fall into a fitful sleep. She was determined not to despair, no matter how grim the situation seemed from a Swiss jail cell.

Based on the dim light in the hall outside, dawn had broken when the policeman from the previous night reappeared. “The chief wants to see you.”

Chapter 15

Marthe

December 1914

Marthe did not sleep any better in the days leading up to the bombing. She was especially restless Tuesday evening and, around 3 am, when the ordnance train was due to arrive, rose and went to the window.

She gasped as she saw a low light coming into town. The buzzing of an airplane followed, and she was filled with elation when she realized that the Allies were indeed going to bomb the ordnance train. The message had gotten through! A low, thunderous noise started, and her heart sank as she realized it was the sound of a German anti-aircraft gun.

She hurried to her mother’s bed and shook her awake. “The cellar, Mother. You must get underground!” Her mother rose sleepily and, without asking questions, allowed Marthe to lead her and the grocer’s family to the cellar.

Once she was sure her mother was secure, Marthe ran back upstairs and threw a cloak over her nightdress. Seized with a sudden need to make sure the train station was destroyed, she went outside through the back door and crouched underneath some shrubbery.

She tilted her head upward and, using the German searchlights combing the sky, tried to track the Allied planes. Marthe could only discern one single-engine plane.

One plane? It seemed ill-advised to send a solitary aircraft to face the onslaught of German guns. But the plane was holding its own among the clouds of shrapnel.

Then came a ghastly shriek, growing louder and louder until the earth shook. A yellow light flashed above the rooftops of her neighbors. The airplane was bombing the town. She closed her eyes and pictured the ordnance train—loaded with weapons of destruction meant to destroy the Allies—obliterated.

Thud after thud shook the ground beneath Marthe’s feet, but still she could see the long shadow of the train waiting at the station. The bombs missed their mark! Soon the spraying of machine guns started, the projectiles creating red and yellow stars against the gray smoke.

Marthe’s legs crumpled and she hit the mud hard as another explosion sounded. Covered in soot and evergreen needles, she rose unsteadily. The shingles from the house next door floated in the air as if they were dust being blown by unseen lips. The view toward the train depot was obscured by smoke, but she knew that last bomb had hit its target and once the smoke cleared, nothing more would be seen of the ordnance train.

Still, the rat-a-tat-tat of German machine guns filled the air, aiming for the Allied plane above. She heard screams and sobs from her neighbors, the sound of broken glass shattering as people ran from burning houses. Was this harrowing situation her fault? Would innocent bystanders, acquaintances or even friends, die because of the intelligence she passed on to the Allies? But it’s war, she reminded herself, clenching her hands. And the Germans have done far worse to many Belgian villages. That thought didn’t stop her from shivering uncontrollably, however.

Marthe considered going to the Grand Place to see if anyone needed help, but her feet seemed cemented to the ground. She raised her head again, only just able to catch a glimpse of the plane as it climbed higher, trying to reach the clouds and the safety they provided from the German guns. But then its tail caught fire, as if it were a dragon breathing from the wrong end.

The terrible burning grew brighter and brighter against the black sky. Marthe barely had time to register that the plane was falling before it crashed into the ground. The roar it made on impact reverberated through her entire body. She pictured the British aviators lying mutilated in a field, their khaki uniforms engulfed in flames, suffering a slow, agonizing death. In the morning, nothing would be left of the heroes but unrecognizable, charred remains. Once again, bile rose in her throat, and she leaned over to vomit in the nearest bush.

As she straightened, she saw that both the station and the ordnance train had indeed been demolished. The mission had succeeded, but at what cost? The machine guns were still rattling and smoke permeated the night air—there was nothing she could do until morning. She wiped off the bile residue with her sleeve and headed back into the house.

After escorting her mother back upstairs, Marthe sat in her bed wide awake, knowing as busy as the hospital would be tomorrow, she’d never be able to sleep. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were houses in flames, crashing airplanes, and mangled bodies. What new horrors would daylight bring? And what had become of poor little Fischer, the train station manager with the shiny boots?

She finally broke down in tears, crying for all that the world had lost since the war began.

Chapter 16

Alouette

January 1915

It took some convincing for the Swiss police to let Alouette go, but eventually she managed to prove the letters were fakes by pointing out that she’d only been at the mansion for a week, not nearly long enough to receive a piece of mail from France. Luckily the police commissary had an affinity for all things French and decided to allow her to return to her native land. Obviously Otto and Gerda had over-estimated Swiss sympathy for Germany when they attempted to arrange to have her sentenced without a trial.

The first place Alouette went when she reached Paris was to visit with “Monsieur Delorme.”

She barged into the parlor at 26 rue Jacob, intending to tell Ladoux just what she thought of his spying methods when he turned around, the same shrewd look on his face as before. “Madame Richer, I’ve arranged for you to travel to Spain.”

Alouette was too flabbergasted to form a coherent reply. “But Captain—”

“Immediately,” he continued.

She finally found her voice. “No. I don’t need a repeat of my failed mission in Switzerland. Clearly I’m not cut out for espionage.”

Ladoux shrugged his shoulders, as if he’d expected her to say as much.

Alouette’s curiosity got the best of her. “What did you have in mind?”

“What you ought to have succeeded in doing in Switzerland.” He sat down behind the desk and gestured to the chair in front of him.

Alouette crossed her arms, refusing the seat. “Spy on the Germans? But we both know that neutral Spain is cut off from the arena of war.”

“On the contrary,” he spoke quietly and Alouette had to lean in to hear him. “There is a great deal to be done in Spain. Many German officers have been stationed there, and your job will be to find out why.”

“If you’ll pardon me, Captain, I have been…”

He held up his hand. “Never mind all of that. You can make up for the missteps you took in Switzerland.”

Alouette pondered this sudden change in the Captain’s attitude. His manner had always been somewhat suspicious toward her, but now he seemed open, if not downright friendly.

She finally sat down to relate what had happened in Switzerland. As she began to describe Gerda, he interrupted her. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard of such a character. The blonde woman, your Gerda, is otherwise known as Elsa Shragmüller, a German spy. I suspect that ‘Otto’ and ‘Charles’ go by other names as well. It is also my suspicion that your friends were involved with illegal transmissions to and from Germany via Swiss wires. So you see, madame, your, as you called it, ‘failed mission’ was not such a failure after all.”

Alouette shook her head. “I do not speak any Spanish.”

“Well, if that’s how you feel,” Ladoux stood up. “I will have to find someone else.”

“Wait,” Alouette didn’t mean for the word to come out, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I can do it.”

He frowned as his eyes dragged down from her rumpled hat and travel-weary clothes to her dust-covered boots. The suspicion was back. Distrust must permeate every corner of the Secret Service, Alouette thought as Ladoux resumed his seat.

“It is my duty to warn you, Madame Richer,” his voice had taken on a harsh tone, “that if you happen to carry off any coup successfully for us, it will be impossible for you to give up working for us afterwards. If you deviate from your duty and allow them to bribe you with their gold, don’t forget the terrible fate that awaits you.”

Alouette laughed at the thought of accepting German gold. “I could only guess that fate would be a firing squad.”

He took no notice of Alouette’s flippant reply and fixed her with a grim look. “You are taking your life in your hands.”

Alouette’s smile faded. “Yes, Captain.”

“Have you any money?”

“No,” Alouette answered. She hadn’t been lying to the Germans about that point. “I shall write to my lawyer.”

Ladoux extracted his wallet and tossed eight hundred francs across the desk. “That’s all I have. Get the Germans to pay you. Our department is hard up for funds.”

Chapter 17

M’greet

January 1915

After approaching her old lover, Harry de Marguérie, on the Rue Boissière, M’greet convinced him to help her gather her things from Neuilly. Together they packed crate after crate of silverware, drapes, and furniture.

“I can’t believe this stuff is still here,” Harry stated as he tucked a fringed lampshade into one of the crates.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” M’greet asked.

He straightened and put his hand on his back. “We’re at war, remember? People are becoming desperate from starvation.”

“Starvation?”

“Maybe not in Neuilly or that pretty house you are building in the Hague, but in many other places. And a lot of them are freezing to death, not just the soldiers in the trenches. France’s coal supplies lie behind the German lines.”

M’greet picked up a fur stole. She hesitated for a second as Harry frowned at her, but then she resumed wrapping the fur in tissue paper before placing it in a crate. She knew him well enough to know he was thinking she should donate the stole to some poor cretin off the street. “Those Boches confiscated my full-length furs. I need something to keep me warm in the winter,” she said by way of explanation.

He unceremoniously dumped the last of M’greet’s things on top of the stole. “Are we quite done here?”

When M’greet nodded, Harry slid the lid over the crate and pounded it shut with a little more force than necessary.

“Care for a drink?” she asked when he stood up.

They walked down the block in silence. Harry seemed to be seething over something, but for the life of her, M’greet couldn’t figure out what. Once they reached a main intersection, Harry hailed a motor-car and instructed the driver to take them to La Mère Catherine.

“This is a Renault,” Harry remarked as the car pulled from the curb.

“Oh?” M’greet took out a compact from her purse and rearranged a few stray curls that had been ruffled by the January wind. At least Harry was speaking to her again.

“The kind of taxi that carried our boys off to fight the Germans?”

She snapped the compact shut. “Must we talk war?”

Harry, clearly lost in thought, ignored her and continued, “It was quite a sight to see all those soldiers in blue uniforms waiting for the bright red taxis. The army didn’t have enough transports to take them all to the front, so the taxi drivers volunteered. What remained of Paris had come out to see them off. When the line of cars circled the Arc de Triomphe the crowd was so loud in their shouting ‘Vive la France!,’ it was as if half the city hadn’t fled in terror the week before.”

“How very Parisian,” she murmured. He fell silent and M’greet stared out the window. Maybe Harry was right, she mused as they drove by a long line of people outside a bakery, trying to buy bread. They looked cold and haggard in their threadbare frocks. M’greet pulled her own expensive raccoon-trimmed coat tightly around her body. I hope that never happens to me.

Harry took M’greet’s arm as they arrived at the brasserie. He had quite a few people to greet before they took a seat at the bar.

“That’s my Harry, always knowing everyone.” M’greet commented as the bartender delivered their menus.

He shrugged. “I’m the second secretary to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. It’s part of my job.” He closed his menu and laid a hand on hers. “But I’m all yours now.”

M’greet beamed.

He ordered her a sherry and himself a bourbon. “Did you hear about the Christmas truce at the front?” he asked as the bartender moved down the bar to fill their order. “Apparently the Boches were the ones to start it: they approached our trenches unarmed, wishing our men a Fröhliche Weihnachten.”

“I don’t want to speak of the war anymore.” M’greet crossed her legs with a whisper of silk stockings. “I’ll speak of anything but war.”

Harry laughed. “All anyone ever talks about is war nowadays.”

“Not me. I’d rather hear about your travels since we last met.”

He took a long swig of bourbon. “Tokyo, Vienna, Burma, Lisbon. But nothing compares to Paris. Even during,” he coughed, “the war.”

“Oh, I agree that Paris is the most beautiful city in the world.” M’greet twirled her sherry glass. “I wish I could stay, but I’m only on a traveling visa. I’m supposed to return to the Hague next week.” She put a gloved hand on Harry’s arm. “I was hoping to go shopping on the rue de la Paix before I go back.”

She could feel his muscles stiffen. She was skilled enough in reading men’s emotions to retract her hand.

He took another drink before setting his glass down with a clang. “Is that all you can think about—shopping? Is that what you want from me, to pay for you again?”

M’greet could feel her face grow hot as the other patrons fell silent. “How dare you?” she hissed under her breath. “You were perfectly all right with the situation as it stood ten years ago.”

Harry’s face softened and his voice was lower as he replied, “You know, when I was in Java, the supposed place of your birth… I learned of something called karma. I take it you’ve heard of it?”

M’greet nodded, but Harry continued anyway. “It’s the principle that the actions you take in this life will determine your fate—whether you will be rewarded or punished—in your next life. I would have thought both of us would have changed in the past ten years, or at least once the war started. I came back to the Quai d’Orsay to volunteer my services.” He finished off the last dregs of bourbon. “Did you hear me, Marguérite? I’m not getting paid.” He swiveled his chair to meet her eyes. “If I can’t afford to keep you, will you stay?”

M’greet snatched her coat off the stool beside her. “If that’s who you think I am, then no, Harry, I won’t stay.” She marched to the door, expecting him to follow her, but when she glanced back, he was still seated at the bar.

Chapter 18

Marthe

January 1915

The days after the bombing were complete torture. Marthe’s nerves, shocked by all the chaos she had witnessed, made her jump at every little noise. The Oberarzt offered to give her a few days’ leave to recover, but to lie in bed alone, thinking about all the destruction she had caused was the last thing Marthe needed. In her nightmares, she walked along the ruined train station, the corpses of German soldiers and the British aviators staring up at her with glassy eyes. If she didn’t wake herself up in time, the dream would continue on with Fischer, the short man from the train station, grabbing at Marthe’s ankle, an endless stream of Why? coming from his blackened lips.

On the fourth day after the air raid, Marthe overheard the Oberarzt speaking to someone in his office. “How can we spare a doctor?” His normally calm voice held an uncharacteristic note of desperation. “Aufrecht and Nagle went to No. 8 hospital this morning, and Sudermann has come down with pneumonia. There is no one else.”

“Do you not have anyone else who could perform emergency procedures?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

Marthe stepped into the room under the guise of retrieving some medical supplies. This could be her chance to redeem herself.

“Marthe,” began the Oberarzt, but then he paused and waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

“Herr Oberarzt, did you need something?” Marthe’s voice was innocent, as if she hadn’t been listening in the doorway.

“We are in dire need of someone to work on the field at an advanced dressing station,” he replied.

Marthe knew that advanced dressing stations were located very close to the line so soldiers injured in the trenches could be evacuated to receive prompt treatment.

“You can’t mean…” the soldier who had been conversing with the Oberarzt stammered. “She’s a woman!”

“A woman with a vast amount of medical training,” Marthe put in. “I will go at once.”

“Field work is no joke, fräulein,” the soldier stated as he folded his arms across his chest. “You will be in constant danger.”

“I am fully aware of that, hauptmann.” She turned to the Oberarzt. “Give me a few minutes to gather some supplies and I will be ready to go.”

The Oberarzt bowed. “Thank you, Marthe.”

An hour later, Marthe found herself in a battered ambulance speeding down a gutted country road. The sound of gunshots grew closer, and she asked herself why she had volunteered to go any closer to the battlefield.

The ambulance shook as something thundered overhead “A welcome shell,” the driver said, attempting a friendly smile. He was a tall, thin man in a German military overcoat. “Don’t worry,” he continued upon seeing her frightened expression. “The Allies seem to be taking it easy this afternoon. Let’s hope for your sake they continue to do so, fräulein.”

“Marthe,” she corrected.

He took his eyes off the road again to glance at her. “Alphonse Martin.”

“Are you German?” Though he wore the same uniform and had the same close-cropped hair of many of the soldiers she had encountered, he somehow struck her as different. Maybe it was his amiable green eyes or the easy-going way he had mentioned the Allies.

“Sort of. Alsatian. My family has been in the same region for generations. They were French citizens until Germany took over Alsace during the Franco-Prussian war. I was conscripted by the Kaiser, but at least I was assigned to driving ambulances, not to die in the trenches like many of my brothers.”

Marthe gave him a sympathetic smile, thinking of her own brother. Had he too died in the trenches?

The ambulance splashed to a stop a few minutes later. Looking out the cracked window, Marthe saw a muddied sign stating “Advanced Dressing Station No. 3.”

“There is nothing here,” she said, looking out across the soggy, desolate field. Only a few blackened trees marked that this area had once been forested.

“Been bombed to bits,” Alphonse agreed. “The dressing station will offer some protection from the shelling. It’s over there.” Squinting her eyes at where he pointed, Marthe could see a circle of sandbags surrounding a hole in the ground near the side of the road.

She opened the door and stepped off the footboard into the mud.

“Good luck, Marthe.” Alphonse’s voice was muffled through the pounding rain. She watched as he yanked on the clutch and drove away.

She stifled the urge to run after him and headed toward the dugout.

A medical feldwebel was standing just inside the hole. “Fräulein?”

“I was sent by the hospital’s Oberarzt,” Marthe replied to his unasked question.

He frowned. “I suppose if the Herr Oberarzt recommends you, it must be because you do good work.” He started down the slippery stairs, which were nothing more than thin wood planks stuck into the mud. “This is one hell of a place. We do the best we can. Sometimes we work all night and day, but there’s been a lull up at the front lately.”

As Marthe descended, she was greeted with a putrid stench of blood mixed with perspiration. She refrained from holding her nose as she gazed around the spacious underground dressing station. Directly in front of her was a small table, wet with something shiny. A gefreiter was laying out dressings on the cleanest part of the table. His blood-stained apron looked as though he worked at a slaughterhouse instead of a makeshift hospital. He touched his cap to her, but the orderlies smoking cigarettes to Marthe’s right paid her no heed.

The feldwebel pulled a box out from under the table. “Have a seat, fräulein. All of that vibration from above means it’s about to get busier down here.” He offered her a tin of meat and called for an orderly to get her a cup of coffee.

Marthe glanced at the far corner of the room, where four corpses lay covered in coats. “I’m not all that hungry, but thank you.”

“Ah, but you better eat now to keep up your strength. You might not have time when the cases begin to arrive.”

The sound of voices and boots splashing in the mud above ground grew louder. The blood-stained gefreiter paused in his sorting and pulled at his long mustache. “Get moving lads,” he instructed the smoking orderlies. “They are coming.”

They threw their cigarettes on the ground and stamped on them before going to stand at the foot of the steps.

Two stretcher-bearers entered conveying a badly burned soldier. The feldwebel pointed to an empty bed and the stretcher-bearers deposited their burden before quickly heading back up.

Marthe rolled up her sleeves and went over to him. His face was black with a mixture of mud and blood and she dipped a cloth in water and began to wash his face. His lower arm had been shattered and the other was covered in burns. He reached out a hand that appeared as though it had been crisped in an oven to grab her arm. “Morphine, fräulein,” he managed to gasp out.

She gave the feldwebel an inquiring look. He freed her of the burned soldier’s grasp and pulled her aside. “We would have to have great tanks of morphine to supply the men who ask for it. But we have none.” He took a syringe out of his coat pocket and then retrieved a small bottle, turning so that the soldier, had he been coherent, could read the label. Morphium. After filling the syringe, the feldwebel injected the burned soldier, who soon stopped moaning and fell asleep.

“What’s in the bottle?” Marthe whispered.

“Water,” the feldwebel replied just as quietly.

The time passed quickly. Marthe kept so busy that she didn’t realize she’d been covered in mud and dust from the dugout. Wounded men trickled in all afternoon, battered men in tattered uniforms using their rifles as a makeshift crutch or clinging to their comrade’s arms. Overworked stretcher bearers carried in the wretched men who could not walk.

The shrieking of shells was occasionally accompanied by a rumbling in the ground, but most of the workers ignored the disturbances. One shell hit so close that dirt and stones from the dugout roof fell into some of the men’s open wounds. The feldwebel was quick to distribute his “morphine” after that incident.

At one point Marthe banged her head into the low ceiling and a splinter cut her forehead, but she was so intent on soothing the suffering of others she barely felt her own pain.

An ambulance arrived in the late afternoon to transport men to the main hospital. “Germans first,” the feldwebel commanded. The orderlies sorted the men and helped a few to walk up the steps before coming back down with stretchers.

“’Ere, you haven’t forgotten about me, have you?” Marthe turned to see a man with a bandage wrapped around his chest lying with his shoulders propped against the dugout walls. He was dressed in the khaki uniform of the British and winked at her before taking a cigarette from his pocket.

“Fräulein,” another soldier called.

“Yes, mein herr,” A German had appeared on the other side of the Englishman.

He held out his hand, which was misshapen and purple with bruises. “I’ve been waiting quite some time to have my hand wrapped.”

“‘E’ve all been waiting quite some time,” the Englishman said quietly.

“Yes, but you are the enemy and I am not,” the German replied. He took his gold cigarette case out of his pocket and flipped it open, only to find it empty.

The Englishman reached out to tap the German’s well-kept boot, who looked down with a sneer. The German drew back his boot and Marthe thought for an awful second that he intended to kick the man.

“’Ere,” the Englishman said, holding up his packet. “’Ave one of mine.”

“You swine,” the German replied. He raised his leg higher.

“Crikey,” the Englishman withdrew his packet. “Yer a real gentleman, aren’t you? Don’t suppose you mind if I have a smoke, do you?”

The German’s beady eyes narrowed even further. Marthe was about to offer to wrap his hand, if just to get him out of the way, when there was a commotion near the stairs.

A man stood at the entrance to the dugout shouting in pain. He appeared to be wearing a knee-length skirt, and Marthe first thought he’d lost his trousers, but then it occurred to her that it was her first sighting of a Highland soldier.

“Jesus Chrrist,” he said with a long rolling R, as he took in the scene of the wounded men and the scurrying medical staff.

“Hullo Scotty,” the Englishman called. “You ken take a seat over here. Ceiling’s leaking above so it’s made the ground nice and soft.”

The Scotsman grunted and Marthe grabbed a swath of bandages before following him. Although she spoke some English, she could not understand a word of what the Scotsman had to say in his rough, Northern dialect. Whatever it was, his tale seemed to fill him with great indignation.

The Englishman offered him one of his endless supplies of cigarettes. He listened to the Scotsman’s tirade, evidently understanding as he added an “Aye,” here and there when the Scotsman paused to draw a breath.

Marthe had just finished wrapping his foot when the feldwebel called to her. “Time to go home, Fräulein Cnockaert. You can go with them to the hospital when the next ambulance arrives.”

“Sir... mein herr,” the Englishman corrected himself. “This man needs to go too.” He nodded at the Scotsman, who had closed his eyes and was laying with his head against the dirt wall.

“Germans first,” the feldwebel returned.

Marthe found space for the Scotsman next to her and the ambulance driver, Alphonse, the same man who had driven her to the dugout. It had only been less than twelve hours, but it seemed like a lifetime.

“We’ve got to get going,” Alphonse said. “The Allies are putting stuff over tonight.”

Marthe looked up as she heard the telltale shrieking sound. The shell burst into flame a few hundred feet away, stirring up a mountain of dirt that soon dissipated into the twilight. She knew she should probably be scared, but she was too tired and hungry to register much more than that.

Alphonse put the ambulance in gear and began to drive off, the Scotsman grunting at every bump in the road. Suddenly a flame arose immediately in front of the ambulance. Time slowed to a crawl as the windshield burst into tiny fragments that sparkled in the firelight. Marthe hair rose upward, defying gravity, and she had the peculiar thought that she was flying. And then she felt nothing.

Chapter 19

M’greet

January 1915

After she’d fled from Harry at the bar, M’greet made her way back to the Grand Hotel. The night was frigid and she shivered uncontrollably as she exited the cab, either from the cold or latent anger at Henry. Or possibly both.

A tall man in an officer’s uniform stood at the front desk. He tipped his cap at M’greet as she entered the lobby. “Evening, madame.”

M’greet nodded back. Although his face was round and his hair graying, the body under the uniform appeared to be well-formed. She reached under her own coat and rubbed her arms, which at this point were covered in gooseflesh. She thought first of the women and children standing in the breadline, imagining many of them would either starve or freeze to death by the end of winter if something didn’t change soon. Her mind then traveled to Harry and his accusations of her being a fortune hunter. Forget Harry. She saddled up to the officer. “Are you checking in?”

“Indeed.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. “I’m filling out my foreign card, so they can make sure I’m not a spy.”

M’greet laughed. “Of course not. Anyone can see you are an officer of the…” she squinted as if to analyze his uniform, but in truth she never could discern between the different kits of the many countries at war.

He clicked his heels together. “Commandant of the Fourth Belgian Lancers, Division of the Cavalry of the Army of the Yser.”

“That’s quite a mouthful.”

He shot her a grin, and M’greet was pleased to see his face looked much finer when he smiled. “Also known as the Marquis Frederic de Beaufort. But you can call me Freddy.”

She met his smile with her own, carefully maneuvered to make her thin lips seem fuller, before she turned to the clerk. “I do believe the room next to my suite is empty, is it not?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Perhaps you can give him that one, then. The Marquis must be starving. If you would please send a tray of charcuterie to my room.”

The reasoning behind her suggestion was not lost on Freddy, who chuckled and then winked at the clerk. “Seems like my stay in Paris is going to be more delightful than I thought.”

The clerk kept his face neutral as he handed over the key.

M’greet winked at Freddy, who was waiting for a porter, before she started up the staircase.

When she had entertained strange men in Paris previously, she usually had her escort rent a room in what was known as a maison de rendezvous, particularly the one run by Mademoiselle Denart at 3 Rue Galilee. M’greet knew that, like at many high-class establishments, the Grand’s staff and fellow patrons would look down upon a strange man coming and going from a single woman’s room, but at the same time, the ruse of adjoining suites would at least be tolerated.

She was not surprised to hear a knock on the inner door a few minutes later. She had lit an electric Tiffany lamp to bathe a soft glow over the small table on which she’d set the tray of cold meats and cheese.

“I mightily appreciate your hospitality, Madame…” Freddy said as he arranged a cloth napkin on his lap.

“Zelle-MacLeod. But you can call me Mata Hari.”

Recognition flashed across his face. “I saw you dance once, here in Paris. With my,” he coughed. “Wife.”

M’greet sat down across from him and helped herself to a piece of cheese. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did.” Even in the dim light, M’greet could see his face redden. “Very much so.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes until Freddy set his napkin back on the table. “Do you mind if I ask… are you always so kind to officers on leave?”

She shrugged. “It’s how I contribute to the war effort.”

He tugged at his collar. “Again, I appreciate it, but…”

“How would you like to have a private dance from the famed Mata Hari?” She stood with her back facing him. “Unzip.”

Freddy began to pull down on the zipper. His fingers were unsteady at first, but became more certain as he finished the task. She let her dress fall to the floor and then turned around, knowing the shadows would hide her fuller belly and loose skin. She reached her arms above her head and began gyrating to a silent song only she could hear. Freddy’s eyes widened in appreciation and he watched her move, his mouth slightly open.

Chapter 20

Marthe

January 1915

Marthe awoke to something heavy on top of her, her nostrils stinging smoke, the words, “Jesus Chrrist,” being muttered over and over again in her ear. The Scotsman moved off of her, heaving in pain, before extending his heavy hand to Marthe and helping her out of the car. The exploding shell had caused the ambulance to tumble into a ditch, and she had to grab onto plant roots to get back to the road.

She examined herself with the help of the moonlight. Except for a few scrapes and bruises, she was surprisingly unscathed. She looked around, taking stock. The moon cast an eerie glow on the gaping holes in the dirt road. Alphonse was sprawled on the ground next to the largest one, and Marthe started toward him when he rose and dusted off his pants, his eyes wide. He gave her an all-clear sign before he limped in the direction of the ambulance.

She returned to help the Scotsman out of the ditch and into a sitting position beside the road before she and Alphonse began evacuating the stretchers from the ambulance. They groped into the dark interior and followed the sounds of the men’s moans before trying to extricate them from the ambulance as carefully as they could. Some passing soldiers were able to help her and Alphonse hoist the stretcher-bound men back up to the road. Miraculously, only one man was unresponsive.

Marthe was re-adjusting the bandages of a German whose fingers had been blown off in the trenches when Alphonse told her that she was bleeding. He picked up a clean rag and held it to her forearm. Both of the undersides of her arms were a maze of bright red scratches.

“You must have used them to shield your face from the windshield’s glass,” Alphonse said.

He was still picking glass out of her skin when another ambulance arrived. Marthe made sure that every patient had a spot before she climbed into the front seat. Alphonse waved them off, saying he’d walk back to the dugout and wait for another ambulance.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked from the open window.

“I’ll be fine.”

As the ambulance drove away, Marthe closed her eyes to the sight of shells streaking through the skies.

When she arrived at the hospital, she went to the civilian clinic to have her wounds properly looked after by the orderly on duty. She was so tired from her labors and emotion that she nearly fell asleep in the examining chair.

“You’re lucky to have walked away from that,” the orderly stated. “French shells are no joke.”

She watched as the orderly extracted yet another piece of glass from her arm and heard it clink in the metal tray beside her. I could have died. The thought seemed too far away to grasp right then, like a cloud floating amongst the stars. Or a French shell.

“Thank you, mein herr,” Marthe said, rising unsteadily to her feet.

“Get some rest tonight, fräulein,” he replied.

She was about to head for home when two stretcher-bearers rushed in with yet another wounded man. “Found him in a ditch, fräulein,” one of the helpers told her.

The words were a splash of frigid cold water onto her exhausted frame. “Oh no, was he one of ours?” She thought that she and Alphonse had checked the area thoroughly, but it was dark and there was so much confusion.

“I don’t think so. He was out on the street, and someone tried to cut his throat.”

“Send for the night surgeon,” she commanded as she approached the stretcher. The man was a ghostly white from loss of blood, and his clothes and sheets were stained dark red. Marthe moved back the collar of his uniform, trying to ascertain where the blood was stemming from. Something flashed in the dim light. Marthe exposed the underside of his lapel. Two safety-pins. But they ran straight, not diagonally.

She caught sight of a man standing in the corner. A military policeman, judging by his uniform. “Do you know who this man is?” she asked.

“That’s Schneider. He’s been on special assignment for several weeks now.”

She nodded, recalling the warning Herr Jacobs, the safety-pin man boarder, had given her about Vampires disguising as his kind. The night surgeon rushed in, accompanied by a few orderlies. Marthe left the hospital and walked out into the coolness of the night.

When she reached the house, she found that Herr Jacobs was still up. Although Aunt Lucelle had said he was there to do “Secret Service,” Marthe wasn’t sure what his exact role was, besides befriending the Germans. Tonight he sat in the kitchen reading with his boots propped up next to the stove. If he was surprised to see Marthe in such a disheveled state, he made no comment.

“A man with safety pins facing the wrong way was brought into the hospital just now,” she told him. “Someone tried to cut his throat.”

He pulled off a muddied, blood-spattered boot before asking in an expressionless tone, “Did he die?”

Chapter 21

M’greet

January 1915

M’greet had no notion that Freddy would become one of her habitual affairs, like Harry, van der Capellen, or the German Alfred Kiepert, but he was here, in Paris, and, unlike Harry, hadn’t shunned her. Not to mention he was a marquis. He took her shopping on the rue de la Paix and they dined at fine restaurants, especially at the swank Pavillon d'Armenonville.

She could have stayed in Paris indefinitely, but knew she had to return to the Hague to supervise her house renovations. She planned her return trip for the same day that Freddy had to leave for the Front.

“Will you write to me?” he asked as they lay in bed the morning of their departure.

“Of course.”

He sat up. “Good. All soldiers need a distraction from the monotony of the trenches, but my wife refuses to be in contact with me. She accused me of cheating long before I actually committed the act of being unfaithful.”

“I’m sorry.” M’greet lit a cigarette. “Wives should be more understanding when their husbands are away at war.” She took a puff. “Or just in general.”

Freddy laughed. “If only all wives could be more like you.” His face fell. “Will you be all right in your travels? I would hate for the French police to treat you like the English did.”

“And the Germans.” She flicked ash into the bedside tray. “But don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

She gave Freddy the goodbye he thought he deserved, even conjuring up some fake tears for good measure. When he finally left, she shut the door and leaned against it, thinking that faking affection for someone took more of a toll on her than actually feeling. The door vibrated under her back as someone knocked.

“Did you forget something?” she asked, flinging the door open. But the man who stood on the other side wasn’t Freddy. It was Harry.

“I heard you were leaving,” he said, stalking into the room.

“Oh? And who gave you such information?”

“The desk clerk. I asked him to let me know when you set a check-out date.”

“Why?”

He gazed down at the floor. “I wanted to say goodbye. And apologize.” He met her eyes. “Next time you return to Paris, be sure to contact me. No questions asked.”

“You didn’t ask any questions this time. You just made accusations.”

“No accusations then.” He sat down at the table, pushing Freddy’s breakfast plate away. “I get it that you don’t want to talk about the war. It’s kind of nice, taking a break from the ever-present troop discussions, the analysis of how the Allies are doing compared to the Germans.” He looked up, his eyes as sorrowful as his voice. “I’m sorry I ever tried to encourage you to be someone you’re not.”

M’greet wasn’t expecting that response from Harry. She put a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Next time, I come to Paris, I promise I will call on you.”

He eyed the myriad of trunks sprawled on the floor and the clothes and jewelry still covering almost every inch of the room. “Do you need help packing?”

Harry drove her to the train station to see her off. He gave her a long hug and then whispered, “Be safe,” before he kissed her lips. As she mounted the steps, M’greet gave him one last wave, shedding a real tear this time.

Her ship was scheduled to leave from Vigo, Spain. While in town, she purchased a postcard of herself in her dancing days at a shop and addressed it to Harry de Marguérie, writing on the back, “The famed daughter of a British lord and an Indian princess wishes you well. Yours always, Marguérite.”

Chapter 22

Alouette

February 1915

San Sebastian, Spain was pleasantly balmy, especially after wintry Switzerland. If the Swiss were somewhat unknowledgeable of the war, the people of San Sebastian appeared downright oblivious to it.

But appearances could be deceiving, and after spending a few days wandering shops and beaches and overhearing a myriad of different languages, Alouette discerned that a host of foreigners had found solace from Central Europe’s storm in the popular resort town.

She had booked a room at the Hotel Continental, yet she was unable to fully engage the fashionable crowd that flowed through its lobby. She didn’t speak a word of Spanish, and her widow’s dress and veil did her no favors. She thought appearing as a bored young widow desiring nothing but a good time away from the war zone would be a brilliant disguise, but all that black among the bird-of-paradise frocks the other women wore just caused people to shy away from her.

If only she had her airplane, or even her car! The nouveau riche were alike everywhere, she mused. They honed in on the gilt of the frame and paid no attention to the state of the picture beneath it.

Unused to being ignored, especially by the male population, she tried to compensate by buying new dresses, but nothing worked. Before long, Alouette’s funds were running out and she was no closer to infiltrating any espionage rings. Ladoux had made it clear that his department was short on cash, and she would not be able to contact her lawyer to wire her money while on a secret mission in Spain.

She had just about given up and was considering crawling back to Ladoux when she passed by the casino off the lobby of her hotel and an idea occurred to her. The casino seemed the perfect locale for luring her fellow hotel patrons into conversation while at the same time, possibly winning some much-needed cash.

Alouette spent a considerable time getting ready that evening, dressing in one of her fanciest dresses, dark purple with a tight-fitting corset and silk skirt. But her reputation must have preceded her because the first man she passed as she entered the casino called out, “Look, it’s the merry war-widow. She must be over her mourning.”

She knew the man was a wealthy ne’er-do-well who had paid someone to take his place in the French Army. She choked down the impulse to box him in his deserter ears and joined a group of men in boiled shirts gathered around a roulette table.

An exceedingly tall man in a dinner jacket fixed a pair of gray eyes on her. There was something about the firm set of his lips and stern expression that hinted he was one of the German officers Ladoux had referred to. She looked down at the table and stated with more confidence than she felt, “500 pesetas on red.”

The uniformed croupier spun the roulette wheel and Alouette watched the ball fall. “Red fourteen,” the croupier declared.

“An excellent play,” the man across from her said in German, confirming that her instincts had been correct.

Alouette shot him a distracted smile and put her winnings on red again. The German echoed her movements. After she’d won once again, she pocketed the money and excused herself for some fresh air.

As soon as she stepped onto the balcony, she heard footfalls on the tile. A man coughed and she glanced over her shoulder to see the German behind her.

“Fräulein, I...”

It was all Alouette could do to keep from stamping her feet as the big, timid German stammered something. She decided to not let on that she spoke German. “Excusez-moi?”

He switched to a halting French. “You were much in luck this evening.”

“I always bet on red.”

His grip around the balcony railing relaxed. “The color of passion.”

The color of the blood shed by my French brothers from your black German machines. Alouette didn’t know if his shyness was natural, or a cover for something more sinister. She blinked rapidly as she thought of a reply. If he was a spy, how could she hook him into recruiting her?

Although this time it was no fib, she decided to once again divulge her financial needs to a Hun. “It is a good thing I won tonight, since I can now almost pay my hotel bill.”

His cheeks, illuminated from the streetlight below, flushed bright red. She supposed she crossed some unwritten rule that German men should not offer loans to French women. Nonetheless, she stuck out her hand. “Alouette Richer.”

“Walter Halphan.”

“You are German?” She placed a gloved hand over her chest as if she were surprised.

“Ja.”

Perhaps it was the fact that they were on different sides of the war—or maybe because it was the first time since Switzerland that she felt she had the upper hand—something in her wanted to embarrass him. Using her native language, she stated, “And here you are in Spain, obviously a strapping young German, taking it easy while your fellow countrymen are shedding their blood to defend—”

“I would have preferred to go back to my country when the war started.” Although he had interrupted her, his tone was not angry, but deferential, almost apologetic. “But I was too late and they interned me at Pamplona. That’s where all Germans not in diplomatic service were sequestered.”

Alouette, now feeling a touch of guilt for her outburst, gave a conceding nod.

Encouraged by her obvious change of heart, Walter asked if she would have breakfast with him tomorrow morning.

She nodded once again.

He reached for her hand with his mammoth one and laid his lips upon it. “Good night, fräulein.”

The next morning, Walter took Alouette in his car to Saldivar, a little town on the road to Bilbao famous for its hot springs. Luckily the open-air car made conversation nearly impossible. When they arrived, he opened her door and helped her out. He attempted to keep her hand in his as they walked into the restaurant, but she squeezed it once before dropping it.

Once seated, they ordered coffee and then sat in silence for a few minutes. Walter’s awkward chivalry caused Alouette to doubt he was involved in any sort of enemy espionage. Still, stranded in a strange town with nothing else to converse about, she decided to once again extend the bait. “I am leaving for Paris in a few days.”

“Why are you leaving so soon?”

“I told you, I have no money.”

“But you won quite a bit at the roulette table last night.”

The waitress arrived with their coffee, toast, and a dish of creamy butter. The best thing about Spain was the lack of rationing. Alouette kept Walter waiting for her reply while she spread butter over the bread with gusto. “I didn’t win too much,” she said finally. “Just enough to cover my hotel bill and pay off some of the debts I’ve incurred here.”

This statement was met by yet another uncomfortable silence. Alouette took a bite of toast, ruminating as she chewed that she made a faux pas by mentioning needing money to the German. The pensive look on Walter’s face was probably a result of him trying to figure out how to change the subject.

She did him the favor. “Do you know many other Germans in San Sebastian?”

He took a sip of coffee. “A few.”

“Have you met with any of them often?”

“Not really.”

The rest of the breakfast continued in a similar way, with Alouette trying to pry into Walter’s background without being overly obvious. His replies were vague, either out of caution or because he had no information of any pertinence whatsoever. Either way, she soon became bored.

As if desperate to fill the silence, Walter launched into a description of Madrid, where he had been conducting business when the war broke out. He maintained his idle prattle as they left the restaurant. Alouette had given up her attempts to get Walter to recruit her as an agent: it was obvious he was as honest as he looked.

As they made their way back to the car, he put his hand on her back and steered her off the sidewalk. She was about to protest when he muttered under his breath, “I don’t want to greet this fellow walking toward us. He might prove a nuisance to you.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice also low.

“He is a spy.”

“Oh.” She tried to keep her voice neutral while her innards jumped for joy.

Walter pretended to be engrossed in the store window in front of them, but Alouette made eye contact with the approaching man. He smiled at her before catching sight of Walter. “Herr Halphan! Fancy meeting you here.”

Walter extended his hand with a slight hesitation. The tall, slim man shook it before his eyes traveled up and down Alouette’s form. “Who is the lady?” he asked Walter in German.

Walter, ever the gentleman, answered in French. “She has come to Spain to win a fortune at the casino. From Paris,” he added.

“Yes, and who failed to do so,” Alouette said with a laugh. “And that’s why I’m headed back to Paris quite soon.”

The man cocked his eyebrow at Walter. He switched to French to ask, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Walter planted his feet and gestured to Alouette. “Madame Richer, this is Monsieur Stephan Kraut, a naval officer.”

Kraut bowed. “What hotel are you staying in, madame?”

“The Continental.”

His bushy eyebrow inched its way even more toward his hairline. “The Continental?”

She knew this time the bait had found a fish, and hooked a German naval officer at that. She glanced down at the ground, eyelashes fluttering. “I came to Spain hoping to find a rich husband. In France, there are none left.” She glanced up. “But the men here are no good: half of them are deserters and the others desire only to have women as lovers.” She emphasized the last word, her tongue caressing her teeth as she formed the l. “You aren’t like that, are you Herr Kraut?”

Walter’s face grew dark with anger. If looks could kill, Walter’s visage would have been even more dangerous than his countrymen’s Big Bertha howitzers.

“No,” Kraut replied, taking Alouette’s arm. “I am in the manufacturing business.”

Walter coughed behind them.

“Oh, you must teach me your trade!” She made her voice sickeningly sweet. “I see everybody around me getting rich, while I fall further in debt.” She fell into step with Kraut, who had begun strolling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“They are profiteering off the war. Would you stoop so low to make money at the expense of others?” Kraut asked.

“Never,” Walter commented from behind them.

Alouette, pretending to be deep in thought, stopped walking, “I would indeed. This war is a silly, needless display of power. It’s as if Germany, and France, and all those other countries, are boys on a playground, fighting over possession of some ball.”

Kraut nodded. “And by now, everyone has forgotten to whom that ball belonged in the first place.”

She gave him a meaningful glance and dropped her tone. “If it’s just a silly ball they’re after, why not try to sell them a new one?”

“Exactly.” He met her smile with an oily one of his own, and Alouette knew she had won the round.

Walter’s voice broke their tête-à-tête. “Fräulein Richer, are you quite ready to go?”

“So soon?” Kraut’s face fell. “I was hoping to have lunch, and perhaps fill this lovely woman in on a business proposition I have.”

“Lunch? We just finished breakfast,” Walter replied.

“You are her escort?” Kraut looked from him to Alouette. She suddenly understood that Kraut would not speak of anything confidential in the presence of his large countryman.

“Actually, I am her d—” Walter began, but Alouette interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “I don’t need an escort. I plan on doing some shopping while I’m here, and then take the train back to San Sebastian. Alone,” she emphasized.

Walter blinked several times before turning abruptly on his heel and heading back to his car.

“The train arrives at San Sebastian in late afternoon,” Kraut said after Walter was out of earshot. “Perhaps I can interest you in an early dinner? I know of a great place near the Continental where we can discuss that,” he cracked the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb, “business arrangement I mentioned earlier.”

She hoped her instincts had been correct and he was not referring to anything more nefarious than espionage. “Of course.”

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but the staff seemed different when she returned to the hotel later that afternoon. The clerk, who had once been quite inattentive to her, came immediately out of the office, as if he had been just inside the door, waiting for Alouette to ring the desk bell. “Yes, señorita?”

“I’m meeting someone tonight at the El Torreón restaurant.” She stumbled over the foreign words.

“Ah, yes.” He pointed to a spot on the map behind the desk. “It is atop Monte Igueldo.”

“On top of a mountain?” Kraut was definitely proposing to recruit her for something—hopefully as a spy and not a courtesan.

“Yes,” the clerk ran his hand down a diagonal line on the map. “You will need to take the funicular railway to the top.”

“How long will that take?”

“Less than an hour, but you should go soon if you don’t want to be late.”

Alouette nodded. She was already out of the hotel before it occurred to her that she never told the clerk what time she would be meeting Kraut.

She was still reflecting upon this fact as she boarded the Igueldo funicular, a train car that rode along a wooden track from the lower slope of the mountain to the summit. There was only one other passenger, an elderly man in a worn coat, who asked her something in Spanish.

Anxious to be left with her thoughts, Alouette shrugged her shoulders.

He tried again, this time in French. “Are you going to the fairgrounds?”

She shook her head, but he continued anyway, “They have a roller coaster. I hear you young people like such things. Personally, I don’t trust these new innovations.”

She gave him a tight smile and then fixed her gaze on the view outside. The green forests at the base of the mountain were giving way to the amazing panoramic view that was to be expected from one of the highest points in San Sebastian. La Concha Bay, and beyond it, the Cantabrian Sea, sparkled like vast sapphires. Tiny boats bobbed peacefully in the current, and Alouette wondered if anything as malevolent lurked underneath them. Kraut was a naval officer, but what was a naval officer doing in a neutral country during wartime?

“Tell me,” she addressed the old man. “Have you ever seen any German submarines in these waters? I’m on holiday and am hoping to see one.”

Something changed in the man’s eyes as the train jerked to a stop. “Such talk could cause you to end up like that woman yesterday, fished out of the harbor with a dagger stuck in her back.” He pulled open the door of the car. “Better to ask your officer friend,” he said, nodding toward Kraut, who stood waiting a few feet away.

Kraut greeted her with an unexpected casualness. “Good evening, mein fräulein.”

She was still reeling from the old man’s words, but pasted a smile across her face. “Good evening, Herr Kraut.”

He took her elbow. “I think you will quite enjoy this restaurant.” He maintained his easy gait as they were shown to their table in the corner, a view of the bay on one side and the mountains on the other.

“You speak French quite well,” Alouette commented as she arranged her napkin on her lap.

“I lived in Paris before the war.” He took a sip of water, his eyes following their waitress as she retreated. He swallowed audibly before setting his glass down with a clunk. “I am to understand that you are in need of money, fräulein. Is that right?”

“Yes.” She was taken aback at how quickly Kraut got to the point.

“And you know why I arranged for this dinner?”

“Yes,” Alouette repeated, crossing her fingers underneath the tablecloth. “I have an idea of what you want me to do.”

“And are you willing to undertake it?”

She picked up her fork and examined it, wondering how not to lose the upper-hand like in Switzerland. Kraut appeared to be a man she could handle, if only there didn’t lurk a Gerda somewhere holding the puppet strings. She wanted to show him she’d be worthy of any offer the Germans made. “Am I to understand that you are the chief of your business?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “My superior is out of Madrid. But if I were to write to him, even with a telegram, you’d have to wait at least a day for a reply. I am authorized to make arrangements for new recruits.”

She wiped a smudge from her fork with the napkin. She could hear Ladoux’s voice, urging her to get the Germans to pay. “My case is not an ordinary one. The information which I am in a position to give you is exclusive. I am an airwoman and, as such, have access to all Air Force documents.” This was, of course, not true, but Kraut didn’t know that. “It is impossible for you to pay me sufficient money in return for those services.”

“I knew you were an airwoman, even before I caught sight of your probing blue eyes. You are very astute, and the fact that you have no particular loyalties to any country makes your potential all the greater. If you come through for us, I would be able to put a fortune at your feet.”

His voice was as slippery as the oil Alouette dipped her bread in, but at least her plan seemed to be working. “Are you so very rich?”

Kraut looked up as the waitress poured the wine. He waited until she had finished filling his glass and once again left before he replied, “Personally, no. But Germany gives magnificent rewards to those who serve her.”

“Serve her how? They won’t allow women to fight in the trenches and my plane has been confiscated.”

“Oh, come now.” His tone became harsh. “You are too intelligent to misunderstand my meaning.”

Alouette swirled her wine before sniffing it, the way her deceased husband had taught her. Stalling for time in order to steel her nerves, similar to how she once checked each instrument several times before starting her plane. She took a long sip and then set the glass back down. “And you are too much of a fool for me to continue this conversation.”

He leaned forward as Alouette continued, “My dear Kraut, you are not much of a recruiting agent if you think a woman such as myself might have misunderstood what your business proposal was. There is no mistake about the goods you manufacture: you are supplying German submarines.”

He gritted his teeth. “So we can indeed talk plainly. You know the end of the road I am proposing to you.”

“The execution post at Vincennes.”

“I am speaking about a stack of money larger than what is in the Bank of France’s coffers.”

“And I am speaking about being hanged for espionage.” Alouette took another drink of the blood-red wine. Now she sounded like she was refusing his offer. She wiped her mouth with her napkin as she mentally switched gears. “But I do love money and want to earn it quickly. More than what you can offer me in your subordinate capacity.”

“I only have one chief after the Emperor.”

“If I am to risk my neck for said Emperor, and that of your employer, while they stay more than arm’s distance away from the trenches, the risk is worth at least a discussion between the two parties concerned.”

Kraut opened his mouth, but Alouette, in a rush of brazenness, continued, “And by that I mean myself and your chief, and nobody but your chief. Take it or leave it.”

He heaved a deep sigh. “I would have liked to have been your handler myself. But you are right in your summary—your circumstances are indeed unique. I will write to my chief. I will leave a message at your hotel when I hear back.”

As Alouette left the restaurant, twilight began to envelop the mountain, the remains of the sun turning the horizon crimson. Now the bay resembled a crown set with jewels.

The train was crowded with families leaving the fairground, but she didn’t mind. All she could focus on was the words she would write to Ladoux, boasting of her success tonight in infiltrating a German spy ring.

A soothing evening breeze blew in from the sea as she left the funicular station and strolled back to her hotel.

Walter had been keeping sentinel outside. Upon seeing her, he moved forward. “Fräulein, will you—”

“I’m sorry, but something quite unexpected has come up.”

Walter flushed. “Does this have anything to do with Herr Kraut?”

“Perhaps,” Alouette called over her shoulder as she went into the lobby.

Chapter 23

Marthe

February 1915

The Englishman with the ready cigarettes and the nearly-unintelligible Highlander were installed in a small room at the hospital and assigned to Marthe’s care. The Englishman, whose name was Jimmy, had two broken legs. He had been standing behind an ammunition wagon when a shell burst a few meters away and the horses in front of the wagon began galloping away. He’d caught hold of them, determined as he was to get away from the shells, but in the process both of his legs were shattered.

The Oberarzt set his legs a few days after he’d arrived, and Marthe was in the room when he awoke from the chloroform.

“I didn’t cry like a baby, did I?” he asked her, genuine worry on his face.

She shook her head.

“Good.”

He sat up suddenly, grabbed the chamber pot at the foot of his bed, and dry-heaved into it. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking decidedly green. “I should be out there, at the front, working beside my boys, but ‘ere I am, with these useless old things.” He gestured toward his bandage-covered legs.

“What was it like being in the trenches?” Marthe asked as she dipped a cloth into a bowl and handed it to him.

Jimmy wiped his mouth as he thought. “Beastly, miss. Just plain beastly. Sometimes there are men whom you’ve gotten to know very well, and they are wounded, and you can’t get to them for fear the Germans will send another shell over. And those boys whom you know—the ones you were not able to save—die of starvation right before your very eyes.”

She hadn’t expected such an honest answer. She glanced around to be sure there was no one else around before leaning forward. “And the war? Do you think the Allies are going to win?”

“‘E’re an obstinate lot—the British never know when they’ve been defeated.”

“But…”

“Just you wait, miss. I’ll bring you the Kaiser’s head on a silver platter yet.”

Both Jimmy and the Scotsman, whose name was Arthur, healed without much trouble, and the time came and went when they should have been evacuated. But still they lingered, and though both remained as cheerful as ever, Marthe could tell by their attitudes that they were growing troubled.

“Good morn’, Miss Cnockaert,” Jimmy greeted her one morning. “What have you brought me today for breakfast? Sausages, eggs, kippers, coffee?”

She set the tray down next to him and he eyed the goods: minced beef from a tin can and hardtack. “Only bully and a biscuit, eh? Well, never mind, never mind.”

Arthur had been humming a tune under his breath, but paused to ask, “We’re to be prisoners of war, aren’t we, miss?”

Marthe, who was now able to understand most of what Arthur said, frowned. Nicholas Hoot had once been in that same bed, and then disappeared one evening. He was probably still a German hostage, if he hadn’t been shot. “I don’t know.”

As she was leaving that evening, she caught sight of old Pierre shoveling snow in the courtyard. Before the war, Pierre had been a thief and a scoundrel, but now he was one of several civilian workers employed by the hospital. He paused in his shoveling to tip his cap at her. “Evening.”

Marthe nodded at him, watching as he reached under his jacket. For a moment, she thought he might show her safety pins, but he pulled out a cigarette case instead, and she hurried home, away from the cold.

She had been living on edge ever since the murder of the false safety-pin man the night the ambulance had tipped over. She had a feeling that Herr Jacobs had something to do with the murder, but of course he never discussed it. It should have reassured her that people in the espionage network were looking out for traitors, but to her it was just a reminder of how easily such work could go foul.

She was therefore startled to hear knocking on the kitchen window after she’d heated a pot of soup on the stove. The man standing outside had a hat pulled down low over his gaunt face, but there was no disguising his identity.

“Father!” she exclaimed before hugging him tightly. When they broke their embrace, she ushered him inside. “Mother, come see!” she called upstairs. “Father’s back!”

Marthe’s mother rushed down the stairs. “Is it true?” She let out an excited cry as she caught sight of her husband sitting at the table. “Felix! Oh thank God you’re alive.”

Mother clutched him to her as if she never wanted to let him go, and Marthe encircled her arms around both of them, all three weeping with joy. When they’d finally had their fill, Mother sat down next to Father, grasping his hand while Marthe prepared tea and Father told them what happened to him. “I was taken in by a kind farmer in his house on the road to Ypres. He has a brother who lives in Roulers and was finally able to answer my inquiry as to your fates. I came as soon as I heard.”

“And you weren’t hurt?” Mother asked.

Father shook his head. “Germans are the same everywhere, but I kept my nose down and cooperated with them as best I could. They took all of the harvest for their army, leaving many of the townspeople starving.”

“Not much different from here, then,” Mother remarked.

“No.” He took a sip of tea. “The brother of the farmer owns the Café Carillon in Roulers.”

“I know it,” Marthe said. “It’s the little yellow brick building in front of the church by the Grand Place.”

“Yes. It was recently struck by a bomb,” Father replied. “Though it did minimal damage, the brother is taking his family further away from the front. He offered the café title to me.” He bestowed a weary grin on his wife and daughter. “Don’t you see, my lovelies? We can be together again under one roof, and this will provide us with a modest income.”

“And Max? Have you heard anything?” Mother asked.

Father frowned before he shook his head.

After thanking the grocer and his wife profusely for their kindness in providing them shelter all those months, Marthe’s family moved into the space above the café.

As their new business was adjacent to the Grand Place, it was usually not in want of customers, including German soldiers. Marthe had heard stories of the capture of “café girls,” tortured by the Huns for trying to make men talk. But it seemed all too easy to overhear the soldiers’ gossip, Marthe realized as she waited tables after a long day of nursing. She didn’t want to appear overly friendly to the soldiers so as not to alienate the Belgian patrons. Not to mention it might attract the soldiers’ suspicions.

She convinced Father to open the upstairs room, usually reserved for private parties, to double as a soldiers’ lounge. One evening, when Marthe came home from the hospital, the smell of cigarette smoke and the chatter greeting her even before she walked into the café, Mother approached her, an anxious look on her face.

“There are some German officers in the lounge who have announced their intention to billet with us.”

Marthe sighed. They’d just been reunited with Father, and now this? She walked upstairs with a heavy heart. Three officers were seated at the center table, their duffel bags scattered on the floor between them. A man in a disheveled tunic, his hauptmann’s jacket draped over the chair, sat smoking a cigar. He had bright red hair, and, as he caught sight of Marthe, raised his glass. “Fräulein, will you do us the honor of toasting to our upcoming trip to Paris?”

Marthe paused, not wanting to offend the Germans but she would never deign to toast to the enemy. The other hauptmann, his uniform still intact, tightened his lips as he glanced at the third man, a younger man with golden hair. A dimple played in and out of his cheek as he winked at the red-haired hauptmann.

“I’m sorry, Herr Hauptmann,” Marthe replied finally. “I have just come from duty at the hospital and am quite tired.”

“The hospital on Menin Road?” the red-haired hauptmann demanded.

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Really, Red Carl,” the blond man said in a gay voice. “You are not here to court-martial the young lady.”

The other hauptmann, a cadaverous man with close-cropped hair, gazed at her through his thick glasses. “Perhaps the fräulein will show us to our sleeping quarters.” There was nothing sinister in his words, but Marthe felt uneasy all the same. She guessed he was the senior of the three, and showed him to the single room, but he turned to her, his eyes glinting behind those large glasses. “Herr Hauptmann Carl and I have some work to do together. The Herr Lieutenant can take the single room instead.”

“Excellent,” the golden-haired lieutenant replied, clapping the other man on his shoulder. “Red Carl, if you snore tonight the way you did on the train in, you will not be long for this world if Hauptmann Reichman has anything to do with it!”

Red Carl waved his hand. “He would never kill me. I’m too valuable for that.”

Marthe went to fetch some more linens. When she returned to the lounge, the blonde lieutenant was sitting at the table alone.

“I’m sorry if you found my companions rude, fräulein. They don’t mean to be that way, they’re just always wrapped up in their own ideas.”

“What sort of officers are they? They weren’t wearing the uniform of the Army of Würtemburg.”

“No,” the lieutenant agreed, finishing off his wine. “They are from a special unit, sent ahead to arrange our trip to Paris.” He said the last phrase mockingly before letting out another laugh.

Marthe knew it would not be wise to make further inquiries of the lieutenant, but vowed to herself that she would send Agent 63 a message about the Paris warning later.

He took out a cigarette from an expensive-looking case and offered one to Marthe. She declined.

“Otto Von Prompft,” he said, sticking out the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette.

“Marthe Cnockaert.” As he grinned, she noticed his smile was not quite even, the one facial imperfection he exhibited. “You have a dueling scar.”

He touched his left cheek. “I was a student at Stuttgart up until a few months before the war started.”

“My brother Max was also at University.”

“Did he duel?”

“No.” It had been said that a man’s courage could be judged by the number of scars on his cheek. But her brother looked down on the practice of dueling, cursing anything that society considered elite. “Max always said he preferred to have his courage judged in other ways.”

“Très intéressant,” Otto replied.

“You speak French?”

“Oui. I lived in Paris for a few years.” There was something frank yet friendly in his voice and Marthe couldn’t help but develop a fondness toward the young lieutenant as he continued, “I’ve recently come from Berlin, and I know that you Belgians bemoan the oppression you claim you are forced to live under, but the regulations in the German capital are quite similar.” He flashed her that slightly uneven smile again. “It is war-time, you know.”

Marthe wanted to protest against the deplorable pillaging his countrymen had done, but tightened her lips as he told her, “We Germans know how to endure, so it is no matter. We are bound to win in a few months’ time.”

She couldn’t help her reaction. “Win the war? You might have been able to accomplish a few victories thus far, but you will not emerge from this war a victor.”

“Marthe, as yet Germany has not even been tested. A crushing victory is forthcoming, and it is coming soon.” His once friendly voice had taken on an ominous challenge.

A bell rang from downstairs and she rose.

“Thank you for the conversation, Marthe.” His tone had once again become amiable and the twinkle in his eye reappeared, as if he had never made any threat.

Marthe went downstairs to find the café nearly empty, save for two men in plain clothes seated at a table.

“Alphonse?” Marthe asked, recognizing the ambulance driver who had been wounded with her. “Am I wanted at the hospital?”

“No, fräulein,” Alphonse stated. “My friend Stephan here and I just wanted a drink.”

The man named Stephan nodded. He was a stocky man with an incongruously thin, well-trimmed mustache.

Marthe’s hands grew sweaty at the way they were eyeing her—so queerly, as if they knew something she didn’t.

“Brandy?” she asked.

“Tea,” Stephan replied.

She went into the kitchen, her heart pounding. How long had they been sitting there? Did they hear her conversing with Otto and suspect that she was working with the Germans?

Stephan was still seated at the table when she returned, but Alphonse had risen and was looking at the pictures on the walls.

“Your family?” he asked.

“No, the former owner’s. My father has only recently taken over the lease.”

“I see,” Alphonse replied with a casual tone as he sat back down.

She began pouring the tea.

“How do you like your double-job, sister?” Stephan asked quietly.

Marthe, feeling the blood drain from her face, kept her head turned slightly away. She willed her sweaty hands not to drop the teapot.

“Alphonse,” Stephan said, louder this time. “I see your button is coming loose. Perhaps you are in need of a safety-pin. I have two.”

Marthe breathed an inward sigh of relief as she set the pot down. “I might need one as well. You say you have pins handy?”

Stephan lifted the lapel of his jacket to reveal them. They were pinned diagonally and Marthe could feel her heartbeat resuming a normal pace.

Alphonse copied Stephan. “So you see, sister, we both have pins.”

Marthe nodded and glanced around the empty room. “How did you know about me?”

“The sergeant-major at the hospital told us.”

“What? That German traitor—”

“He is not German. He grew up in France, and until yesterday, was our channel of communication. But alas, he was transferred.” Alphonse replied. “Stephan here works at Brigade Headquarters, and, as you know, my frequent ambulance trips to the front put us in a position of being able,” he too glanced about the room, “to provide certain information.”

“We were told to pass this on to a girl named Laura,” Stephan said.

“You can well imagine my surprise when I figured out who this Laura was,” Alphonse filled in.

“Do you have information for me now?” Marthe asked.

“No.” Stephan touched his mustache. “We come on another matter, concerning a man named Otto von Prompft.”

“He is billeted here. I’ve only just met him,” she stated. “He seemed nice enough, for a German officer.”

“No.” Stephan leaned in and Marthe did the same. “He is a spy-hunter.”

“How do you know that?” Her voice had become a whisper. “Do the Germans suspect me?”

Alphonse’s voice, though hushed, seemed to reverberate throughout the empty café. “They are no more distrustful of you than they are of all Belgians, unless they are imbeciles or on their deathbeds.”

“And even then, they are still mildly suspicious,” she murmured.

“Quite right.” Alphonse looked over at Stephan expectantly.

“I sometimes open mail for the censor at HQ,” Stephan began. “I recently came across a letter from this Otto to his mother stating that the ‘special work’ they had sent him to do in Roulers would be both ‘easy’ and ‘interesting.’ He is not employed by the army or the military police.”

“I see.” Marthe stood up straight, mentally stabbing Otto a hundred times for letting her like him. “I have another matter I’d like to discuss, though. There are two men in the hospital—”

“Is one of them the Scottish man from the night of the bombing?” Alphonse asked.

“Yes. Are they to become permanent prisoners of the Germans?”

Stephan and Alphonse exchanged uneasy glances before Stephan answered, “Most likely, yes.”

“Isn’t there something we can do for them?” Marthe begged.

Alphonse gave a resolute nod. “I will look into it.”

Chapter 24

M’Greet

February 1915

Soon after M’greet returned to the Netherlands, she had an interview with the Dutch magazine, Nouvelle Mode, and they decided to feature her on the cover. Van der Capellen attended the photo shoot, and, on a break, asked her if she thought her outfit immodest.

M’greet glanced down at her low-cut bodice, a pearl necklace dangling in the space between her breasts. “Of course not.”

He nodded, appearing for a moment uncertain, but then his face cleared as he replied, “Well, if you don’t have a problem with it, then I don’t either.”

He took her out to dinner that night. The weather was unseasonably warm and they sat near an open window. The trickling of a water fountain outside could be heard whenever the string quartet performing that night was between songs.

“How’s your house coming along?” Van der Capellen asked.

“Not well,” M’greet replied. “I don’t think it’s any closer to getting done than when I left for Paris.” She reached across the table to put her hand on top of his. “Perhaps you could speak to my decorator and urge him to hurry.”

“M’greet,” he replied with a sigh, “Dekker is the best in the Netherlands. He knows what he is doing.”

“He is slow and stupid.”

He shot her a mocking smile. “We all cannot be as smart as you. Have patience, he will get it done.” He squeezed her hand before glancing toward the courtyard, a wistful expression on his face. “I have to return to the front tomorrow. If only it weren’t for this infernal war, we could run off and get married.”

A sharp breeze blew, causing M’greet’s eyes to water. In the dim electric lights, the normally wide, friendly face of van der Capellen thinned, his mustache drooped, and his eyes appeared steely, making him look just like her ex-husband.

M’greet covered her gasp by dabbing at her wet eyes with a napkin. She could never marry van der Capellen; although the affable general with the ready laugh normally held no resemblance to Rudy, all she could think of was the brutality she suffered while married. And all of the philandering: on both of their parts. Although M’greet had affairs out of retaliation for Rudy’s unfaithfulness, she wasn’t sure she could ever remain faithful to one man again. She’d been on her own for more than a decade and relished her freedom too much to jump back into the role of dutiful partner. “But of course we can’t. What of your wife?”

He shook himself out of the revelry. “You’re right. We’ll have to keep things just as they are.” He took a bite of food and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “What does a beautiful woman like you want with an old soldier like me, anyway?”

M’greet giggled. “Oh, come now, you know you’re not that old. You’re just fishing for compliments.”

He threw his head back and laughed that deep belly laugh. “You’re right. Now, did you get everything that you needed in Paris?”

She gave a dainty shrug. “I got a few outfits and trinkets, but I couldn’t bring too much over the border for fear it might get confiscated.”

“You need to go shopping then.” He slapped his heavy hand on the tablecloth, startling a passing waiter, causing him to spill water on the floor. “Of course you do.” He dug out his wallet and gave her several hundred guilders. “Buy yourself some nice things tomorrow. I wish I could go with you, but my train leaves in the morning.”

“Oh,” she puckered her lips in disappointment. “That early?”

He took a long sip of whiskey. “If only the English troops could get it together. They missed their opportunity after that surprise attack in Artois.”

M’greet suppressed a groan. How she hated to hear talk of war!

After one last night with van der Capellen, M’greet wandered some of her favorite stores in the morning and then made her way back to the house in Nieuwe Uitleg. She walked down the quiet street next to the canal, stopping to admire the new green shutters on the brick facade of her home before letting herself in, only to find the hallway strewn with scraps of wallpaper and fabric samples. Her immense trunks from Paris were stacked next to the stairwell, still unpacked. She kicked at a box before noting the two men in grungy overalls standing on the second-floor landing, staring with uncertainty at her beautiful new dresser of carved wood and copper pulls. One of them scratched at his greasy hair before he threw up his hands in defeat.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

The movers looked dumbly down at her as Dekker called, “Madame Mata Hari, you’ve returned.”

“I have.” She mounted the stairs. “What is all of this?”

He glanced at the movers, his frown deepening. “It seems we mismeasured—”

“You mismeasured.”

He cleared his throat. “At any rate, it doesn’t appear that this dresser will fit through the doorway of your bedroom.”

“That’s impossible.” M’greet stomped over to the dresser. She approximated the width of the dresser and then pushed past the movers, walking to the doorway with her arms held tight. “It looks as if it will fit fine.”

Dekker pulled the measuring tape out of his pocket and walked over, holding out the tape to demonstrate. “It’s six centimeters too large.”

“Well.” For a moment, M’greet was at a loss for words. “Well,” she said again. “I suppose all that money I paid for it is wasted, wouldn’t you say?” She marched over to the landing to angle her body behind the dresser, pushing on it with all of her weight.

“Madame!” one of the movers called. But it was too late. M’greet heaved the dresser off the landing, watching with a sick satisfaction as it tumbled down the steps and then crashed into the newly plastered wall.

The movers exchanged looks of horror before simultaneously starting downstairs. They climbed over the splintered wood as best they could before wordlessly letting themselves out.

M’greet turned to Dekker, her arms crossed over her chest. “What do you think about that?”

He cleared his throat before replying in a quiet tone, “Madame, you do realize there is a war going on, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. Why would you ask such a stupid question?”

“Well, most people in Holland are cutting back on expenses, preparing for the slim possibility of a German invasion. But here you are, spending money like it is nothing.” He picked up one of the photographs from the Nouvelle Mode shoot off a nearby table. “You chose to wear an outfit like that,” he said, his finger stabbing at her likeness.

“That dress is a Paquin, from Paris,” she replied, not understanding his point. “And that hat is made from endangered osprey.”

“Yes, but look at these women.” He pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and pointed to a picture of women feeding wounded soldiers. They were dressed in black dresses buttoned up to their necks. “This is what a woman your age and class should be wearing.”

M’greet wrinkled her nose. “Never.”

“And this.” He flipped to a list of the latest casualties and waved it under her nose. “A war, madame. People are dying, and you are building an indoor bathroom.”

“I know there is a war going on,” Her voice rose in volume as she continued, “It’s all anyone ever talks about. There are no parties, only fund-raisers for the army. There are no more glamorous ladies of the haut monde on the streets, only grieving widows and amputees. Is it such a crime that I want to be surrounded by color and style in my own house when the rest of the world is dreary and gray?” She narrowed her eyes at Dekker. “Not to mention that my decorating budget is keeping a roof over your head.”

He walked down the stairs, muttering to himself how the Hague was not Paris as he investigated the hole in the wall.

Chapter 25

Alouette

February 1915

A few days later, Kraut left a message for Alouette to join him that evening at the restaurant atop Monte Igueldo.

He was already seated when she arrived, and mournfully watched her walk across the restaurant. He glanced toward the ocean as she sat. “If it weren’t for the war…” his voice trailed off.

“What would you do differently?”

“I would abduct you.” He pointed beyond the bay, to the open sea. “We’d head off to somewhere exotic.”

Alouette fiddled with her napkin, thinking if it weren’t for the war, she wouldn’t be a widow. “I did not come here tonight to flirt.”

Kraut clasped his hands together, once again all business, the sentimentality of the previous moment forgotten. “My chief has agreed to meet with you.”

A band started playing somewhere below them, haunting strains of a foreign song drifting in the breeze. Alouette felt a pang of misgivings as she recalled the mess with Gerda Nerbutt. “Your chief isn’t a dreadful man, is he?”

A faint shadow covered Kraut’s face. “He is a decent chap.” He stood, throwing his spotless napkin on his plate. “Be at the foot of the funicular railway tomorrow morning at six. A man will pass close to you and say, ‘Follow me.’ Don’t dress too smartly as to not attract attention.” He met her eyes. “Good luck, fräulein.”

Alouette rose at dawn the next morning and put on a simple walking dress. Her heart was beating double time as she checked her hair. What if Kraut had laid a trap for her?

Although it was nearly daylight when she left the hotel, Alouette did not see anyone up besides the desk clerk. The beach was equally deserted. She walked quickly to the train depot, her spirits rising in time with the sun emerging from the rose-tinted clouds in the east. Her favorite time to fly had always been in the morning, and she recalled the exhilarating feeling of being in the air, the wind in her hair, the view from above. She was ready for another adventure and this time she would get the information Ladoux wanted.

She arrived at the rendezvous point well before six. Two priests standing at the foot of the funicular railway looked at her, no doubt surprised to see an unaccompanied woman wandering the streets so early in the morning.

As Kraut had foretold, exactly at six a man appeared wearing a blue military suit and a yachtsman’s cap. He passed so close to Alouette that she thought he might run into her. “Follow me.”

Alouette noticed with a slight irritation that the priests were staring at her as the man strolled away. She impatiently glanced at her watch and then at the incline suspensions before shrugging to herself, as though she’d made the sudden decision to walk.

She walked down the platform of the funicular, noting that the man waited by a Mercedes. The man opened the door and climbed in the backseat and then reached a long arm across to open Alouette’s door. She could feel his gaze on her as she entered, but kept her own eyes straight ahead as the chauffeur started the car.

The car sped up and Alouette began to feel uneasy as the rocky landscape passed by in a blur.

The German wore clunky black spectacles which partially hid his face but did not conceal the fact that he was scrutinizing Alouette in between crossing and uncrossing his long legs. His edginess got on her nerves. Where was this man taking her at such breakneck speed, and why hadn’t he spoken to her yet?

Alouette’s ears popped as the Mercedes ascended a hill. She was so preoccupied with staring at the winding road ahead that she almost didn’t hear when the man finally spoke.

“Has Herr Kraut told you what we want you to do?” Although he addressed her in French, his low voice held the guttural resonance of a native German speaker.

“Not exactly.”

He moved so close that his thin leg nearly touched Alouette’s. “I’m told you are an airwoman.”

“Yes.” She gripped her hand on the door of the car and shrank away from the man. Although his actions—the long moments of silence and his overcrowding—would be considered quite rude, his next words were said in a surprisingly deferential tone. “Do you speak German?”

Once again, she thought it would be best to not admit she spoke the language fluently. “No, I do not. Is that a problem?”

“No.” He removed his spectacles to clean them and she used the opportunity to do her own scrutinizing. His face was as gaunt as the rest of his body. The eye on Alouette’s side stared forward instead of looking down at the task and she realized it was made of glass. “What do you want to know about France?” she asked, partially just to end the silence.

The man took his time replacing his glasses before digging into a valise at his feet. He retrieved an envelope and dumped it on her lap. “Open it.”

She showed no surprise as she retracted 3000 pesetas and a sheet of paper. The paper contained typed questions followed by blank spaces, asking such things about the new anti-aircraft defenses around Paris, the places that had been bombed, and the morale of the army at the front.

Alouette refolded the questionnaire and was about to put it back in the envelope when the man took it from her.

“Leave nothing to chance,” he said with a patronizing tone. He struck a match and held it up to the paper. The light from the burning questionnaire gave his features an ominous air, the fire reflecting off that strange glass eye. She refrained from shivering outwardly as he rolled down the window and threw the burning paper out.

He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a strange-looking pen. He touched the tip of it. “This bulb is to prevent the pen from scratching the paper when using invisible ink.” He then produced a vial full of silvery powder and shook it. “Dilute this in two or three spoonsful of water. You need to use thick white paper on which you will write a gossipy letter to an imaginary friend. Between the lines you will trace the information which I want from you when you return to Paris. You will sign with the pseudonym S-32.”

Alouette took the vial from him. “What is this powder? If I run out, I will have to secure more.”

“Collargolium.” He handed her another slip of paper. This one read Madeline Stepino, Calle Algorta, Madrid. “Always write to me at this address. Never call on me, no matter how important you think the information is.”

“You make it sound dangerous.”

“It is.”

She closed her eyes, reminding herself what it felt like to be the only one in the cockpit, in complete control of her airplane. She must not lose the upper hand to this man. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have to tell you I value my life more than 3000 pesetas.”

“We want to see what your capability as a spy is. We can match your payments to your skill.” He gazed at her searchingly before edging closer. She scooted as far away as she could until she was flattened against the door.

“And one more point, S-32. Now that you have pledged yourself to serving Germany, if you do not fulfill your undertakings, your life will be forfeit. If you play us foul, those 3000 pesetas will be the last payment you receive before your death in front of a firing squad.”

Alouette refused to dwell on the consequences of becoming a double agent and flexed her hands, pretending she was easing up on an airplane lever. She shifted her eyes to meet his. “I have no desire to serve Germany. I only wish to serve myself.”

His thin lips spread into a sinister smile. “When you are ready to return to Spain, you will place an advertisement in the Echo de Paris for a chambermaid. You will give your address and invite your imaginary applicants to call on you the day and hour that your train will be leaving.”

The car pulled to a sudden stop. Alouette had been so distracted by the man’s commands—and his movements—that she hadn’t noticed the car had turned around. They were once again at the funicular station. “Thank you, mein herr,” she said before she opened the door behind her and practically spilled out of the car. It wasn’t until after they pulled away that Alouette realized she never caught her new spymaster’s name.

Chapter 26

Marthe

March 1915

A few days after finding out that Alphonse and Stephan were safety-pin men, Marthe entered the hospital grounds as the old groundskeeper Pierre was trimming a bush. Once again he tipped his hat to her. “Morning, mademoiselle.”

She nodded a greeting and then hurried along.

“Mademoiselle?” He followed her into the courtyard.

“Monsieur?” She met his eyes. One of them only half-opened, but the other one was fixed on her with a penetrating stare.

“Our acquaintance Alphonse wanted me to pass this on to you.” He handed her a fat envelope.

She tucked the envelope into her coat pocket but hesitated before she went inside. She was expecting him to show her safety-pins, but he turned back to his work, whistling Frère Jacques.

No one was in the staff room when Marthe arrived, so she peeked into the envelope. A small slip of paper sat between several hundred francs. She pulled the paper out and hid the money in her skirt underneath her nurse’s apron. The note contained instructions from Alphonse regarding helping the Allied patients escape. She memorized the contents before she ripped it into tiny pieces, swallowing them along with several swigs of chicory coffee.

She hurried into the room where Jimmy and Arthur were having a friendly argument. “You’re a bleedin’ liar!” Jimmy remarked.

“Jesus Chrrist, have ye no bin to schule?” Arthur replied.

Another patient was on the other side of Jimmy, so Marthe went to the Scotsman’s bed. “Good morning, Arthur,” she said in a bright voice.

“Mornin’ miss,” he returned.

On the pretext of tucking in his sheets, Marthe leaned in close and whispered, “There is an envelope full of francs under your mattress. This evening on your walk, you and Jimmy will look for a short man with a squinty eye near the civilian workers’ cabin. He will be your guide to get you over the border.”

Arthur’s eyes widened as Marthe straightened. “Ye know, lassie, what I’m gonna do once this war is ohva?”

She shook her head.

“I’m gonna become a meenister.”

It took her a second to translate his words in her head. I’m going to become a minister. She grinned at him, picturing the large Highlander who peppered his speech with Jesus Chrrist standing in front of a congregation. “You might get the chance sooner than you think.”

She lingered as long as the busy morning would allot for, hoping that the men would be safe on their journey. For all she knew Pierre might be an agent of the Germans and had claimed knowing Alphonse to set her up. When an orderly barreled into the room, Marthe froze, thinking that she had indeed been double-crossed.

“Fräulein, there are two ambulances on their way from the front. We will need you to prepare for the arrival of more wounded soldiers.”

“Yes, mein herr,” Marthe replied. She gave the men a little wave before rushing off to change the empty beds in the German ward.

It was around seven o’clock that evening when there was a sudden ringing of bells outside the hospital. Marthe raced into Jimmy and Arthur’s room to find both of their beds empty. A feldwebel entered, his eyes jumping from one vacant bed to the other.

“What do you know of this, nurse?” he demanded. “Two patients from your ward walked off right under your nose! When did you last see them?”

“This morning, Herr Feldwebel. But they can’t possibly get far without civilian clothes or money,” she replied, knowing that, if things went as planned, they would have both.

He stomped away, shouting for orderlies to search the grounds as he did so.

As Marthe left that night, she passed by the civilian cabin. Alphonse was standing in the doorway. “Good evening, Marthe,” he said, stepping toward her. His green eyes twinkled with merriment in the light from the torch in his hand. “A friend of yours wanted me to tell you he should be in Holland by midnight.”

She smiled and nodded, her insides filling with gratitude. Perhaps Arthur would indeed become a minister someday, and as for Jimmy, well, she wouldn’t mind him keeping the promise of delivering the Kaiser’s head on a platter.

“Thank you, Alphonse.” His thin figure seemed fuller underneath his heavy coat, and his once severely cropped hair had been allowed to grow. His gaze cut through the darkness of the night and Marthe hoped that he wouldn’t be able to discern that her cheeks—judging by how hot they felt—must have grown crimson under his gaze.

Chapter 27

M’Greet

March 1915

M’greet was bored. The Hague was no Paris, and van der Capellen, though generous, was not proving to be a very exciting beau. And she’d had enough of Dekker and the endless construction on her house. But Dekker refused to hurry and it was only after a letter from her attorney that he finally finished.

M’greet persuaded van der Capellen to pay for the immense bill from the Paulez hotel, where she had stayed during most of the heavy construction, as well as Anna’s salary. She figured she’d wait a few more months before begging him for travel money so she could go back to Paris and get away from the dullness of The Hague.

She had not been in her new house for a month when Anna handed her a calling card. It was from Karl Kroemer, the German consul in Amsterdam.

“I wonder what he wants?” M’greet asked. “Perhaps the Germans have decided to return my funds and furs after all.”

“I don’t know, madame. He is coming tomorrow, so I’m sure you will find out.”

The time of Kroemer’s announced visit came and went, with no sign of the German consul.

Anna had gone to bed, and M’greet was writing a note to Harry de Marguérie when someone knocked at the front door. Deigning to answer it herself, she found a man of medium height standing on her doorstep. His dark hair was parted straight down the middle and he was wearing an impeccably neat suit.

“Herr Kroemer?” she ventured.

“Indeed, fräulein. You are as astute as they say. May I come in?”

M’greet moved aside. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, fräulein. What I have to say won’t take long.”

He sat in a pink armchair and she draped herself on the white velvet couch across from him.

Kroemer took his hat off and set it on a marble-topped end table “I have heard you have recently been to Paris.”

“I have.”

He leaned forward. “Tell me, what was the atmosphere like there?”

“Oh, the French are quite sick of the British. They are afraid the British will never leave and will decide to settle in. After all, both the weather and the fashion are much better on the Continent.”

Kroemer coughed politely. “That is not exactly what I meant.”

“No?” M’greet put a hand on her chest and let out a giggle.

“No.” He sat back in the chair and steepled his hands together. “How would you like to return to Paris in order to gather some information?”

“What do you mean, ‘gather some information?’”

“For our intelligence services. I’ve been authorized to offer you twenty thousand francs.”

M’greet folded her hands across her chest. “That is not very much money.”

He rubbed one of the sides of his mustache until the gap above his lip was no longer perfectly aligned with the part in his hair. “Well, there could be more, but you would have to prove your worth.”

“I ask of you again, Herr Kroemer, what exactly would you have me do?”

“Just listen. Make some contacts in your usual way. I hear you have a knack for captivating officers. Get them to talk and then report what they say back to us.”

Flattered, M’greet decided to play along. “How will I contact you?”

“You will send a letter to the Hôtel de l’Europe in Amsterdam. I have a suite there. You may address it to Kroemer—my surname is quite common so it should not arouse suspicion. You will sign it H-21.”

“H-21?”

“Your code name.”

M’greet’s jaw dropped. Up till now she hadn’t been taking Kroemer’s offer very seriously, though she had to admit the money would have been nice.

Kroemer produced three small vials from his pocket, two of which were filled with a chalky-white liquid, and set them on the table. “You will write a letter full of meaningless gossip, but write your real messages regarding troop movements and the like in between the lines with this one.” He moved a vial labeled with the number 2 on it forward. The liquid, in contrast to the others, was an emerald green, the color of absinthe. “You will use number one to dampen the paper, and the third to cause the messages to disappear.”

She held up her hands. “I don’t know. Invisible inks—disguises in general—are not my style.”

Kroemer gave a cruel laugh. “Disguises not your style? Are you not in fact Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod, a Dutch citizen, giving the people,” his voice dropped, “the false impression that you are Mata Hari, a Javanese princess?”

“But that—”

“Is exactly why we wish to hire you.” He swept the vials toward her edge of the table. “Take them. Use them. Once again, we can increase your payment once you prove your worth as a spy.” He stood and replaced his hat, dropping a pile of francs on the table. “That’s ten thousand to start. You will get the other half when you get back from Antwerp.”

“Antwerp? I intended to go to Paris.”

“In time,” Kroemer responded. “You will report to Antwerp for training.” He gave her further instructions, including how to get to the Belgian city. “You will enjoy meeting Fräulein Doktor,” he added. “Like you, she is a strong, worldly woman.”

M’greet showed him to the door. He left with the impression that she would do as he asked, and she didn’t want to contradict him.

After she’d shut the door behind him, she resumed her spot on the couch. Could she really be a spy? She’d never proclaimed loyalty to either side. Like Holland, she considered herself neutral. But of course, she’d always loved Paris. And there was the fact that the Germans had stolen her goods at the outbreak of this infernal war. She sat up and counted the money. While it was in no way a full reimbursement for all that Germany had taken from her, at least it was a good start.

Chapter 28

Alouette

March 1915

The startled expression on Captain Ladoux’s face as she knocked on his open door amused Alouette.

“Back again so soon?” he asked.

She sauntered into the room and took a seat in front of his desk. “Yes, Captain, I’ve returned because, as the Yankees say, I’ve made good.” She put the pen and the vial of the German’s secret ink on his desk and then draped her arm across the chair.

Ladoux held the bottle under his electric lamp. “What is this?”

“They call it ‘collargolium.’”

“Interesting. We will have to send some to our chemists to see if we can find a reagent. And if so, we might just be able to decipher intercepted German correspondence.” He set the vial down. “Who was the man who gave you this ink?”

Alouette straightened. “I never caught his name.”

The twinge of regret must have been obvious in her voice, for Ladoux reached into his desk and retrieved an envelope, which he dumped in front of her. “These are photographs of known German agents in Madrid.”

She fanned out the photos. “This is him.” She picked one of them up and handed it to Ladoux. The photograph must have been an older one for both of his eyes were intact, but the narrow shoulders and gaunt face were the same.

“Ah, you’ve met the Baron von Krohn, the German naval attaché, nephew of General Ludendorff.” He slid the rest of the pictures back into the envelope. “Excellent.”

Alouette glowed at his praise. Her failures at becoming an airwoman and the fiasco in Switzerland forgotten, she relayed how her flirtations with the big German, Walter, had led her to Kraut and then finally to von Krohn. “I must state, Captain, that the Baron’s manners were very poor. I had to make it quite plain that his advances would not be accepted.”

Ladoux frowned and Alouette was once again pleased at his reaction. “I never want to see that brute again,” she added.

He got to his feet and walked the length of the room, mindlessly puffing on a cigarette. Brushing ashes off his waistcoat, he paused in front of her. “You entered into our service voluntarily. It is too late for you to withdraw.”

Alouette opened her mouth, but Ladoux held up his hand and continued. “You are a woman and must be guided by your instincts on how to deal with people who have amorous intentions toward you.” He stood motionless for a moment, his hand still in the air. “This wasn’t something I wanted to mention, but I heard stories about you, in Paris, before you met your husband.”

The exhilaration Alouette had experienced since she returned from Spain quickly vanished; in its place was a sense of debilitating helplessness. Although she hadn’t experienced it for many years, the feeling was all too familiar. “That’s all they were, Captain, just stories.” She dropped her arm from the back of the chair and quashed the feeling back down to the depths of her consciousness. “As you know, I am anxious to serve my country, to even give my life, if necessary, for France. But no patriote francais would expect me to pander to such an unpleasant, one-eyed creature.”

Ladoux, who had restarted his pacing during Alouette’s protest, paused again, his hands gripping the back of an armchair. “Don’t you dare walk in here and tell me you never again wish to see the very man I want you to exploit for all you are worth.”

Alouette bit back her rage and tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. “There are certain things, Captain Ladoux, to which no woman of honor can submit to under any circumstances.”

Ladoux’s expression softened and she thought she might have gotten through to him. He stepped forward and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Alouette,” he said in a soothing, fatherly tone. “Think of the sacrifices of our poor poilus in the trenches. Or the plight of our fair Paris, which may be overrun by the enemy at any time. You have the priceless opportunity to serve our dear country more than any other Frenchwoman. Or,” he added quickly, “many other Frenchmen.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and Alouette resisted the urge to shrug him off. “For the sake of the Cause, don’t say you will never see the Baron again. He’s probably just an old philanderer, with an archaic German sense of civility. Humor him as such. Laugh and flirt with him, keeping him at arm’s length while at the same time manipulating him into giving you information.” He finally released her shoulder. “There are many lives to be saved by doing so.”

“It is a sacrifice more bitter than death to have to submit to the dalliances of an old brute like von Krohn.” she stated bitterly.

Judging by his triumphant smile, Ladoux knew that he had won. “A mere flirtation is harmless,” he countered as he retreated behind the desk. “You are a woman with sufficient prowess to protect yourself if I am not wrong, which I don’t believe for a second that I am. Von Krohn is the mastermind for the naval movements of all German submarines on the Atlantic coast. If you can succeed in discovering his plans, just think of all the French mothers and young brides you will be assisting by helping their boys to come home safely.”

Alouette heaved a deep sigh. “Very well, Captain Ladoux.”

Ladoux pulled out the desk chair to dig into a drawer. “I have some other business matters to attend to, but you can respond to the Baron’s queries with this information. It is accurate although out-of-date, the same we supply to all double agents.”

He left the room as Alouette dipped a pen into the inkwell. She followed von Krohn’s instructions and wrote a letter full of nonsensical gossip to Madeline Stepino in Madrid. Between the lines, she used the collargolium-filled pen to answer the Baron’s inquiries on French maneuvers as supplied by Ladoux. She held the paper up and blew on it, watching as the secret ink disappeared without a trace.

Alouette spent the remainder of the week taking a course in Spanish through the Berlitz School. Captain Ladoux was relentless in his encouragement for her to return to Spain. “You must hit the iron whilst it is hot,” he repeated.

A postcard arrived from Spain with a coded demand for intelligence in regard to von Krohn’s questionnaire. Alouette dropped it in front of Ladoux.

“Your letter has apparently been delayed by the postal services,” he said, clearly unconcerned. “I’ve booked you on a train to leave in the morning.”

“How will I further communicate with you from Spain?”

“You will write an ordinary note just as you do for the Germans, but use antipyrine in between the lines. It’s the best we have right now, until we analyze the ink that von Krohn gave you.”

“Antipyrine? For headaches?”

“Yes,” Ladoux said with a touch of impatience. “If you are caught with it, you simply swallow it. Otherwise, dissolve a packet in two tablespoonfuls of water.” He passed her the collargolium inkwell. “And now to place your advertisement according to the Baron’s instructions.”

As Alouette began her letter, someone knocked on Ladoux’s office door.

“Ah, Monsieur Davrichachvili, come on in,” Ladoux called.

“Zozo?” Alouette set her pen down to gaze at the tall man in the kit of the Armée de l'Air. “What are you doing here?”

He pulled a chair right next to her. “You look shocked, Alouette. Don’t you like me in uniform?”

Alouette had met the fellow pilot a few times through Henri. Zozo had played some part in the Russian uprising in 1905 and self-exiled to France, giving up politics to become an aviator. He claimed to be an anarchist and his self-righteous declarations had always gotten on Alouette’s nerves.

Ladoux did not seem surprised that they knew each other. “Monsieur Davrichachvili was the one who first alerted me to you, Alouette.”

She turned to the younger man. “You told him I knew German spies?”

Zozo crossed his leg over the other, his knee nearly touching Alouette’s. “What does it matter? Besides,” he shot her a grin, “it’s true now, isn’t it?”

Ladoux cleared his throat. “Monsieur Davrichachvili will be the one feeding you false information to pass on to Baron von Krohn.”

She returned her gaze to Zozo. He had a dark complexion, his mustache and beard purposefully trimmed to appear unruly. He seemed uncomfortable under Alouette’s gaze and ran a hand through his wavy hair.

“You do realize he is an anarchist?” she asked Ladoux.

He shrugged. “A true revolutionary is rarely a traitor.”

“I am putting my own life in your hands, then,” Alouette stated. This made her more nervous than she dared to let on. Zozo was the type of young aviator who assumed that death waited for him each time he took flight and consequently lived a life—both on the ground and in the air—of excess.

Zozo threw up his hands. “You can trust me.”

Ladoux lit a cigarette. “Monsieur Davrichachvili was on the trail of the woman you knew as Gerda Nerbutt.”

“The Germans call her Fräulein Doktor,” Zozo added. “But I lost track of her when I left Switzerland.”

The hair on Alouette’s arms prickled as she thought about Gerda. She found herself inexplicably hoping that Zozo wasn’t aware of her colossal failure on that mission. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“I don’t quite share your enthusiasm,” Zozo replied. “The German secret service has a mass of funds and they are able to conceal their spies just as quickly as we find their trail.”

Ladoux flicked ash from his cigarette. “Monsieur Davrichachvili will dispatch the letters using the password, ‘Skylark,’ and, should we need to contact any of our Spanish operatives, they will address you with the same code name.”

Zozo moved his hand through his hair once again. “Be careful, Alouette. You are now embarking on the most dangerous career of them all, that of l’agent double.”

Chapter 29

Marthe

April 1915

When spring came, with its floods and bone-chilling rain, the long war seemed to just become a long wait. Men stood for months in the trenches, which, from Marthe’s patients’ descriptions, were little more than open graves. As her new patient with the burned arm put it, “Forget trying to shoot Tommies. All the boys had to see was a mud wall and had to focus most of their effort on just keeping their feet dry.”

“Tommies?” Marthe asked.

“The British,” the man replied.

“Oh,” Marthe replied, a bit inadequately, but she wasn’t sure what else to say.

The German peered at her and then his eyes grew wide as if he suddenly realized something. “You are German, fräulein?”

“No. Belgian.”

He raised his charred hand. “Doesn’t it bother you to be bandaging a Hun such as me?”

Marthe snipped at the gauze with a pair of silver scissors. “I’m a nurse. It’s my job to help you, no matter what side of the war you are on.” She nodded at the door of the ward. “Not to mention this town, and therefore this hospital, belongs to Germany now.”

“As will all of France soon,” he said with an oily smile. “Nach Paris! Nach Calais!”

Marthe collected the stray bits of gauze without saying anything. The man reached out with his good hand and grabbed her arm. “You will see, fräulein, we will win this mighty war… and soon.”

She usually didn’t pay much attention when her patients started in with their German swagger, but the way this man spoke hinted that he had intimate military knowledge. She pulled her arm away, ostensibly to pour him a cup of water. “Are you a soldier?” He was dressed in dark gray pants and a collared shirt, not necessarily a uniform, but there were so many different regimentals in the Hun army that she couldn’t possibly recognize all of them.

“No. A scientist.” He looked for some type of reaction from Marthe, but she kept her face neutral. He continued, “The type of man for whom generals of old wouldn’t hold more esteem than a cobblestone under their feet.” He raised his chin. “With this new type of warfare, men like me are going to play their part in winning the most colossal war the world has ever known, even more so than the generals.”

She set the water glass down and asked as casually as she could, “Is that so?”

“You will see, fräulein.”

Having made her rounds, Marthe went outside to get some air and think over what the man had told her. He could have just been talking cocksure military nonsense, like a lot of her other soldier patients. But there was something else behind his comments, something sinister. What on earth would a scientist know about military victories? Despite the warm April sun, Marthe shivered.

The scientist was sleeping when Marthe went to check on him before leaving. He must have fallen asleep working, Marthe decided, picking up the papers that were scattered all over the bed. Of course she glanced through them before putting them back into the folder by his bedside. They appeared to be weather logs, and some sort of wind graph.

She again mulled over the conversation with the scientist as she walked home. It was still light out, and, as she passed the Grand Place, she could see Canteen Ma surrounded by laughing soldiers as she spoke her nearly unintelligible German. She had a pint glass in her hand and, upon sighting Marthe, drank the rest of the beer. “Fräulein,” she slurred, waving her glass. “Fräulein, please get me some more of your fine beer!”

Playing along, Marthe shook her head and put her hand up to her ear, which succeeded in drawing Canteen Ma closer. She stumbled along the sidewalk, but her voice was clear as she whispered, “Marthe, there is something in the air. The Boches talk of sweeping victories coming, but none of them are clear on the specifics.”

Marthe curled her lip, as if disgusted by the old woman, as she replied quietly, “I heard something similar this afternoon. What do you think they are planning?”

“I don’t know.” One of Canteen Ma’s hangers-on whistled at her. She held up one finger before shoving the beer glass into Marthe’s hands. “But we need to find out… and soon.”

Marthe set out that night to inform Agent 63 of the bizarre weather graphs just in case British Intelligence had a better idea of what was afoot than her or Canteen Ma. It was, after all, her job to report anything out of the ordinary, and this indeed seemed to fit that description.

Canteen Ma delivered the British Intelligence’s return message a few days later: “Do not worry about weather reports. Troop movements, trains, etc. are of more value.” Marthe crumpled the message and threw it into the fire, feeling a bit foolish, like a girl making ghosts out of laundry drying on a clothesline.

The next morning, Marthe reported to the hospital to find it in an uproar. Orderlies were everywhere, escorting those civilian patients that could walk outside or ripping sheets off beds.

“Are we expecting a rush of patients?” Marthe asked the Oberarzt as he hurried by.

“Yes,” he shouted in an unusually curt manner.

She joined the orderlies in preparing the now vacant civilian ward, surmising the evacuation of the non-combatants must mean that the Germans were making an advance on Ypres.

Not more than an hour later, the ambulances began to arrive. The workers unloaded dozens of men in light blue uniforms choking for breath, their features twisted in the most awful of ways. Some of them were grabbing at their throats and eyes, leaving long, bloody scratches down their cheeks and chest. The men’s faces, hands, and even the brass buttons on their uniform had turned an unearthly green and the sickly smell of bleach clung to their clothes and skin. “What horror is this?” Marthe asked when she had time to speak.

The Oberarzt seemed as perplexed as her. “I’m not sure.”

“How shall we treat them?”

He scratched at his beard. “Once again, I have no idea. Never in my career have such cases presented themselves.” His voice choked over and Marthe’s grudging respect toward the head doctor grew deeper. The suffering men were all Allies, clad in the uniforms of the French, English, even some Canadian. But, just as for Marthe, the Oberarzt’s number one obligation was to cure people, not to choose allegiances. He knelt over a man who’d clearly lost his struggle to survive and, almost as a reflex, placed his stethoscope over the lifeless chest.

More and more men arrived, and the hospital quickly ran out of room for them. They lined the dying men in the corridors, and when those were full, put them outside in the garden.

“What has happened?” Marthe inquired of a man in a khaki uniform, British she assumed. He looked at her with eyes so swollen they appeared ready to pop out of their sockets, struggling as he tried to form words in his useless throat. Instead of speaking, he coughed into a nearby bush, covering the green leaves with bright red blood.

Marthe felt her knees grow weak. She would have given anything to run away from the horrifying sight of these decrepit men, but she also knew that they needed her. Besides, they were Allies. She steeled herself and continued working until a deep voice commanded, “Marthe, you have to take a few minutes to sit down and eat.”

She glanced up to see Alphonse holding an unappetizing-looking black cake. “Rouler’s war-time best,” he said with a wry smile. He gazed around the packed courtyard before leading her to the back of the hospital near the civilian cabin.

“What do you make of all this?” Marthe asked Alphonse after she’d swallowed a few bites of cake, which was more palatable than it appeared. Or else she was just too hungry to care what it tasted like.

“The men at the front were talking about the Germans releasing metal cylinders, and a greenish gas floating in the wind toward the Allied trenches. And then everyone just started gasping for breath.”

Marthe’s hand shook, dropping black crumbs on the ground. “That scientist. The wind graphs and weather reports. This is what they were planning. No wonder he talked about a sweeping victory.”

Alphonse’s face was grave as he stood, holding a hand out for her. “This isn’t good, Marthe.”

“No,” she agreed as he helped her up. “But I don’t have time right now to think about the implications—I have to get back to work.”

When they arrived back at the courtyard, they found that a congregation of people had formed just beyond the line of bushes. The people of Roulers had come to see the Allied soldiers’ plight for themselves. As Marthe carefully stepped between wounded men, she heard a voice shout, “Vive La France! Vive les Allies!” Someone else took up the cry and soon every Belgian man and woman in the crowd was screaming at the tops of their lungs. Even those soldiers that could talk sat up and chanted “Vive L’ Angleterre!” Marthe’s heart swelled and she could see by the strange expression on Alphonse’s face that he was experiencing something similar. She couldn’t exactly join the chorus, as the Oberarzt and some orderlies stood nearby, their arms folded across their chests, but she repeated the chants in her head as she poured water for a patient.

The clatter of hooves sounded and then several mounted gendarmes appeared, shouting “Raus hier! Go!” Their horses neighed, startling the crowd. One of the gendarmes reared his steed, once again commanding the villagers to disperse. Which they did, but not before showering the wounded soldiers with cigarettes and chocolate.

The walk home that night was especially long for the exhausted Marthe. Otto and his two companions had recently returned from their mysterious trip to Paris and she passed the young lieutenant on the stairs as she went up to her room.

“Care to join me for a drink, fräulein?” he asked.

“Not tonight, Herr Otto,” she replied.

He shot her a grin. Where once she had thought the uneven smile charming, now that she knew he was a spy-hunter, it seemed to mock her. It was part of his job to lure unsuspecting Belgian girls into confiding in him, but she would never trust a German.

“Is something the matter, Marthe?”

“No, nothing.” She gave him a tiny curtsy before brushing past him. “I’m just tired from a long day at the hospital.”

Chapter 30

Alouette

May 1915

Von Krohn met Alouette at the Spanish frontier station of Irun. This time he wore a monocle over his glass eye. He took his hat off when he saw her; his skin was so thin on his nearly bald head she could clearly see the outline of his skull. As he bowed stiffly, she was nearly overcome with trepidation for the role she had accepted.

“I have rented a flat for you,” he stated as he helped her into his car.

Her first thought was to run as far as she could, back to France if possible, but instead she folded her arms across her chest. “Was that necessary?”

Von Krohn seemed taken aback by the vehemence in Alouette’s tone. He shifted his legs as best he could in the narrow backseat of the Mercedes. “At present it would be impossible for me to see you elsewhere.”

His voice was matter-of-fact and Alouette did her best to echo his manner. “San Sebastian is too close to the French border. If I were to go to Madrid, I shall be less likely to attract attention.”

It was obvious from his wry smile that he had no desire for her to accompany him to Madrid. After a moment of tense silence, he complimented her on the outfit she was wearing.

As Alouette was dressed in a plain traveling dress, she dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. He countered with a joke about her hat. “Those feathers complement your skin tone much more than they could have on the bird they were taken from.”

Alouette did not reply, and the silence resumed.

Finally he sighed. “You would like to go to Madrid, then? Well, we can take it under consideration later on. I have to stay in San Sebastian for at least another few weeks. Don’t you fancy the beach there?”

“Have you received the letter I sent with replies to your inquiries?” she asked, determined to keep the conversation on business matters.

“No.” His eyes widened. “When did you post it?”

Alouette was as aghast as von Krohn. “The day after I arrived in Paris.” She turned to face him. “Do you think it was seized by the authorities?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he replied. “Even if it was confiscated, your countrymen will never be able to reveal the collargolium. We have some crack chemists in Germany who had to spend a long time before they succeeded in the perfect formula.”

His attitude exasperated Alouette. “We have crack chemists in France, too.”

He sniffed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Alouette looked out the window. The Mercedes was speeding along the coast and it was almost impossible to tell where the cloudless sky ended and the sea began. Her mind raced with questions. Was it possible that Ladoux never sent the letter? What would be his reason not to?

The car stopped in a small suburb outside of San Sebastian, next to an ordinary-looking house. A sturdy woman with brown hair streaked with gray greeted Alouette while the chauffeur carried her trunk into the apartment.

The Baron followed Alouette inside. The sitting room was decorated with Victorian bric-à-brac and rich curtains with an intricate floral pattern.

“Does it suit you?” von Krohn demanded.

Not in the least. It was too similar to the décor of Henri’s house in Paris—the type of heavy fabrics and moldings that seemed to close Alouette in. She feigned indifference with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I shall spend most of my waking hours on the beach or in the casino.”

Satisfied with her answer, he asked her to excuse him. “I have an appointment now. You can get settled in and I will return later, Alouette.”

His use of her first name irritated her even further. “No. I’m going to change my dress and then go for a stroll.”

His face fell, and she sighed, remembering Ladoux’s instructions to captivate and manipulate him. She couldn’t do that if she pushed the Baron away completely. “But if you like, I will meet you tomorrow morning at nine on the beach.” She gave a wan attempt at a smile. “We can have a swim together.”

He nodded and tipped his hat before he left.

Alouette excused the housekeeper, wanting nothing more than to be alone. She was exhausted from her journey and perhaps something else. She flopped down on the ornate satin couch with a sigh, causing dust particles to dance in the air.

The apartment smelled of old lavender and mustiness. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but instead she saw Henri’s face. What would he think if he could see her now, serving a man such as von Krohn? Henri had always been so supportive of her adventures. It’s for France, she emphasized, maybe for her husband’s ghost, or maybe for herself. She could feel a tear coursing its way down her cheek. She wiped it away and got up to wander over to the window. As she pulled back the curtains, she was surprised to find the heavy drapes hid a gorgeous view of the ocean, but even that couldn’t shake her feelings of melancholy.

The promise she had made to Ladoux haunted her as much as Henri’s ghost. There were not many people she could trust—she wasn’t even entirely confident in the people who proclaimed to be on her side. She was starting to realize that being a double agent was a terribly lonely occupation and supposed the secret service door would always remain shut against friendship and love alike.

Needless to say, that night was a sleepless one. Alouette rose at dawn, collected her luggage, and returned to the Hotel Continental.

The Baron was waiting for her at the beach the next morning.

“My stay in San Sebastian has begun under unpleasant auspices,” Alouette told him, biting back the wave of nausea that accompanied her at seeing von Krohn in his short-sleeved, form-fitting swim outfit. “I had to clear out this morning from that flat.” 

“Oh, why is that?”

She thought of an explanation that might just get him to keep his hands to himself. “I realized my fiancé wouldn’t like me staying in a house arranged by another man.”

 “A fiancé?” Von Krohn’s face darkened and Alouette knew his mind raced with questions. Luckily he was too polite to demand why she hadn’t mentioned this before now. “What is his name?” he asked instead.

The first man that came to mind was the quarrelsome, dark-eyed Slav she’d last seen in her boss’s office. “Joseph Davrichachvili. But I call him Zozo. He is also an aviator.”

“Is he aware of the role you have taken on regarding German intelligence?”

Alouette shook her head. “But given his status as an anarchist, I don’t think he’d mind.”

“I see,” von Krohn said, in a tone that meant the opposite. “Where will you stay now?”

“The Hotel Continental.”

His eyes grew even colder. “What a pity that you did not consult me first. The Hotel Continental is run by French people.”

Alouette did her best to conceal the thrill of delight at knowing that he could not call on her there. She tore off her cover-up to reveal her striped swimming costume and ran toward the waves.

Chapter 31

M’greet

June 1915

M’greet arrived by train to Antwerp. She had been to the city before in her travels, and always thought it charming—although one of the biggest cities in Belgium, it stubbornly clung to its small-town atmosphere. Her favorite part had always been Old Town, which, with its maze of narrow cobblestone alleys, made her feel she was walking back through time. Europe once thought Antwerp, with its ringed outer fortresses, impregnable, but the Germans had proved them wrong in the fall of 1914 and now they occupied the city.

Grand Central station was newly built, and even M’greet marveled at the domed steel roof. The heavy, Gothic-style interior and dark tile floor might have seemed gloomy, save for all the light that gleamed through the hundreds of ornate glass windows.

She walked outside into the sunlight and hailed a cab. As they drove through the suburbs, M’greet was shocked by what she saw. The little houses and pubs ringing the city had been razed to the ground and the only thing remaining of the once beautiful trees were blackened stumps.

“What happened here?” she asked the driver, gazing out at the barb-wire scarred, desolate landscape. “Was it the zeppelins?”

“No, mevrouw. The Belgians did it themselves. They wanted to give their guns and cannons a better shot at the invading Boches. Fat lot it did them.” He stopped to let a group of soldiers in spiked helmets cross the street. M’greet couldn’t help but notice how similar the soldiers looked to each other: their uniforms impeccable, they were all about the same height and wore the same grim frown.

Half an hour later, the driver pulled up in front of a rundown castle. “What is your business here?” he asked, staring out at the ancient stone wall that snaked around the building.

“Just…” M’greet was at a loss for words. What was her business here? Kroemer had mentioned something about spy training. “It’s a hospital,” she replied finally.

It was clear from the look on the driver’s face he didn’t believe her.

“My trunks.” M’greet snapped as she opened the cab door.

He threw them at her feet and drove off. She decided to leave her luggage inside the gate and walked toward the massive fortification. The iron knocker creaked in protest when she attempted to use it. She waited a few minutes, wondering if the sound could even penetrate the immense wood door. She reached up to knock again, but put her arm down as she heard the door start to open.

“Ja?” demanded a man’s voice. The door and the shadows from the interior obscured his face.

Having forgotten her instructions, M’greet stated that she was there on the request of Karl Kroemer.

He opened the heavy door wider with little effort. “Kroemer?” The voice belonged to a stocky man in a German officer’s uniform.

“Bring her in,” a woman commanded. “We’ve been expecting the famous Mata Hari.”

The crumbling appearance of the exterior belied the interior, M’greet discovered as she walked into a large anteroom full of modern military gear, uniforms, and maps. “I have some bags outside,” she told the officer. He nodded and left.

The woman stepped forward. “H-21. Welcome.” She was tall and thin, her face as taut as the chignon that held her blonde hair.

M’greet could feel the woman’s steely eyes boring into her and she met them steadily.

“Sich hinsetzen,” the woman commanded in a sharp voice.

M’greet sat. “How long will I be staying here?”

“You will be here until I am satisfied you can serve in the field,” the woman replied, flexing her fingers, which were adorned with jeweled rings.

“Mademoiselle—” M’greet began.

“Fräulein,” she corrected. “You may refer to me as Fräulein Doktor.”

“Fräulein Doktor,” M’greet thought hastily, trying not to insult the woman. Something told her that the Fräulein did not tolerate being asked the wrong question. “Are you in… charge here?”

She turned narrowed eyes on M’greet. “My duties include the instruction of new recruits, securing the lines of communication between our agents and headquarters, and debriefing any agents arriving back from the field. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, quite. Thank you,” M’greet added.

Fräulein Doktor frowned as the officer walked in, pulling a trunk with each hand, the leather straps of her handbags crossing at his chest, the bags adding girth to his fat hips.

She lit a cigarette. “Your first lesson, H-21, is that a spy should not draw undue attention to themselves. Traveling with so much baggage is inadvisable. You will learn to get by with fewer accoutrements.” She took a long drag. “Spying is a science. It is not an adventure to be undertaken for tawdry pleasures or quick money.”

M’greet opened her mouth to say something, but shut it as Fräulein Doktor continued, “You must rest now as tomorrow we will begin your intensive training.” She nodded to the officer, who picked up M’greet’s bags once again and began heading down the hall slowly.

M’greet, unsure what else to do, curtsied to the Fräulein before following the officer.

“Is the Fräulein a medical doctor?” M’greet asked the officer in a hiss. Even though they were out of earshot, something told M’greet that there were hidden microphones throughout the castle.

“No. She was one of the first women in Germany to earn a doctorate—in sociology.”

“Oh,” M’greet replied as the officer suddenly halted. His hands full, he kicked the door open.

M’greet, expecting to find a room worthy of a castle, let out a cry of disdain. “Are these my sleeping quarters?”

“Yes. Yours and Fräulein Benedix.”

“I am to have a roommate?” M’greet could barely fit into the sparsely furnished room as it was, let alone with another person.

“Indeed.” He rid himself of his burden, putting the handbags down on the rusted wire-framed bed.

“Who is this Benedix woman?” M’greet demanded.

He shrugged. “Another recruit.”

Fräulein Benedix arrived later that same night, but M’greet had already fallen asleep on the hard bed, and didn’t meet her roommate until morning. M’greet was awoken by the sound of her rummaging through her suitcase at what seemed like the crack of dawn.

Fräulein Benedix must have sensed M’greet stirring, as she turned with a friendly smile. M’greet noted that her coloring was similar to her own, but her bunkmate was much shorter.

“Clara,” Fräulein Benedix said, extending her hand.

M’greet shook it and introduced herself.

“Oh,” Clara’s mouth formed a bow. “You’re Mata Hari, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“I’ve heard so much about you. I too am a dancer.”

“Is that so?” M’greet stretched her arms over her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you. Where have you performed?”

Clara waved her hand. “Nowhere you’ve ever heard of, and nowhere near the famous halls you are familiar with.”

M’greet glanced out the window. “The sun has not even risen yet.”

“Yes, but we must be at breakfast in five minutes. The Fräulein’s orders.” She retrieved a comb from her bag and ran it through her hair.

M’greet heaved a deep sigh. “I’m not sure I could get ready in that short amount of time.”

Clara stopped combing. “And risk the Fräulein’s wrath? I’m not sure you want to do that.”

M’greet pictured the monstrous frown that would surely appear on the blonde-haired woman’s drawn face. “You’re right.” She threw back the covers on her bed. “Mind if I borrow your comb?”

After a meager breakfast, the recruits assembled in the anteroom. Besides Clara and M’greet, there were two males and two other women who appeared to be sisters. In contrast to the German soldiers M’greet saw on the street the other day, these men looked nothing alike: one was tall and thin, the other short and fat. The other two females were of medium height, both with dark hair and blue eyes and introduced themselves as Julia and Maria Manzanarés, proving that they were indeed sisters. The thought occurred to M’greet that none of them, herself included, looked like spies.

Fräulein Doktor entered carrying a riding whip with an ivory handle. She paused in front of them and smacked the whip on a table. “Silence!”

The other recruits stopped their chit-chat and looked up.

A diamond cigarette holder was pinched between the Fräulein’s first two fingers and it, along with the myriad of jewels that covered her hand, caught the sunlight and threw sparkling reflections all over the stone walls of the anteroom. So much for not attracting attention. 

The Fräulein ashed the cigarette holder with a graceful flick. “Today’s lesson will be how to detect other spies, both those that work for our side and the enemy. This could quite possibly save your lives.” She paced up and down the room as she spoke, occasionally shooting her new recruits looks that sent shivers up and down their spines.

“You must play up on the French spies. The English ones are respectable and undergo equally rigorous training, but the people employed by France are inexperienced and easy to turn into Doppelagenten.”

Double agents, M’greet translated. Unused to being intimidated—which she certainly was, by the surrounding stone walls of the immense castle, by the military paraphernalia scattered throughout, and especially by the Fräulein—half of M’greet wanted to run for the Belgian hills, but the other half was determined to make the Germans pay for the property they had stolen.

The Fräulein made them memorize a script to recite whenever they fell upon a suspected spy before calling upon M’greet and Clara to act it out.

“Wie denkst du über das Vaterland?” Clara asked in a loud, clear voice.

How do I feel about the Fatherland? Not very well, considering they took all of my furs at the beginning of the war. Which begs the question: what am I doing here? M’greet got so lost in her own thoughts that she forgot the next lines. 

“Ich bin mir nicht sicher,” was M’greet’s reply. I am not sure. She repeated the first line, asking in turn how Clara felt about the Fatherland.

“Nein!” Fräulein Doktor shouted, banging her whip on the nearest table. She waited for the sound to finish reverberating around the room before she said in her high, pinched voice: “Those are not the lines, H-21. You must stick to regulations, and never, ever improvise.”

M’greet’s rational brain told her to beg for forgiveness, but, as usual, her impetuousness won out. “I’ve been improvising all my life. I am an entertainer.”

The Fräulein marched over and stood in front of her, her whip held between crossed arms. “Are you that stupid, woman, to contradict me?”

M’greet raised her chin and was about to argue, but logic won this time. “No, fräulein,” she mumbled, avoiding those steely gray eyes.

“Again!” the Fräulein commanded, stomping a boot for lack of a nearby surface upon which to smack her whip.

This time M’greet managed to get it right.

Chapter 32

Marthe

June 1915

Summer had come to Roulers. Although the faint sounds of machine guns were ever-present, the equally ubiquitous bird songs somehow managed to mitigate some of the horrors of war. Stray shells still occasionally soared over the town, but they usually exploded in the air above or plunged into empty fields. 

For once since the war started, Marthe felt surprisingly light-hearted. In May, the Germans had made the mistake of sinking the Lusitania. There were many U.S. citizens aboard, and all of Europe was holding their breath that America would soon join the Allies.

When Canteen Ma delivered a new message: “Take care: counter-espionage being strengthened throughout Belgium. Trust no one,” Marthe crumpled the message in her hand before tossing it into the flames of the kitchen stove. The Germans were always tightening their counter-espionage measures and since she had come this far, there was no sense in worrying over something she had no control over.

That night was yet another busy one at the hospital, but, during a much-needed break, Marthe overheard two orderlies state that several hundred troops were to be billeted at an old brewery on the outskirts of town. This was an unusual development: most of the time soldiers were quartered in civilian homes in pairs or threesomes before going off to the front. Such a concentration in one place would make an excellent target for the “Seven Sisters”—a group of British planes that occasionally dropped bombs over Roulers. To many of the oppressed Belgian citizens, the Seven Sisters were a welcome sight, even though the Allied planes often flew low and positioned their machine-guns on anything within their targets.

It was nearly midnight when Marthe set out to deliver the news to Agent 63. She was just across from the window when she heard footsteps in the alleyway, so she crouched down in a doorway, doing her best to hide in the shadows.

Had she been followed? The slip of paper tucked into her bun, on which she had printed the brewery information, felt warm, as if it could spontaneously combust and set her hair on fire.

The footsteps grew closer and a vague figure paused in front of the fifth window. Marthe relaxed her stance, thinking it must be a fellow agent dropping off their own message. Indeed, she watched as the figure knocked on the window in the same sequence she used: three taps, a pause, then two more. She assumed it was safe to come out of her hiding place, but something inside prevented her from doing so.

The window slid open without a sound, just the same as it always did for her, and a white, outstretched hand appeared in the moonlight. But then the shadowed figure pulled something from its belt. A red flash and a booming sound interrupted the silent night. The sound echoed through the narrow alley walls before Marthe heard a strangled cry and an even more disturbing thud. 

The figure located an abandoned crate and put it below the window before climbing into the apartment.

Marthe had no recourse but to sit there, crouched in the shadows. Agent 63 had been discovered. Agent 63 had been murdered.

She waited for at least half an hour, maybe more. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted the dark figure to reappear, but it did not. Finally she rose, her knees stiff, and left the alleyway.

The walk home in the dead of night from Agent 63’s window, while never pleasant, was the worst Marthe had ever experienced. She feared that a policeman lurked at every intersection with a rifle aimed straight at her heart. This was the penalty of espionage. This was what Canteen Ma had tried to warn her about.

When at last she was secure in her own bedroom and able to close her eyes against the terror of being caught, all she could see was Agent 63’s white hand reaching out to the murderer. The last thing on her mind before she succumbed to a restless sleep was: now how she was going to pass on the information about the soldiers billeted at the brewery?

Mother remarked in the morning that Marthe must not have slept well.

“No,” she admitted.

“What is it?” Mother asked. Marthe never told her mother the minute details of what she had been doing. Of course her mother knew that her daughter was a spy, but not the full extent. Now Marthe confided about Agent 63’s death, expecting that Mother would persuade her to quit the espionage game altogether.

“What message were you trying to get to Agent 63?” she asked instead.

Marthe filled her in on the brewery.

“Perhaps I could run into Canteen Ma in the Grand Place this morning. The café is always in need of fresh fruit.”

“You? You would take the message to Canteen Ma?” Marthe asked incredulously.

“With Agent 63 gone, you will need to find a new form of communication.”

Marthe gave Mother the tiny piece of paper. “Just get as close as you can to her and slip this into her hand when no one is looking.”

Mother nodded.

On the way to the hospital, Marthe mused over Agent 63’s death, expecting every minute for the name Marthe Cnockaert to be called, a forcible hand to be placed on her shoulder, a man calling for her doom to appear.

As soon as Marthe walked in through the hospital doors, an orderly rushed up. “Fräulein Cnockaert, the Oberarzt wants to see you in his office.”

Marthe’s knees felt weak as she made her way down the hall. In her recollection, the Oberarzt had never once commanded her presence in his office. A buzzing began in the back of her forehead, which made its way to the front of her scalp when she saw the Town-Kommandant also waited for her. As this was probably the end of her spying career, and possibly her life, she hoped Mother would be able to pass on the brewery information. 

The Oberarzt stood up from his desk and came over to greet her with an unexpected smile. “Congratulations, Fräulein Cnockaert.”

Marthe, suddenly aware of her open mouth, closed it dumbly. Was this a joke?

The Town-Kommandant also stood. “His Royal Highness, the King of Württemberg, has graciously awarded you the reverent Iron Cross for all of your fine work and dedication to this hospital.”

Marthe sank into a chair.

The Oberarzt coughed as the Town-Kommandant held out a black and white ribbon with a silver-trimmed black cross. Marthe rose and stood at attention as he hung it on her neck. “The Fatherland is proud of the work you’ve done.”

She nodded, touching the black cross, which felt hot in her hand.

“Thank you, Herr Kommandant,” she replied, longing to take the heavy necklace off as soon as possible.

Otto approached her that night. He glanced shiftily around the lounge before asking if she’d come with him to his room.

“That wouldn’t be proper,” Marthe replied.

“I need to speak to you about a serious matter.” His gaze refused to meet hers, and Marthe could feel the blood drain from her face. Was this the moment she’d been waiting for since that shot rang out in the alleyway last night? Wordlessly she trailed him up the stairs.

Otto seemed somewhat more at ease with the door shut. He pulled a chair very close to the lone lamp before offering Marthe the chair and a cigarette. She politely refused the cigarette as she sat down, the lamp heating her cold face. Otto hunkered in the corner, his profile hidden in shadow.

She waited for the interrogation to begin, but Otto said, unexpectedly, “I’ve heard good reports of you, Marthe. Congratulations on earning the Iron Cross. How do you feel about the chance to earn an even greater distinction?”

News in the German espionage system travels fast. She knew that he could see every little nerve play out on her face, so Marthe proceeded with caution. “What is it you would have me do?”

“I have knowledge that there are at least three spies against Germany here in Roulers. One of them, a woman, was shot last night.”

So Agent 63 was indeed a woman. She tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes were merely glints of steel in that dark corner he’d chosen.

What was Otto thinking? Could he have been the shadowy figure in the alleyway last night? She nearly startled visibly as the miserable thought struck that Otto had followed her home. She attempted to compose herself, fearing that he could hear her heartbeat from across the room. “Who are these people you suspect?” Even Marthe was surprised by how calm her voice sounded.

He tilted his head toward the light, looking like a boy who was proud of having a secret from his mother. “I shall have to reserve that to myself, Marthe.”

“How can I assist you, then?”

“The Higher Command is aware that there is a rebel underground intelligence system operating here in Roulers. There are a few people whose confidence I would like you to gain.”

“You want me to find proof that these people are spies.”

He waved his hand. “Not necessarily proof. Just let me know if you see or hear of them doing anything suspicious.”

“You are asking me to act as an agent of the German government.”

“Not an agent. Just an aid. Marthe,” he picked up his chair and moved it closer to her. “You are a very intelligent girl. Many people trust you.” He reached a hand out to touch her hair. “Not to mention very pretty.”

Marthe cringed inwardly. Her first thought was to flee the room, but she didn’t want him to think it was because of his proposal. She faked a yawn instead, stretching out her arms and pulling her hair away from his fingers. “It’s late,” she said, standing. “I shall give what you said much thought and let you know my decision tomorrow.”

“Good night and sweet dreams, meine liebe fräulein.” He opened the door for her.

As he closed it, Marthe clenched her hands into fists. She raised one of them, picturing it connecting with the fine bones of Otto’s face. What was he thinking? Without knowing it, he had just proposed for her to become a double agent.

Marthe once again had a hard time sleeping. How could she possibly get out of the situation Otto had put her in? She decided her best recourse was to dig up some sort of information: something the Germans would look upon as valuable, but innocuous enough that it would not further endanger her allies. Finally she fell asleep, dreaming of being placed in front of a German firing squad.

Three nights later, Marthe was awakened just after midnight to the sound of incoming planes. She rushed to the window to see the “Seven Sisters” heading north. The German’s anti-aircraft searchlights occasionally caught one of them in their lights. Soon the screeching of bombs was heard. Several explosions followed, then the screaming from the bombs turned into human screaming. Marthe got out of bed and hurriedly dressed and then headed to the hospital.

The hallways were filled with wounded soldiers, and blood appeared to seep from everywhere: the soldiers themselves, the mattresses, it even seemed to stem from the wall. Marthe threw herself into her work, trying to do anything to distract herself from thinking that she was the cause of all of this human wreckage.

It was nearly noon when she returned home in her ruined nursing uniform. Otto was sitting on the steps outside the café, smoking a cigarette.

“Marthe,” he called upon seeing her. “That bombing of the brewery was the result of someone in this town reporting the billeted soldiers’ location to the Allies. Such vermin deserve the same treatment as this cigarette,” he added as he repeatedly stabbed it into the sidewalk before crushing it with his boot.

She didn’t say anything as she stared at the black stain he’d left on the concrete.

“You will help me catch this spy, won’t you, Marthe? I want you to report back to me in a week’s time.”

He walked inside the café, leaving her on the sidewalk, pondering what to do. After all, it was she, with the help of her mother and Canteen Ma, who had informed the Allies of the location of the soldiers. But maybe she could find a way to pin it on one of their secret detectives, a false safety-pin man, one of the men who made the lives of Roulers’ civilian population so miserable.

A few days later, Otto grabbed her arm as she tried to pass him on the stairs. “Have you any news for me, Marthe?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I need more time.”

He peered into her face. “I should think you have had ample time to at least develop an inkling into who is helping these underground activities.” He must have detected the fear in her expression for he grasped her hand and rubbed his thumb over her palm. “Do not be afraid, Marthe. Not a soul in Roulers will know of the work you are doing for us. You can trust us, especially me.” He dropped her hand as though it were a hot plate. “I have always liked you, and I do not wish to make myself unpleasant to you.” With that, he turned and hurried down the stairs.

Marthe continued to her room. Once there, she flung herself on the bed. She was no surer what to do now than she was when Otto had first hatched his terrible plan. Gradually she became aware of a bird’s chirping and looked up to see a fat robin just outside her window. He kept up his trilling, as if he had not a care in the world. I wish I could say the same.

A gunshot rang out and the bird flew away. Marthe opened the window to see what the commotion was. A man in plain clothes was shooting at pigeons across the Grand Place. She narrowed her eyes in annoyance, but then smiled as an idea occurred to her.

She sat down at her little table and wrote a series of letters and numbers on a slip of paper, bigger than what she would normally have delivered to Agent 63.

Before Marthe left work the next day, she took the slip of paper and rubbed it across a piece of raw meat in the kitchen until the paper was good and bloody. She then delivered it to Otto. “I obtained this from a Belgian man who wishes to remain anonymous,” she told him. “He found it on a pigeon lying dead on the road to Ypres. Neither he nor I could decode it, but I’m sure your men would have that ability.”

He snatched the paper from her hands and Marthe watched as he scanned it. “Without a doubt,” he finally replied, meeting her eyes. “You’ve done well, Marthe. This will go straight to the cipher department—they can crack any code within 24 hours.”

Marthe sighed with relief as Otto left, the message tucked into his pocket, dried blood and all. She’d just earned at least a day’s break from his pestering, but, like a patient leaving a grueling hour at the dentist’s knowing they’d have to finish the procedure soon, she knew her respite wouldn’t last forever. Once Otto realized he’d been duped and the message was nonsense, he’d be back.

A few days later, as Marthe passed by the Grand Place on her way to work, she saw Otto talking to a man she knew to be a German detective. Otto waved to her and she paused. He nodded at the detective before approaching her.

“I just can’t figure it out, Marthe. That paper you gave me—the coding department can’t make heads or tails of it.” He took off his cap and scratched his head. “Do you think that the paper could have been a trick?”

Although she’d been expecting this, Marthe’s breath still caught in her throat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve had the best code breakers in Germany examining this, and even they can’t solve it. No Tommy could be good enough at coding to outsmart our experts.”

Marthe shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

He replaced his cap. “At any rate, keep your eye out. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Both of them looked up as a robin landed nearby and picked at something on the ground. Otto tipped his cap to her, his smile holding no warmth as he bid her goodbye and returned to the detective, who had been observing them from a few meters away.

Marthe continued on to the hospital, her heart heavy. Even the sight of Alphonse exiting the courtyard did nothing to lift her spirits.

He held the courtyard gate open for her. “Is something wrong, Marthe?”

A denial of anything amiss was on her lips, but then she hesitated. Alphonse was clearly loyal to the Cause, and she desperately needed to confide in someone. She tilted her head toward a corner of the courtyard and he followed her. Once they were sure no one was in earshot, she told him about Otto’s proposal for her to become a double agent. “If something doesn’t happen soon to help me out of this dilemma, I think I might go mad,” she added.

Alphonse tightened his hands into fists. “How dare that Boche put you in this predicament.” He took a deep breath and relaxed his body. “Let me think on a solution, and I will get back to you.”

She placed her hand on his arm, which immediately stiffened again. “Thank you, Alphonse.”

“No, thank you, Marthe, for your service. And please don’t worry, I will figure out a way to get you out of this.”

She watched him stroll away, feeling much better about the Otto situation.

Two days later, as Marthe made her way down stairs to the kitchen, she heard a heavy thump on the landing. Red Carl stood in the threshold of Otto’s door, a canvas kit bag at his feet.

“Is Otto going away?” Marthe asked.

“He’s gone, fräulein.” 

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“He’s dead,” was his only response. 

Marthe first assumed that Alphonse had something to do with Otto’s death, but he had been at the front the night Otto was murdered by two bullets passing through his brain.

“It wasn’t me,” Alphonse insisted when they had found a moment alone, again in the courtyard. “I passed by Canteen Ma in the Grand Place the afternoon you told me about Otto. I informed her of the situation you’d been put in, and she replied, “‘There are several safety-pin men that would be interested to hear of this.’”

“Thank you, Alphonse.” Marthe reached her hand out, but he stepped backward.

“Have I ever told you what I’m going to do once the war is over?” he asked.

Numbed by his unexpected brush-off, she shook her head.

“I’m going to become a priest.” With that, he left the courtyard.

Marthe watched his tall frame walk away, wondering if he told her that to convince her that it couldn’t have been he who killed Otto. Or if it was for some other reason altogether.

Chapter 33

Alouette

June 1915

The days at San Sebastian passed relatively peacefully: the Baron was often away on business and Alouette spent a lot of time relaxing at the beach, trying to avoid the nagging feeling that she was not making much headway at spying.

Finally von Krohn stated that he was to return to Madrid and this time he had no objection to her joining him.

He installed her in Madrid’s Palace Hotel, reserving the best room for her. The hotel was only a few years old, and, as her porter informed her, the only one in Spain to have both a bathroom and a telephone installed in each of its 800 rooms.

She arrived in her new lodgings to find a large bouquet of roses waiting for her on the table. When she saw the card was signed by von Krohn, she tossed it into the garbage pail without reading the message.

“Something wrong, señorita?” the porter asked.

Alouette shook her head and went to the window, which looked out onto the tree-lined Paseo del Prado boulevard.

The porter bowed. “Good evening, señorita.”

Alouette decided to ease her irritation at von Krohn by going for a walk to explore Madrid and changed into a walking dress.

As she passed through the hotel’s ornate double doors, she noticed a policeman walking a beat directly outside of the hotel. She crossed the Paseo del Prado into the park and paused by a fountain with a statue of Apollo. Giving a quick glance over her shoulder, she was surprised to see that the policeman had followed her.

Alouette decided to keep walking, and when she reached the intersection of the Calle de Acalá and the Paseo de Recolotos, she turned her head right and left, feigning that she was lost. The policeman was a few feet behind, watching.

She summoned up the little Spanish she knew and called, “Perdóneme, señor.”

He gazed around before realizing she must be addressing him. “Qué?”

She asked him to point her to the Plaza Hotel. “I’m supposed to be meeting the Baron von Krohn, the German military attaché, there soon.”

He blinked twice at the name before pointing to the large building right behind her.

“Gracias,” Alouette replied before walking off.

Alouette found herself completely alone in this new city. As her Spanish was not very good, she did not have anyone to speak to except von Krohn.

When she complained about her loneliness to him, he decided that he would introduce Alouette to his wife. “She is quite anxious to meet you and I know that you two will get along splendidly.”

Alouette was not so sure, but the Baron persuaded her to join them for lunch. “She wishes for you to procure some toiletries for her the next time you are in Paris.”

Von Krohn’s wife, Ilse, was much younger than Alouette had expected; she looked to be only a few years older than herself, a brunette who held herself in a dignified manner. Ilse was an heiress and the von Krohns could afford a lifestyle unique to most of the other Germans in the area. They were the only ones in the diplomatic service with a chauffeur and motor car. Alouette wondered why on earth she had married the odious Baron, unless it was just that she desired to be styled as a Baroness.

“Do you speak German?” Ilse asked in French.

“No, madame,” Alouette answered.

“It is no matter,” Ilse said. “I am glad of the opportunity to practice my French.” To her husband, she spoke in German, which Alouette easily translated. “Hans, are you quite certain she does not know German?”

“Nein,” von Krohn returned.

“Well, if you want to know for sure, I know a way.” She held out her hand to Alouette. “My husband and I are hosting a little dinner party tomorrow night. We would love it if you could come.”

Dressed in a beaded navy-blue gown, Alouette arrived at von Krohn’s house at the allotted time, but the guests were already seated. It seemed to her that their expressions were spiteful as they exchanged furtive glances with one another. Neither the Baron nor his wife introduced Alouette to anyone, and she took her seat at the end of the table with a sense of foreboding that they had been gossiping about her before she arrived.

There were thirteen guests at the table, Alouette noted, a mixture of German officers and some affluent-looking Spanish couples. As the soup was served, she tried to converse with the man on her right, a fat German with equally chubby hands sprinkled with dark hair.

“French people have a sort of holy terror of the number thirteen,” she said in her native language.

“Oh, is that so?” His French accent was atrocious.

“Yes. If my mother were here, she would either make someone get up from the table or else invite the butler to dine with us.”

“Are you afraid of death?”

Alouette, taken back by his abruptness, replied, “If that were so, I never would have been an airwoman.”

The eyes of her companions focused on her. She expected to hear praise, or at least a few questions about her feats, but there was only silence which Alouette was desperate to fill. “This soup is quite tasty.”

One of the officers turned to von Krohn and said in German, “God will punish England for entering this war.” He spoke with the guttural accent typical of his countrymen. “When we have won, we shall make England a colony.”

“Those French are utterly incomprehensible to me,” the German with the hairy hands added. He glanced at Alouette, but she focused on her soup, once again pretending not to comprehend a word these brutes said. “They continue fighting for the English, knowing full well that they have not the faintest chance at success.”

“What’s more,” added the original speaker, “the latest bulletins state that the French are surrendering, preferring to be prisoners of war than to fight. But we have no room for them in our camps, and headquarters have ordered that they all be killed.”

A man with a bulbous nose seated next to the Baroness spoke up. “The French are cowards. Their degenerate race is worn out by loathsome diseases, carried by their women, who are all harlots.”

Alouette fought back the impulse to spit in their faces. Despite having no appetite, she forced herself to eat. Toward the second course, the German with the bulbous nose roared in German, “How long will it be before she shows the first symptoms?”

“Half an hour or so,” von Krohn replied.

“She appears calm,” the fat German said. “She would not be so calm if she was aware of the horrible death awaiting her.”

Alouette willed her expression to not reveal her bewilderment. It’s only a loathsome trick they are playing to get me to admit I speak German. She took a sip of water.

As the dessert and coffee were served, the young man on Alouette’s other side seemed to take pity on her. “I too am an airman. What sort of plane did you fly?” he asked in French.

“A Caudron. I knew the inventor.”

“Pity he died in that accident.”

“Yes,” Alouette agreed sadly. “A pity indeed.” 

She could feel the Baron’s eyes on her and glanced up. His expression was stony as he said, “Madame Richer, you look quite tired.”

“I am.” She delicately wiped at her mouth before setting the napkin down.

“She can’t be that tired. I’m sure there’s some man waiting in her hotel bed,” the bulbous-nosed German stated.

Von Krohn stood. “Gentlemen, should we retire into my office for a cigar?” He nodded at Alouette, giving his permission for her to leave the disastrous dinner party.

She had passed their hateful test.

The Baron met her the next day. “You are being followed by one of the German Embassy’s military attachés. A man by the name of Major Arnold Kalle.”

“What? Aren’t you employed by the German secret service?”

“Yes,” von Krohn stated with barely concealed impatience. “But Kalle is upset because I never give him information about my department.”

“I had no idea that the Germans exercised such pettiness when it comes to espionage.” The full meaning of his statement finally settled in. “What should I do? Can’t you get this man recalled back to Germany?”

He sighed. “I don’t have any solid proof. One day, one of my agents, a Frenchman, drowned under mysterious circumstances outside of San Sebastian. But I have nothing but my suspicions.”

Alouette was silent as she contemplated this. She had no one to protect her, and it seemed that even von Krohn was unwilling to advise her. They walked to the Puerta del Sol Square, where the Baron took his leave of her, stating that he had errands to run. He looked deliberately at a motor car with a Spanish license plate as he did so.

Alouette headed back to the hotel, noting that the car followed slowly behind her, pulling off the street while she waited on a corner. Glancing behind her, she could see the shadowy figures of two men, but the bright sunlight prevented her from discerning much else.

It was tea time when Alouette returned. She sat in the corner of the hotel bistro by herself and flipped through a magazine to hide her agitation. Presently, a trio was seated at the table next to her. Alouette noticed the Legion d’ Honneur, a medal recognizing the highest military honor, pinned to the suit of one man.

“You are French?” Alouette asked after the men were seated.

“Oui¸” replied the man wearing the Legion d’ Honneur. “I am General Denvignes, military attaché to the French Embassy.”

Alouette introduced herself. 

“Will you be staying in Madrid long?” Denvignes asked. 

She longed to confide in her fellow countryman about her true purpose in Spain, but Alouette steeled herself not to say anything compromising. “I’m not sure. Possibly till the end of the war.” She smiled politely, but her grin faded as she caught sight of two men entering the room. She narrowed her eyes, surmising that they were the same men from the car that had followed her earlier. Were they French, German, Spanish, or another nationality all together?

She rose, bidding adieu to General Denvignes and his companions, before leaving the tea room. She headed back out onto the Paseo del Prado. As she predicted, the two men exited the hotel behind her. One of them, a tall young man dressed in an expensive suit, approached her. “Madame, will you be so good as to read this letter and give me an answer as soon as possible?” His accent was that of a posh Briton.

“Is there a return address on it?”

“Yes, madame.”

Alouette felt uneasy as she accepted the letter. As soon as the men entered their car, she went back into the hotel.

The letter carried the address of the English Intelligence Department.

Alouette put it down on the desk with a sigh, thinking that a double agent must always be on the alert. A kindly invitation could be the first step toward a firing squad. She decided to pay a call on von Krohn.

The servant who answered the door delivered her straight into the Baron’s office. The Baroness was also in there and had a look of feigned concern as Alouette displayed the letter to von Krohn. It seemed to Alouette that the Baroness’s interest was not so false after all, and she wondered if she had indeed been set up.

Von Krohn sighed. “You must return to Paris straightaway,” he told Alouette.

The baroness clapped her hands delightedly. “I will make you a list of things I would like you to bring back for me,” she called before rushing out of the room.

Alouette sat in her seat. “Paris? Why?”

“I think it’s best if you are away from here for a while.”

“Am I in danger?”

“No, nothing of the sort. At least I don’t think so. I just think you should leave Madrid for a few days, maybe a fortnight.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course not.” Von Krohn gave a hollow laugh. “I’m just trying to protect you.”

Alouette rose.

“I’ll see you in a fortnight,” von Krohn stated.

Chapter 34

Marthe

July 1915

Something unusual was happening in Roulers. There was a curious air of activity among the Germans, although not like that which preceded the poisonous gas attacks of the spring. It seemed as though all of the Germans had gone mad with cleanliness. The regular army’s uniforms were new, their brass buttons catching the sunlight, their boots polished to perfection, and even their equipment lost its battered appearance. Non-combatant personnel were ordered to the hospital and spent their days polishing the floors until they shined like glass and using rags tied to long poles to expunge cobwebs and dust from the ceilings.

As Marthe passed the civilian cabin, she saw a familiar figure on the porch.

“Alphonse,” she called, momentarily forgetting about the awkwardness of their last encounter.

He lifted a rag and waved at her.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

Marthe came onto the porch, where Alphonse was occupied in rubbing an aluminum tub. “Why?”

“Don’t know.” He rubbed at a non-existent spot on the sparkling tub. “Do you think that’s good enough?”

“It’s like a mirror,” she said as the aluminum caught the light from the dimming sun.

He sat back on his knees. “That’s what I thought last night. I came in from a heavy day spent in the ambulance, under fire, mind you, and the hospital sergeant told me to scrub out this tub. When I presented it to him, he told me I’d done a terrible job, called me an idler, and then boxed me round the ears. So here I am, cleaning again.”

“Why does everything need to be so immaculate all of a sudden?”

Alphonse threw his rag down. “I’m not sure, but something is definitely happening. The troops in Roulers are all being told similar things.” He looked up at Marthe, his green eyes filled with worry. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, just as soon as I finish up here.”

She nodded, noting as she hurried home the hue of the verdant grass in the setting sun was not unlike the color of Alphonse’s eyes.

A few days later, Marthe was grabbing bandages from the supply cart when a voice whispered in her ear, “The Kaiser will be in Brussels next week and then is due to pay a visit to Roulers after.”

She nearly dropped her kit before turning to see Alphonse. “The Kaiser?” she repeated, a bit too loudly. She rubbed at the back of her neck, feeling the hairs standing up from Alphonse’s proximity. Both gazed up and down the hallway, but luckily no one was in earshot.

“Yes,” Alphonse answered. “Can you find out the date and time?”

She nodded.

Marthe went through the motions of nursing that day, her mind occupied by the information Alphonse had delivered. She might have guessed that these intense preparations could only be for the Kaiser himself. But how would she get reliable information about such a sensitive subject?

Suppose I could bring about his death. The thought occurred to her at lunch. If it were the Emperor of Germany that had brought this scourge upon them, would ending his life mean ending the war? And who in Roulers would be able to supply the vital information?

Canteen Ma called at the door early the next day. She handed Marthe the weekly vegetables before slipping a pincushion into her hand. Marthe headed to her room and ripped open the message hidden in the cushion:

“The Kaiser arrives in Roulers the latter half of next week for an inspection. Need the time and date etc. to inform Allied aircraft.”

So British Intelligence knew no more than Marthe.

Soon polished officers with tight waistcoats flooded the streets of Roulers with their fancy cars. The General Staff arrived and began barking orders, making sure the heel-clicking of the marching soldiers was loud enough to be heard in Ypres. Their incessant commands to make sure everything was satisfactory for the mighty war-lord put everyone in a bad mood, including Marthe, who was no closer to finding out information on the Kaiser’s visit.

A steely-eyed staff colonel visited the hospital, and the Oberarzt asked Marthe to show the officer around. When Marthe walked into the main office, the colonel rose, clicked his heels together and bowed.

“If you will excuse me, Colonel,” the Oberarzt said, his manner as deferential as always, “a number of cases have been brought to the hospital and my presence is needed in the operating theater.”

“It is no problem,” the colonel replied, rubbing at his fair mustache. He nodded at Marthe. “After you, fräulein.”

The colonel followed as she began the tour. “Everything is so spotless,” he commented upon seeing the German ward. “You must spend every minute you are not with patients cleaning. I suppose if you run out of dinner trays, the patients wouldn’t mind eating off these immaculate floors.” He obviously found himself quite witty, and Marthe indulged him with a smile.

Their tour ended, as they approached the Oberarzt’s office, the colonel asked if Marthe might have lunch with him tomorrow.

He had been very polite the entire tour—he was obviously well-bred, even if he was a German, and perhaps may be a source of more information regarding the Kaiser.

“Certainly, Herr Colonel.”

Lunch was a pleasant, if uninformative affair. After his second schnapps, the colonel swallowed and stated, “Mein fräulein, life must be extremely tedious here in Roulers, especially for a girl of your character and education.” He lit a cigarette. “Would you like to come to Antwerp with me, to experience society and eat decent food?”

Marthe felt her face growing hot. By the way he looked at her, he was not concerned about the food.

His hand reached out and found hers. “Do not be afraid, mein fräulein. I will make it my goal to have your stay be as pleasant as possible. You will not need to worry about getting a special pass.”

The distaste must have lingered on her face for the colonel threw some money on the table. “I will let you think on it.” He rose and pulled her chair out. “You should probably be getting back to the hospital. We wouldn’t want to displease the Oberarzt.”

As they neared the courtyard, the colonel caught Marthe’s arm. “Have you decided mein fräulein?”

She had been thinking about it all the way back to the hospital. The little girl in her screamed No! but the spy, the one who desperately wanted to glean any information she could about the Kaiser’s visit, demanded she explore every possible lead.

“Herr Colonel,” she replied, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “I would indeed like to stay with you in Antwerp.”

He kissed her hand. “Wunderbar.” He pulled on her arm, and Marthe thought he would kiss her had not a couple of soldiers marched past, saluting him as they did so. He dropped her hand. “Take the evening train Thursday. If I am working, an orderly will meet you and take you to my hotel, where a room will be waiting for you.”

“I shall not be able to obtain more than three days’ leave from the hospital,” Marthe replied. As he was talking, she’d been calculating in her head the amount of time she might need to find out the necessary information and then transmitting it to British Intelligence in time for the Kaiser’s visit.

“Mein fräulein, it will be three days of paradise. The pass will be ready for you Thursday morning.” He once again clicked his heels together and bowed before swaggering up the dusty road, away from the hospital. Marthe watched him as if in a dream. Had she really just agreed to travel unaccompanied with this German officer? Why? Had she herself gone mad? The scent of heliotrope from the courtyard garden drifted past her nose reminding her this was no dream. I did it for the sake of Belgium, she told herself.

“Ahem.”

Marthe turned to catch sight of Alphonse sitting on a bench in the courtyard.

“What did you hear?” she asked.

“Everything. You two weren’t exactly discreet in your plans.”

She plopped down on the bench next to him. She could feel his arms stiffen, but he was too polite to scoot away from her. “You wanted to know… things,” she finished her sentence vaguely, in case anyone was listening to their conversation the way Alphonse had been.

“I didn’t expect you to agree to… that. You do know what the colonel is after, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. You sound more and more like my big brother, Max.”

He shifted to look at her. “Is that what I am to you? Like a brother?” His gaze was that of a wounded puppy.

“Isn’t that what you want me to see you as? A protector, nothing more?”

He put his hand over his face, obscuring his expression. “I thought that’s what I—”

Marthe stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “I can take care of myself you know. And this is my chance to find out the information you, and others—” she was once again vague— “have been demanding of me.”

Alphonse stared at the ground, waiting a beat before he replied, “I know you can take care of yourself. And I also know that the colonel might be a good source of information.”

“So why are you so upset?”

“I don’t know.” He rose and plucked a handful of violets from the ground. “Here,” he said, thrusting them at her. “Wear this as a corsage. I will find contacts for you in Brussels who will recognize you by these.”

“Alphonse—” Marthe called. But his long legs had already carried him out of the courtyard.

Chapter 35

M’greet

July 1915

M’greet was miserable. She was failing at spy school. The intricacies of learning all the minute details of espionage would not stay in her head, and Fräulein Doktor made it a point to never repeat orders. M’greet had no aptitude for codes or ciphers, and she disliked the secret inks on principle—for pretending to be something they were not. The only thing she was reasonably good at was recognizing the different uniforms of the Allied armies.

Normally when she was in trouble, she’d find the first man to help save her. But the male recruits were not in a position to help her and the Fräulein, of course, was immune to her charms. M’greet had managed to befriend the stocky officer who answered the door the first day, even convincing him to take her out to a party in Antwerp, but when he was called away on assignment, she was left with no one to help her.

One day M’greet arrived late to the anteroom to find only Clara and the two sisters.

“Where are Werner and Erich?” M’greet asked, getting in line with the other women.

“Gone,” Clara replied. “They were asked to leave yesterday.”

“Oh.” M’greet wasn’t aware that the recruits could be kicked out of training, but then she recalled how often the Fräulein’s voice raised against their male counterparts. “I prefer women as spies, anyway,” she’d once stated. “So much easier to make it through checkpoints, and, they—especially if they are beautiful—can flirt with the men to provide a distraction.”

After a lengthy tutorial on lock-picking, the Fräulein dismissed the other women, and requested M’greet to stay after.

The Fräulein paced up and down the length of the room in her typical manner. She began by stating, “I think you are a demimondaine and more trouble than you are worth.”

M’greet longed to shout at her to stay still. “Oh?” she asked, for lack of anything else to say.

“I wanted to terminate your training the way I did those others, but my superiors would not allow it. It seems you’ve made allies with some powerful men in the Supreme Command.”

M’greet shot her best Mata Hari smile: seductive, with hints of buried secrets.

The Fräulein stopped abruptly, directly in front of M’greet. “But a spy works alone. That way, if you are indeed caught, you will have no one to blame but yourself.” She raised her eyebrows.

M’greet did not change her expression. Fräulein Doktor sighed before sitting down behind her desk. She opened a drawer and took out a leather-purse. “There are 10,000 francs in here. I was instructed to give them to you.”

M’greet took the purse, opening to check that there was indeed a pile of francs inside.

The Fräulein watched her with narrowed eyes. “Is this why you chose to spy for Germany?”

“I needed the money, and the German army pays the best.”

“This isn’t a game, H-21. If you think that, you will get yourself killed. And possibly others too.”

M’greet put the purse over her shoulder. “I am well aware of the consequences.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” the Fräulein clasped her jeweled hands together and set them on her desk. “You will be sent to Paris to await further orders.”

Paris. M’greet could barely contain her excitement to be going back to her favorite city in the world. “Thank you, Fräulein Doktor.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the Supreme Command.”

M’greet nodded as she turned to go.

“And good luck, H-21.”

Was it just M’greet’s imagination, or did the Fräulein’s tone sound even more ominous than usual?

Chapter 36

Marthe

July 1915

Thursday evening a German soldier brought an official-looking envelope to the café.

“What is that, Marthe?” Mother asked.

Marthe opened it to find a special pass and a travel voucher. She avoided her mother’s glance, not wanting to reveal too much in case something went wrong. “I have an errand to perform, which will take me several days. Don’t worry,” she continued as Mother frowned. “There is no cause for anxiety. And if I succeed,” Marthe said, gazing around the café, “it will be a huge victory.”

Mother nodded her acquiescence, but her eyes were still filled with worry.

The train ride was luckily uneventful. Marthe tried to sleep, but her mind was racing. She wasn’t sure she could really go through with this, but she had to steel her mind against her doubts. Killing the Kaiser would mean a swift end to the war, and almost anything would be worth such an outcome, even losing her reputation, and her virginity.

A German military car was waiting outside the otherwise deserted train station at Antwerp. The driver set Marthe’s suitcase beside her in the backseat and handed her a note from the colonel, excusing himself for his absence. Thank goodness. He ended the note by ensuring Marthe that he would not be so detained the rest of the trip.

After checking into the hotel, she fell gratefully into the soft bed. That night she slept better than she had in a long time.

Marthe awoke the next morning to find a maid letting up the blinds, flooding the unfamiliar bedroom with sunlight. The hotel was obviously one of Antwerp’s finest, with thickly piled carpets, silk wallpaper and pillows of eiderdown. The maid set a coffee carafe on the bedside table before handing Marthe yet another note. It was from the colonel. Reality came crashing down as she opened the note with trembling hands. He requested that she meet him for breakfast in the dining room.

“Something wrong, fräulein?” the maid asked.

“No,” Marthe said, refolding the card. She reminded herself that the Kaiser was somewhere in the area: the same man who commanded these German vandals to overrun fair Belgium. I must keep a clear head, no matter what.

The colonel sat in the huge dining room with an extensive breakfast spread in front of him. “Marthe, eat. You must be starving from your long trip.”

She sat across from him, feeling overwhelmed. Because of rationing, she wasn’t used to large meals, especially not at such an early hour. Not to mention the colonel’s enthusiastic welcome grated at her nerves.

“What will you do today, Marthe?” he asked through a bite of eggs.

“Oh, are we not to spend the day together?” she replied, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

“Sadly, I have some business to take care of, but I will be sure to have it completed by supper.”

“In that case, I suppose I will explore Antwerp.”

“Excellent.” He dug his wallet out and held several bills toward her.

“No thank you, mein herr.”

“Take it, Marthe. Deutsche marks are much more valuable here than Belgian francs.”

She hesitated before picking up the money, feeling her face flush as the other patrons peered at her.

After breakfast, Marthe took a walk around the city. She’d never been to Antwerp before, but expected it had been much less shabby before the war. The roads were in dire need of repair and some of the buildings had the telltale burn scars and broken windows of a German invasion.

The shops, too, proved to be a disappointment. There were barely any goods for sale, and the prices they were asking for what little was left took Marthe’s breath away.

She decided to head toward the Grand Place. A company of English prisoners led by a German officer paused in front of her as a tramcar clanged by. As the car passed, a shower of cigarettes and chocolates fell upon the ragged prisoners. “Vive L’ Angleterre!” a man shouted as he threw more cigarettes toward the Englishmen.

The German feldwebel caught sight of the tramcar benefactor. Thankful for the distraction, Marthe watched the scene unfold.

“You there!” the feldwebel shouted. The tramcar happened to pause and he boarded, but not before the culprit vaulted out of the back. The feldwebel pulled out his rifle and ran the length of the car as the tramcar started moving forward. He jumped out to chase the tramcar benefactor down a side-street, past a group of civilians. Marthe saw one of them extend a foot, and soon the feldwebel lay sprawled on the sidewalk. She just caught a glimpse of the man to whom the foot belonged before he faded into the crowd. It was Herr Jacobs, the safety-pin man who had once boarded at the grocer’s house.

The civilian voices grew louder as a balloon bearing Belgium’s national colors rose above them and began to sail majestically in the July breeze. Marthe realized the date: July 21—Belgium’s Independence Day. “Vive La Belgique!” someone shouted. “Vive les Allies!” came the return cry.

Another passing tramcar rung its bell loud and clear and a motor-car driver gave an answering toot on its horn. The sounds from the streets grew louder as the balloon soared higher, and then suddenly came the crack of a rifle and the balloon was destroyed. The crowd began to disperse, but proudly, defiantly, for Antwerp had managed to celebrate, in the most minute way, its Independence Day.

The colonel met Marthe that evening wearing a tuxedo, his chin fitting perfectly in the upturned collar of his crisp white shirt. He had heard of the demonstration and was furious. “How dare they permit such a stupid escapade to take place?”

Marthe remained silent as he led her to a motor-car. She disagreed with the assertion that the escapade had been stupid but knew the colonel would not appreciate her opinion.

As the car traveled through Antwerp, Marthe stared out the window, noting that all of the street-lamps had been covered with dark blue paint. The distant beat of anti-aircraft guns announced the presence of Allied airplanes, and soon beams of searchlights slashed through the night.

The car pulled up to an enormous private residence set back from the road. Several Mercedes were parked along the long driveway.

Strains of dance music floated in the light breeze as an attendant took Marthe’s cloak. The colonel held her hand as they descended marble steps into a large room decked with flowers, their fragrance tickling Marthe’s nose. Several small tables ringed a dance floor. Sprinkled in among the gray-coated officers were beautiful women of all nationalities. The orchestra broke into a lively dance tune as the colonel led her past a table occupied by a fat hauptmann and his companion, a dark-haired, exotic-looking woman.

“Colonel!” the hauptmann exclaimed, waving his champagne flute around, spilling most of it on the floor. “Can you believe we are in the presence of the famed Mata Hari?”

Marthe wasn’t sure to whom he was referring, but the dark-haired woman, who appeared enormously tired, frowned before taking a long drink of champagne. In fact, despite their elegant costumes of beads, feathers, and pearls, most of the women seemed haggard, and Marthe realized that many of them were Belgian, probably driven into the arms of their oppressors by sheer starvation, unable to otherwise cope in a world gone mad.

The colonel was courteous at all times, and, had he not been an enemy officer, would have made a charming companion. He made no other move to be physical beyond holding Marthe’s hand or occasionally caressing her arm.

“This is an exceedingly rare grape,” he told her, admiring the almond-colored champagne in the light from the electric chandeliers. “Especially now that we’ve destroyed most of the grape-growing regions in that part of France.”

Marthe took a sip of the rare wine in lieu of a reply.

As the hour became late, the German officers became more uproarious. When the fat hauptmann tried to get up from the table, his large belly swept the wine glasses off the table, which shattered on the wooden floor and stained his companion’s dress. She struck his face so hard she left a red handprint. He raised his arm to her, calling her a “filthy Dutch sow,” before the colonel pushed him away. He crashed into another table and passed out amongst the spilled food and drink.

A stern voice cut through the crowd. “Gentlemen, by orders of the High Command, all civilians not of German nationality must produce their identity cards for my inspection.”

Voices of several females rose in panic as they grabbed their purses to seek their cards. Marthe watched as the dark-haired woman with the now-stained dress quietly slipped from the room.

The colonel took Marthe’s arm. “Say nothing. I will arrange this with the major. Von Bissing has lost no time in determining Antwerp’s punishment for the balloon incident from this morning.”

When they reached the hotel, just before dawn, they learned that the town of Antwerp was to be fined 8,000,000 marks and the curfew was set at five o’clock until further notice. The Germans were determined to punish the Belgians for their behavior. Marthe fell onto her bed exhausted, glad that the colonel had once again made no mention of sharing a room with her.

Marthe awoke the next morning, blinking in the bright sunshine thinking optimistically that she just might be able to find out the information she needed without having to have an intimate relationship with the colonel.

Indeed, he wasn’t at breakfast that morning, and Marthe was still in a grand mood when she returned to her room, only to find her door standing half-open. She walked in, expecting to see a maid cleaning the room, but instead a German soldier stood next to two black suitcases. Upon seeing her, he touched his cap and gave her a sly smile before walking out.

Marthe examined the suitcases, noting that each bore the colonel’s initials in bold white letters. She flopped onto the bed in a huff, realizing the implications of the suitcases’ presence in her room. There could be no mistaking the colonel’s intentions now. Her thoughts traveled to that horrid scene in the garden, which then went to Alphonse’s promise to secure an Antwerp contact. She hoped that he would be able to come through: she could have very much used a friend at that moment. Tears came to her eyes as she dug her fingers into the silk comforter, feeling alone in a world of German oppression.

After a few minutes of feeling sorry for herself, Marthe relaxed her hands, reminding herself she wasn’t some silly girl. She was a secret service agent, a member of British Intelligence, and commanded herself to act as such. She took a deep breath before getting up from the bed to powder her nose and straighten her hair.

The colonel was waiting for her in the lounge that evening, a glass of vermouth next to him. He kept his well-bred face neutral and made no mention of the suitcases as he ordered Marthe a drink.

She longed to get drunk on brandy, thinking it would make whatever was in store for her that night easier, but at the same time she wanted to keep her wits about her. The colonel’s breath smelled of alcohol, which was unusual for him. She looked away as he lit a cigarette and caught the eyes of a German lieutenant at the next table. The lieutenant smirked and then winked at her. Confused at his attention, she dropped her eyes to the tablecloth before peeking over at him again. He nodded at her before getting up from the table.

“Come on, Marthe, you must be tired,” the colonel said, rising to his feet. “Let’s go upstairs to our room.”

There it was: our room. As Marthe followed him upstairs, she was as unsteady on her feet as the colonel, but for a different reason.

He opened the door with a key and then walked in. A maid had laid out Marthe’s nightdress on the bed, and the colonel’s lips turned up as he fingered it.

Marthe tilted her head and curved her lips into a passable smile, but she was unable to meet his gaze, afraid he would be able to see how much she hated him for what was about to happen.

“You seem nervous, Marthe.” He dug a bottle of brandy out of his bag and poured some in a glass. “Drink some of this as you get dressed and I’ll be back in a half an hour.”

As he shut the door behind him, Marthe cast her eyes helplessly about the room, wondering what to do next. She went to the double doors that led to the balcony and stepped outside, gazing upon the unsympathetic rooftops of Antwerp, wondering if it would be safe to jump. But, even if she survived, her mission would have been a failure: she still hadn’t gained any information regarding the Kaiser’s visit.

She caught sight of a man on the balcony next to hers. It was the German lieutenant from earlier, although now he was dressed all in black. Wondering if this was Alphonse’s promised contact, she took a wilted violet from the corsage pinned at her breast and dropped it over the banister.

The lieutenant watched the flower fall before he stepped onto the ledge. Wordlessly he scaled the distance between them and dropped onto her balcony. “Good evening, miss,” he murmured in a low voice, lifting his lapel to reveal two safety-pins running diagonally. “I’m with the Antwerp Secret Service and have been detailed to shadow you.” He pushed past her into the room.

Marthe followed him. “How did you manage to obtain a German uniform?”

“The War Office,” he replied as he opened a case and shook out a cigarette. He put it to his mouth before replacing it. “I s’pose I oughtn’t smoke for fear the old colonel will smell it when he gets back.” He tucked the case back into his pocket. “Look here, have you succeeded in getting anything out of him?”

“Nothing so far,” Marthe replied, the regret obvious in her voice. “Perhaps I might learn something more tonight.” She shuddered.

He nodded, a compassionate expression on his face. “I wish I could somehow assist you.”

“Me too,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes fell onto the colonel’s suitcases, which still sat exactly as the German soldier had placed them. “Are those your precious colonel’s?”

“Yes.”

“Have you searched them for papers?”

“Not yet.” Marthe cursed herself for not having thought of that herself.

He got down on his knees. “Unsuspecting bugger left them unlocked,” he said as he snapped them open. The counterfeit lieutenant ran his hands expertly through the suitcases’ contents. “Nothing of value,” he said as he got back to his feet. “But better to check all the same.”

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. “The colonel!” Marthe gasped, her eyes widening as the doorknob began turning. She turned to warn the lieutenant, but he was nowhere to be seen. The doors to the balcony remained undisturbed and she reasoned he must have slipped under the bed.

The colonel’s fingers gripped her arms. “Why have you not undressed yet, my pet?” He let her go, noting both the untouched drink on the nightstand and his open suitcases. “Oh, I see, you were engaged in unpacking my bags.” He reached for her again, his lips pursed.

Marthe racked her brain for how to give the lieutenant a chance to leave the room. “I must leave after tonight,” she told the colonel, stalling for time. “The Herr Oberarzt needs me. And what would I say to him if I were not there when the All-Highest arrives?”

“Do not worry your pretty head over such trifles,” he replied. “The All-Highest will not arrive in Roulers until Saturday, around 11 o’clock to review the troops. He won’t even spend the night, and I doubt if he will have time to visit the hospital. We still have several days to enjoy ourselves—I can put in papers to extend your leave if you want.”

“But I promised the Oberarzt I would return in three days.” Marthe was hardly aware of what she was saying; her mind was occupied by the information he’d just revealed. Hopefully the man under the bed would be able to pass on that information to British Intelligence. That is, if the colonel didn’t discover him first. This time she didn’t pull away as the colonel pressed his lips upon hers in a long, lingering kiss.

The ringing in her ears cleared just enough that she could discern a voice singing in the hallway. Who could possibly be singing while she was in such a ghastly situation?

The sound of breaking glass came from just outside the room, and, once again grateful for the distraction, Marthe broke the embrace to throw the door open. The drunk hauptmann from the other night stood outside, obviously up to his old tricks, while a waiter wordlessly picked up the broken glass.

“What happened here?” the colonel demanded, wiping saliva off of his face.

The hauptmann attempted a bow, which nearly caused him to tip over. “This pig-dog,” he swept his hand toward the bent waiter, “and myself tried to pass each other, but as you can see, there was no room.” Both Marthe and the colonel looked down the corridor, which was wide enough for at least four men the hefty hauptmann’s size to walk shoulder-to-shoulder. The hauptmann clicked his heels together as several senior officers appeared. There was a flurry of salutes and more heel-clicking as the Germans greeted one another.

Marthe tried to slip back to the room unnoticed, but the colonel caught sight of her and called to her in a stern voice. “Mein fräulein?”

“Herr Colonel, why don’t you join these men for a drink while I,” she dropped her voice lower, “undress? I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

The colonel’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Au revoir, my pet. I will see you quite soon.”

Marthe refrained from running back to the room as the colonel headed to the lobby with the other officers. Now that she’d managed to gain the information she’d sought, she had no desire to repeat the kiss she’d shared with the colonel earlier. Or anything else, for that matter.

She hoped the fake lieutenant would be able to help her escape, but, after checking under the bed, she realized he’d disappeared. She’d have to figure out how to get out of this situation on her own.

There should be at least one train leaving for Roulers before dawn. Marthe crossed her fingers that the colonel would be so embarrassed by her sudden departure that he wouldn’t tell anyone. She scribbled a note, telling him that she changed her mind and that she hoped he would eventually forgive her before grabbing her train pass. She locked the door from the outside, hoping to stall the drunk colonel for at least a few more minutes while she made her way to the train station.

An hour later, Marthe sat in the comfort of a train seat, breathless and disbelieving that she had managed to get out from under the colonel’s grasp without causing a permanent stain upon herself.

A woman passenger on a train that late at night was unusual, but the military police passed her through without a hassle. It was nearing dawn when the train arrived at Roulers.

Everyone was asleep when Marthe arrived home and she was able to doze off for a few hours in her own bed.

In the morning, Mother did not question Marthe when she showed for breakfast. It was enough for her that her daughter had returned safely.

As she set out for the hospital that Saturday morning, Marthe saw that the Grand Place was adorned with brightly colored flags, in preparation for the coming of the Kaiser.

Alphonse’s ambulance sat near the entrance of the hospital, and, upon circling it, Marthe caught sight of him tinkering with one of the wheels. His eyes traveled up and down her nurses’ uniform. She straightened her spine and met his gaze squarely, trying to show him she was no different now than when she left.

“Have you heard the news?” he asked finally. “The Kaiser will not be paying us a visit after all. The Seven Sisters have been bombarding us regularly these last few days and the High Command has decided it would be too dangerous for him to come to Roulers.”

Marthe didn’t reply, for really, there was nothing to be said.

Chapter 37

Alouette

July 1915

Von Krohn insisted that Alouette return to Paris. When she questioned his reasoning, he was deliberately vague, but mentioned that it would give her a break from Kalle’s watchful eyes.

"I dare not go," she asserted, and then added for good measure, "I'd be arrested as soon as I crossed the border."

He thought for a moment. "I have a solution, Alouette. We have a way of getting to France by way of the Pyrenees. We use it to send our agents in with supplies."

Alouette's tongue felt numb. The Germans had a secret path through the Pyrenees, through which they could infiltrate France with their undocumented spies... and worse yet, weapons meant to harm her countrymen!

Two nights later, the Baron drove Alouette to Figueras. They arrived at a nearly desolate, treeless intersection between two long roads.

"I suppose you will be seeing your fiancé in Paris," von Krohn commented dryly as the chauffeur shut off the engine.

"Yes. I'm curious to see what Zozo has been up to these past months," she replied truthfully.

"You said he is a revolutionary. Is he willing to do anything you ask of him?"

"Of course." The lie came easily.

His good eye glowed with mirth as he took something out of his pocket. "Look here," he said, handing her a fountain pen. "This ordinary-looking pen doubles as an incendiary device. All you need to do is press this spring," he turned it over in her hand, "and then light a match. If you toss the pen into a warehouse's gas supply, you can blow up the whole building." His grin widened at the thought of a French factory crowded with men and women blasting sky high.

"German engineers are quite ingenious.” Alouette carefully tucked the pen into her purse, thinking she'd get rid of it at the first possible opportunity.

"Indeed," von Krohn replied. "Ask your little Russian friend to throw it into Schneider's factory in Le Havre."

Ladoux's words came again into Alouette's mind: Get the Germans to pay. "Do you really think Zozo will risk his life if you don't make it worthwhile?"

"If he does the job, I will send him money," he stated as he opened the car door.

Alouette stepped out into the chilly night air, noting that a man with two mules was standing in the middle of the crossroads.

"Drop me a line when you are ready to return, Alouette," was von Krohn's parting statement.

Alouette assumed the man with the mules, a stocky, gloomy-looking fellow, was a smuggler, a fact she could not validate as the man spoke neither Spanish nor French. After she climbed aboard a proffered mule, they headed down one of the roads in silence. Ahead, she could see the jagged peaks of mountains. She shivered, not so much from the cold, but from an eerie sense of foreboding that enveloped her as much as the night fog. She felt sleepy, but forced herself to stay awake in order to note the landmarks they passed so she could mark the passage later on a map. She was determined that no more German assassins would pass into France.

When they reached the beginnings of a mountain path, the guide dismounted and then lay flat, his ear pressed to the earth. Alouette took the opportunity to get off her mule and stretch her sore legs.

At last the guide rose. He took a rug from the back of his mule and cut it into eight pieces with a long knife before tying the rug pieces to each of the mules' hooves.

The footfalls of the mules now muted, they headed up a very narrow, winding trail.

Dawn was breaking when at last the uphill trail became a downhill one. The guide straightened and pointed toward a white spot on the horizon, indicating a town. Without a word, he turned his mule around and began his journey back up the mountain.

Alouette headed toward the town until she came upon a white-capped stream. She dismounted and washed her hands and face. The cool water woke her completely. She then took the incendiary pen from her purse and flung it as far as she could into the rippling water.

The first thing Alouette did when she returned to Paris was to pay a visit to Monsieur Delorme at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain.

"What now?" Ladoux asked, pushing a bunch of papers aside.

"What happened to my letter?" she demanded.

Ladoux put his hands in the air. "Alouette, I assure you I sent it." He lowered his arms and folded them across his chest. "Now, tell me, why have you returned?"

She filled him in on everything, from the dinner party where her claim to not understand a word of German was put to the test, to the secret path through the Pyrenees, to von Krohn's statement that a man named Kalle was following her all over Madrid.

"Ah yes, Arnold Kalle, the German Embassy attaché. We believe he is a fairly high-ranking officer with German Intelligence. I would suggest trying to meet him if the opportunity arises."

"Meet him? Should I demand an introduction from the lackeys he has following me?"

Ladoux was about to retort, but someone burst into the office. "Pardon me, Captain, but these just came in." Zozo set a manila folder on Ladoux's desk before catching sight of Alouette. "So you've returned once again."

She frowned, hiding the fact that she was unexpectedly pleased to see his tall frame. "What are those?" she asked, nodding her head toward the papers Ladoux took out of the folder.

"Radiograms from Spain to Germany,” Zozo answered in his deep voice. "They have been intercepted by the Eiffel Tower."

Alouette leaned forward to get a peek at them.

"Don't get too excited," Ladoux slid them back into the folder. "We are unable to decipher their code. We have our best men working on it, but so far we haven't gotten anywhere. But hopefully we will soon and then we can stay abreast of their underhanded plans."

"Oh," Alouette put her hand to her mouth. "I almost forgot." She relayed the information about the incendiary device and von Krohn's request to have Zozo blow up the Havre factory.

"Do you have this pen?" Zozo asked eagerly.

She reluctantly shook her head, cursing herself for her impetuousness at getting rid of it. Ladoux could have given it to one of his so-called expert engineers to see if they could make heads or tails of it.

Sensing her disappointment, Zozo set a hand on her arm. "Don't worry, Alouette."

His fingers felt like hot coals. She pulled her arm away and then cursed herself again for letting Zozo get the best of her. She put a hand to her mouth and coughed delicately in it, as if that were the reason for her rash movements. "What will be my mission when I return to Spain?"

Zozo stretched his long legs in front of him. "We believe Germany is trying to stir up trouble in the French protectorate of Morocco."

Alouette nodded. "So that France will have to divert troops from the Western front to put down the rebellion in Morocco."

Zozo grinned at her. "Exactly."

Ladoux added, "See if your Baron has anything to do with supplying Moroccan insurgents with supplies: rifles, munitions, that sort of thing."

"I will do my best." Alouette rose from her chair. 

"Come back in a few days," Ladoux instructed. "We will get your papers and passport in order for you to get back to Spain."

When Alouette returned to 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain, Ladoux handed her a newspaper clipping. She read it silently, her hands shaking:

Unknown assassins, probably of German descent, instituted an incendiary device on a factory in Renault, inflicting very serious damage.

Alouette sank into a chair. "Were there many killed?"

Ladoux tilted his head back and let go a great belly laugh. "There has only been one copy of that newspaper made." Upon noting Alouette's blank expression, he continued, "It was printed for your von Krohn, so he can pay you the money he promised."

Chapter 38

M’greet

September 1915

M’greet was able to obtain a visa to travel to France with very little problem, but when she applied to the British Consulate to sail via England, she was refused. She then employed the Dutch Foreign Office to inquire as to what the holdup was. It never occurred to her to inform them of her interrogation session in Folkestone a year prior. She visited the Foreign Office every morning for a week before a clerk finally showed her the English ambassador’s reply to her inquiry.

“What does this mean, they consider me ‘undesirable?’” she demanded.

“It means,” the clerk replied, snatching the telegram back from her, “that you are going to need to find an alternative route to France.”

“Fine.” M’greet turned in a huff and then marched straight to the Spanish Consulate.

She was finally given permission to board the SS Zeelandia in September, which sailed from Amsterdam to Vigo in Spain. From there she would travel by train to Madrid and then finally to Paris.

The ship stopped en route in Falmouth for inspection. M’greet waited in line as patiently as she could, noting that one of the ship’s passengers, a stocky man with a bushy mustache that did nothing to lessen the bulk of his large, crooked nose, stood behind the British inspectors and occasionally whispered in their ears. After that, some of the passengers in the queue would be led away for further questioning.

M’greet nervously presented her passport when it was her turn, avoiding the eyes of both the police and the passenger.

The following evening, her dining companions included a merchant from Zaandam, Cleyndert, a short man with broken teeth and smallpox scars.

“Madame Zelle-MacLeod,” he said, leaning forward, close enough that M’greet could see pieces of food caught in those broken teeth. “Do you know that man over there?” He nodded toward the same man with the large nose that had been behind the British inspectors.

“No.”

“Well, he’s telling everyone that he was in your cabin last night.”

“What?” M’greet dropped her fork. “What do you mean, ‘in my cabin last night’? There was no man in there. Are you saying he was in there without my knowledge?”

Cleyndert shrugged.

“What is his name?” M’greet demanded.

“Hoedemaker,” Cleyndert stated. “A Jew,” he added under his breath.

Lady Atline, another passenger, told M’greet a similar story the next afternoon as some of the passengers waited in the sun to take tea with the captain.

“Excuse me,” M’greet stood and walked directly over to Hoedemaker. She tugged at his sleeve.

“Yes?” Hoedemaker replied, squinting at M’greet as though she was a fly he was about to swat.

“Are you telling people you were in my cabin two nights prior?”

“Me?” He cast a sly look around the small crowd that had gathered to listen. “I have said no such thing.”

“That’s not true,” Cleyndert insisted, pushing his way forward. “You said something to me about it.”

“And me,” Lady Atline added.

Hoedemaker cast a helpless glance about the unfriendly crowd. Realizing he was caught, he replied, “I said I was in your room, but I didn’t imply that you were also there.”

“You’re exactly right,” M’greet said, her rage mounting. “I wouldn’t dare be any closer to you than I am now.” Her right hand reached out and connected with the side of Hoedemaker’s face. One of her rings must have scratched him, as his face began bleeding. He pulled out a handkerchief and placed it over the red mark. Without a word, he sauntered down the deck.

“Bravo!” Lady Atline said, coming up beside M’greet. “But aren’t you worried he might make trouble for you when we land in Spain? I hear he works for the British government.”

“If he so desires, I will have to slap his other cheek,” M’greet replied.

Indeed, when the ship disembarked at Vigo, Hoedemaker was right behind her. She could hear his cloddish boots stomping down the gangway. He sat behind her on the train to Madrid and tailed her all the way to the Palace Hotel. He never spoke a word to her, but M’greet felt threatened by his presence anyway.

As soon as the bellhop raised the blinds in her room, M’greet spotted Hoedemaker across the street, staring in her direction.

After a few days in Spain, M’greet tried to cross the border into France, but was refused. She immediately returned to Madrid and headed straight to the Dutch Consul to complain about her treatment. An assistant there revealed that she had been listed by Britain as being “suspect.”

“Suspect? First I am undesirable and now I am suspect? If that is the case, why did they let me leave the Netherlands at all? What am I to do now? Stay in Spain until the end of the war?”

“I’m sorry, madame.” The clerk did indeed sound sympathetic. “Not even the intervention of the Ministry could help you now.”

“I shall reiterate that my sympathies are pro-Allies,” M’greet replied loudly. “Surely that will make a difference.”

“Good luck, madame,” the clerk called after her as she left the consulate.

She did as intended the next day, but was once again refused entry into France.

“Do you know who pays your salary?” she asked a rather stupid-looking border guard.

“The French government.”

“Yes, but a man named Jules Cambon signs your paycheck. Do you know him?”

The guard shook his head.

“He is a personal friend of mine, and has recently been promoted to secretary-general.” Cambon was another of M’greet’s former lovers. The name-drop had the desired effect, and, after casting a confused look at his companion, the guard moved aside to let M’greet pass into France.

It had taken her a weary six weeks to return to Paris, but, as M’greet checked into the Grand Hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines, she figured it was all worth it. There had been no sign of Hoedemaker since she’d left Spain. The Parisian weather was beautiful, and there were handsome men in uniform swarming the streets. The hotel clerk had mentioned something about a big battle looming somewhere nearby, but M’greet, as usual, did not pay much attention.

She decided to take advantage of the weather and ordered a taxi to drive her down to the Seine. As they passed the Arc de Triomphe, M’greet felt that she had arrived home.

She took a walk along the banks of the river, reflecting on how she had been an alien her whole life, first, as a child, abandoned by her father in the austere Netherlands, then in exotic Java, frequently deserted by her brute of a husband. Paris was the only place in the world that had ever seemed truly home to her. There, she had been able to make her own fate, and never needed to put her faith in anyone else.

And for that reason, she realized, she would never betray the beautiful city, no matter what the Germans would pay her. Consider the 20,000 francs repayment for the goods you took from me, she told an invisible Kaiser. I will never provide you information with which you could destroy gay Paris. With that, she pulled the despised vials of invisible ink out of her purse and dumped them into the river.

As she strolled back along the Champs-Élysées, intent on visiting all of her favorite shopping haunts, she caught sight of two plain-clothes men following her a bit too closely. These same men were waiting on a bench when she finished her manicure, and tailed her all the way back to her hotel. Although she was used to men following her, there was something about the way they tried to remain elusive that puzzled M’greet. Why didn’t they ever venture to introduce themselves?

Chapter 39

Alouette

October 1915

When Alouette returned to Madrid, the Baron greeted her with an uncharacteristic coolness, stating, “I’ve purchased you an apartment.”

“Pardon?” Alouette’s hands felt clammy. Had von Krohn found her out, or was this his subtle way of disposing of her as a spy?

He patted his almost non-existent hair. “Arnold Kalle is still suspicious of our relationship. I needed an excuse to keep up the guise of our meetings, so I thought an apartment would be a good cover.”

Alouette’s heartbeat returned to normal.

“Come,” he started toward the door. “Let me show you your new living space.”

Alouette narrowed her eyes at his turned back, but followed him to a nondescript building steps away from the Calle del Alcalá, the most fashionable street in Madrid.

The apartment consisted of a suite of five rooms on the second floor above a beauty parlor. The décor was sparse, the scant furniture done in a modest style.

Von Krohn led her into a small room beside the back staircase. “This will be my office.”

“Your office? I thought this was my apartment.”

“It is, but Kalle has taken to having my house watched. Here I can meet with my contacts without worrying about him knowing my business.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, Alouette. I won’t be sleeping here. I’m not sure my marriage could survive that.”

As he retreated down the stairs, a slow smile developed across her face. She could now see the opportunity this apartment presented for widening her schemes.

The next afternoon, Alouette lay stretched across the settee in the living room, wearing a simple dress of pale yellow, tied at the waist by a sea-green silk sash.

The Baron entered the room, and, upon catching sight of her, declared, “Your contrasting belt and gown remind me of the waves on the Atlantic shore.”

Her stomach churned at the compliment. She gave no reply. The Baron was smoking one of his heavy, cloying cigars, and she lit a cigarette, purely for the purpose of neutralizing his cigar smoke. The surrounding air grew thick as storm clouds formed in Alouette’s mind. “My dear Baron, I do declare how bored I get when you make such a nuisance of yourself.”

He moved closer to her on the couch. “I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier. It is not only Kalle who is suspicious of your new role in my life. It’s also my wife.”

Alouette blew out a ring of smoke. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“You don’t think it’s obvious to everyone that I’m secretly in love with you?” He said it so casually that she wasn’t sure if he was serious.

She faced him, choking down the repulsion she felt. Her instincts told her to fling the lit cigarette into his face. She squashed it into an ashtray instead, racking her brain for a way to shut him down without completely alienating him. “Hans, perhaps if things had been different, we could have had a relationship.” Luckily the lie exited her mouth with ease. “But you are my handler, and we must keep our contact chaste. For your wife’s sake. Not to mention Zozo’s.”

To her immense relief, his face softened. “You’re right, of course. Had you been German, and fifteen years older, or better yet, if I’d been younger, we would have made a great couple.” He heaved a sigh as he got up from the couch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am expecting a visitor shortly.” He glanced at her. “If it’s not too much trouble, I ask that we be left alone for the next few hours.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Hans, I have plenty of unpacking to do.”

Alouette installed herself in the kitchen, at the window that looked out into the back courtyard, keeping watch for von Krohn’s mysterious visitor. As she waited, she reflected on their earlier conversation. Ladoux would probably have been thrilled if she told him she took advantage of von Krohn’s affection to get more information. But she knew all too well the murky line between manipulation and seduction. She’d been down that road before, years ago, after Karl Mather, the lover she’d followed to Paris, spurned her. Too proud to return to Nancy, she had to find some way to support herself. She’d then met a madam who had trained her in the art of being a courtesan—a companion to rich and powerful men, who delighted in having beautiful, intelligent women on their arm. Especially one that wasn’t their wife. While Alouette had never actually slept with any of the men she entertained, she’d come close enough to decide never to do it again. Thankfully Henri had come along and proposed marriage before she became really desperate.

The sound of the Baron’s heavy footsteps pacing in his office brought her back to reality. She looked up to see a stocky brunette in her mid-forties entering the back door.

Alouette crept into the dining room, which was next to the Baron’s office. She did her best to eavesdrop on the conversation between von Krohn and the woman, but, as they were both speaking Spanish, could only understand snippets. She noted that von Krohn called the woman ‘Maria’ and instructed her to visit his office for a handbag and a train ticket to Cerbére.

When she overheard the woman’s voice say, “Muy bien, señor,” Alouette hurried to the living room. She heard a series of doors close and then heavy footsteps in the hall.

Alouette sat in an armchair with her head between her hands. Presently she could sense von Krohn standing in front of her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’ve got an awful headache,” she replied in a low tone. “Maybe all of this unpacking finally got to me.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

She looked up. “Do you mind buying me some antipyrine?” She felt a guilty pleasure in making him purchase the supplies she needed to communicate his secret plans to her boss.

He returned in half an hour to drop off the medicine and then left again, saying he had to attend a dinner at the Embassy. Alouette took advantage of his absence to write a detailed letter in secret ink to Ladoux, informing him of the spy named Maria and her instructions to go to Cerbére.

She was still involved in her task when she heard von Krohn return. Although her heart was hammering away in her chest, she set her pen down and swallowed the rest of the antipyrine as casually as she could when he entered the room. Luckily the secret ink had already dried on the paper.

“How do you feel about traveling to Morocco?” von Krohn asked in a pseudo-casual voice.

Alouette matched his tone. “What for?”

“I need you to send a coded message to the tribal insurgents.”

“But Morocco is a French protectorate. Won’t I have trouble getting there?”

Von Krohn dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Like everything else French, the French Secret Service is so negligent they will never know. I will accompany you as far as Algeciras on the coast of Gibraltar. I can make arrangements for our accommodations immediately.”

“Separate rooms, of course,” she replied.

“Of course.”

As soon as von Krohn left, Alouette began another letter to Ladoux, asking permission to go to Morocco. She paused midway through the first sentence. Sending a coded letter through the post would take a minimum of four days to arrive, and then she’d have to wait another four days, at least, for his reply to reach her. By then she could have gone and returned. The pen fell from her hand as she realized von Krohn might have been on to something: the French Secret Service did seem somewhat haphazard, especially in contrast to the efficiency of the Germans. But if Ladoux did not have prior knowledge of her plans, and an uprising in Morocco took place while she was there, she might get blamed for it. She ripped the paper into shreds, recalling Ladoux’s warning that if she got into trouble, she’d have to find a way out of it, alone.

They were put up in the Hotel Cristina, an ornate building overlooking the sea. The Baron honored her request with separate rooms, but ones that adjoined through an inner door. Alouette didn’t complain as this way she could still be aware of what von Krohn was up to.

He left early the first morning to retrieve his messages from the German Consulate. When he returned, he stood in the doorway of the two rooms, a red leather-bound book in one hand and a wooden ruler in the other. “I have a difficult job to tackle just now,” he stated loftily. “I would be very thankful if you wouldn’t disturb me for the next hour or so.” He put his hand on the doorknob.

“Oh, there’s no need to shut the door, Hans. I plan on reading a bit.” Alouette was desperate to know what he was going to do with the ruler. “I’d like to know you are nearby,” she added.

He frowned, but left the door open. She chose a chair that gave her a vantage point into the other room, watching over the top of her book as he took a paper out of his coat pocket. He stood stooped over a table, moving the ruler across the paper and mumbling as he wrote in the notebook.

When he’d finished, he put the ruler away in a desk drawer before tearing up the paper. It must have been a telegram he decoded, Alouette mused, remembering what Ladoux said about the Eiffel Tower intercepting German messages. She watched as he threw the remnants of the telegram in the wastebasket before stalking into her room.

He stood at her window and Alouette joined him. They could see the Strait of Gibraltar and beyond, the coast of Morocco.

“Here is where Spanish and British waters meet,” von Krohn stated, half to himself. He pointed to a distant white speck. “That’s Tangier. One of these days the war will be there, too.”

“How do you know?” Alouette asked.

“Are you in the pay of the French?” he demanded.

She willed her mouth not to drop open. “Why do you ask such a question?”

“Major Kalle seems to think that you are, and that one day you will betray me.”

She took von Krohn’s clammy hand into hers. “I would never do such a thing.” Curse that Kalle, whoever he is! She rubbed his arm, prepared to go further if necessary, but he seemed reassured by the touch of her hand.

He shot her an apologetic smile. “I know, but a man in a position such as mine has the right to be suspicious.”

She squeezed his arm before letting go. “I’ve heard the French have no money to pay me, so I could never be a double agent.”

His smile widened, his good eye crinkling at the corners while the glass one stared straight ahead. “I have to return to the Consulate for a few minutes and then we can have lunch.”

After he left, Alouette crept to his room, her eyes focused on the waste basket containing information of vital importance to her country. She started toward it, but then paused, realizing that the simple task of retrieving the shredded paper could result in her standing before the execution post at Vincennes. She went back to the window and fixed her gaze on Morocco instead.

Less than a minute later, the door to her room burst open. The Baron’s first glance was not at her, but at the basket in his own room. Alouette covered her grin with a gloved hand. “Did you forget something?”

He looked relieved. “No.”

“I may be a spy, Hans, but I loathe being spied upon.”

“I’m not sure what you are talking about.” He dug again in his coat pocket and handed her a packet of papers. “Here are your visas to travel to Morocco.”

Alouette congratulated herself on resisting the lure of the waste basket; it was clear now that she had destroyed the last shreds of doubt in von Krohn’s mind.

“The British have only given you a qualified visa, which means you are not immune to arrest in English waters.”

“But I have to pass Gibraltar, and the English are very active there.” She did not have to fake the look of worry on her face. “I don’t want to be detained.”

“You have nothing to fear. Neither the English nor the French have a shred of evidence against you. And this mission will prove to Kalle once and for all that you are a trustworthy agent.”

She wasn’t sure that was true: it must have been obvious to everyone in Algeciras that she was the Baron’s companion. The British Intelligence Service was surely aware of von Krohn’s role in German espionage and, since the French and English Secret Services did not readily communicate with each other, they would most likely be unaware that Alouette was under the Deuxiéme Bureau’s employ. The prospect of being arrested was a very real threat. But then again, if she could get word to the Allies, they might be able to curtail any possibility of a Moroccan rebellion. “When will I leave?”

“In the morning.” Von Krohn retrieved a box from his desk. “You will take this box of notepaper with you. It appears as if it has never been opened, but half of its bulk has been written on with invisible ink. It is obviously a parcel of great importance.”

“To whom will I deliver it?”

“When you disembark, a black man with a pencil mustache will present himself to you. And now I really do have to return to the Consulate,” von Krohn stated.

As soon as he left, Alouette put on her widest hat, complete with a lace veil, and hurried to the British Embassy. She told the secretary that she needed to speak to the Consul as soon as possible.

“And why is that?”

“Because I have news that could save the Allies.”

He didn’t seem impressed and maintained his suspicious expression. Of course he was suspicious, just as Kalle was, as von Krohn was, as Ladoux was. Distrust was deeply rooted in every line of work during the war, but especially in the business of espionage, where one false move could endanger your life.

Finally, the secretary relented and she was shown into the office of the British Consul. She refused a seat, not wanting to waste any more time on pleasantries. “Tomorrow I will be meeting a Moroccan rebel to whom I shall pass on instructions from the German Secret Service, written in invisible ink.” She gave a few more specifics before stating, “If you wish to have me shadowed by one of your agents, and I prove to be a traitor, you can have me arrested upon my return.”

The Consul listened without interrupting. When she’d finished, he rose and held out his hand. “I am prepared to accept your word. We will find a way to intercept this information.” He paused to readjust his glasses. “In twenty-four hours, I shall have details about you from Paris, and, as you say, if we suspect anything, we will arrest you.”

Alouette’s resulting grin was so large that it must have been contagious, as the Consul also smiled. He shook her hand warmly and wished her luck.

She headed back to her hotel, thinking about how the English were a strange hybrid of naivety and shrewdness.

Alouette’s crossing over the Strait of Gibraltar proved uneventful, though she kept her eyes out for anyone tailing her. If the British Consul had given orders to have her shadowed, they chose someone nearly invisible.

When the boat reached Tangier, she waited until all of her fellow passengers had disembarked before heading down the gangway herself. She gripped the railing with whitened knuckles as she wondered whom this trip would end up helping: France and her allies, or the beastly Boches.

As she reached the dock, a dark-skinned porter approached her. He grabbed her bag, stating, “I know a hotel where you will be comfortable.”

Alouette noted his thin mustache before she wordlessly followed him.

After Alouette had checked in, the porter offered to show her to her room.

“Welcome to Morocco, S-22,” he stated as he dumped her bag on the bed.

Fighting back a wave of misgiving, she handed him the box of paper.

“When are you leaving again?” he asked. Now that he no longer had to pretend to be a humble porter, Alouette could see he carried himself with a great deal of dignity. Perhaps he was a chief of one of the insurgent tribes.

“I’m going back by the first available boat tomorrow morning,” she replied.

“Very good. I will meet you at the door of the harbour restaurant at seven-thirty a.m. I have something to give to you.”

Alouette spent a very restless night in Tangier, wondering if the British had secretly come to her aid or if she had truly paved the way for a Moroccan uprising.

She arrived at the appointed place and time the next morning, but could see no sign of the supposed porter. She waited with bated breath, not daring to think that he might have been held up. At a quarter to ten, she allowed a sigh of relief. The English must have detained him, which meant that her mission had been accomplished. Impressed with the methodical efforts of the British Secret Service, Alouette boarded a boat for Spain.

A few days later, Alouette read in the French papers that U-boats laden with munitions intended for Moroccan insurgents had been intercepted. While the submarines themselves managed to get away, the potential for rebellion had been annihilated. As Alouette folded the paper, she once again marveled at the efficiency of the English. It all had gone down in such a discreet manner that von Krohn had never suspected he’d been double-crossed.

Chapter 40

Marthe

October 1915

After the death of Agent 63, Marthe’s new instructions were to deliver any communication to a chemist’s shop off the Grand Place. She had to admit that passing notes over the ordinary counter, although much less dangerous, was not nearly as intriguing as maneuvering past German soldiers in dark alleyways well past curfew. There was not much information to pass on anyway, as ever since the Kaiser’s failed visit, things in Roulers had been quiet.

She was serving in the café one evening when she heard raised voices. She pretended to be rooting through her bag as she listened to two men arguing. One of them was Hauptmann Fashugel, who was currently billeting in Otto’s old room. Fashugel was a stocky fellow with a friendly face, a machine gun company commander, whose men all adored him.

“What time did you say this blasted parade starts tomorrow?” Red Carl demanded.

“Nine o’clock,” Fashugel replied. “But we’ll have to be up a fair sight before then in order to march to Westrozebeke.” He held up his nearly empty glass of wine. “This must be our last drink—we need to be in bed before long.”

Red Carl blew out a ring of smoke. “I wish they would be content to send the padre to visit us instead of the other way around.”

“Say, Marthe,” Fashugel said upon catching sight of her. “If you please, we will be needing breakfast at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning. As if we don’t already have enough work to do without spending our Sunday morning traipsing about the countryside.”

“Oh my,” Marthe remarked. “A parade? Doesn’t a big gathering like that seem dangerous?”

“Indeed,” Fashugel replied. “The Supreme Command wants all of us licentious soldiers to hear a bishop explain how to look after our souls. But it would serve Division right if the Seven Sisters bloody well blasted the bishop and the commanders to kingdom come.”

“I hope they don’t do that,” Red Carl remarked. “Although I agree that our bloated chiefs would learn a lesson if that happened, the Seven Sisters might blow us up too.”

Marthe pulled an embroidery hoop from her bag, as if that was what she had been looking for all along, and sat in an empty chair. She ruminated over the meaning of the conversation as she pulled the needle in and out. A whole division on parade in Westrozebeke tomorrow morning! They would indeed make a fine target for the Seven Sisters. There would be little place to take cover in her already shell-shattered former village.

Marthe waited for the two men to leave the room before she hurried upstairs and penned a message. The sun was setting as she rushed to the chemist’s shop and it cast an ominous red light over the glass bottles as she handed the gray-haired man a tiny slip of paper. “Urgent,” she whispered.

The chemist gave an almost imperceptible nod. Marthe, suddenly overcome with a terrible sense of foreboding, wanted to ask that they not harm the cheerful Hauptmann Fashugel. But she remained silent as she ducked out of the shop, knowing that would have been an impossible request.

She wandered home in a state of apprehension, trying to convince herself once again that this was wartime and anything that harmed the Germans was good for Belgium. She supposed she would never get over the agitation of causing harm to people’s lives, no matter what side they were on.

All Sunday during her rounds, Marthe waited with trepidation for the news of the Seven Sisters’ presence at Westrozebeke. As the military band started up just outside the hospital courtyard, she could hear the clomping feet of hundreds of men and dozens of horses as they began their journey to her hometown. And then silence descended on half-deserted Roulers.

She was therefore startled when an orderly approached her, stating the Oberarzt wanted to see her.

She found him in the hospital lounge. “Fräulein Cnockaert.” He nodded a greeting. “The bishop has asked that any injured soldiers who are capable of making the journey to Westrozebeke be allowed to do so. Headquarters is sending a lorry around, and, as some of them are still at risk of having a wound burst open, I think it would be best if you went with them. The ward is quiet this morning, so you shouldn’t miss out on too much here.” He took a sip of tea. “You have no objection, I suppose?”

Marthe opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The Oberarzt gave her a strange look, and she recovered her voice. “Of course not, Herr Oberarzt.”

As she gathered medical supplies, she could only think about her own safety, now hoping that the Allies had not gotten the warning in time to assemble the Seven Sisters. But as she left the hospital and walked into the sunshine of a fine fall day, she realized that was ridiculous. Such an assemblage of Germans would be a boon to the Allies, and her presence would not change that.

She stared up into the blue sky, wondering if it would be the last time she would see such a sight. She reminded herself of all of those soldiers who would willingly give their lives to keep the Huns from ruling over Belgium: Jimmy, Arthur, Nicholas Hoot… even her own brother. If they could make such a sacrifice, surely she could as well.

She shut her eyes as the lorry began lurching its way toward her hometown, wondering if it were better or worse to be aware of your imminent death. That morning she had been relieved to hear Alphonse had not been commissioned to drive the ambulance. At that moment, however, she would have given anything to have him there by her side. But that would mean he could be killed too.

Marthe had not been back to Westrozebeke since the morning she’d left with Mother and the other women. The town had been nearly razed to the ground, though here and there a few stone walls stood in defiance of the shells and resulting fires. Her heart hardened as they passed the charred remains of her childhood home, where her father had almost been burned to death. The Germans deserved anything the Seven Sisters could bring.

The lorry halted just outside the crumbling Grand Place, where thousands of soldiers had gathered in close ranks. The bishop stood in the middle of the square, his arms raised. So focused were Marthe’s ears on listening for the faintest sound of an airplane that she heard nothing of what he said. But, save for the droning bishop, no other sound broke through the warm stillness of the day. As the soldiers broke out in a final hymn, Marthe heaved a deep sigh, disappointment outweighing relief.

The brass band finished the hymn with a flourish, and the soldiers clapped dutifully. Stop clapping you hateful Boches, Marthe thought. It’s gone on long enough. But then the men began to shout and she realized the thunderous sound was not coming from the soldiers on the ground: it was coming from the sky.

Smoke burned her eyes as she saw a plane swoop down, scattering men in all directions. She closed her eyes for a second, reminding herself that above all, she was a nurse and there to help people. She put her arms around the chest of an amputee and pulled him underneath the wheels of the lorry. An unscathed soldier who looked to be barely out of his teens was already installed there, his eyes wide with fright.

Marthe got into the young man’s face. “You have the use of your legs and can run. This man cannot.” She could see the soldier’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. The next moment he was out from under the lorry, running for dear life as one of the Allied airplanes swept low, nearly decapitating him.

Hordes of gray uniforms swirled everywhere, the rat-a-tat of machine guns breathing new life into men ready to collapse from exhaustion. A bomb hit nearby, showering the bare earth of Westrozebeke onto the heads of the soldiers running for their lives as Marthe continued hauling wounded Germans under the truck.

The Seven Sisters eventually stopped swooping, and slowed their machine guns. They got into formation and then headed off somewhere else, probably content with the damage they’d caused. The gray masses returned, moving much slower this time, hampered by both exhaustion and the bomb craters, broken instruments, and dead soldiers that obstructed their path.

Marthe was assisting her charges in emerging from underneath the lorry when a senior officer from the hospital approached her. “Fräulein, you must return to Roulers immediately. Inform the Oberarzt they must send as many ambulances and doctors as they can spare and that the hospital should prepare to receive a great many wounded men.”

She nodded, hoping he’d never know she was the one who’d caused the destruction in the first place.

Thankfully she did not have much time to think for the rest of the day, and well into the night, as she did her best to make the wounded men comfortable.

When she arrived home early the next morning, she was relieved to see that the door to Fashugel’s room was ajar and she could see movement inside. She was too exhausted to greet him.

After she’d gotten a few hours of sleep, she woke up, her stomach rumbling.

Red Carl was already seated at a table.

“Shall I fix you and Hauptmann Fashugel breakfast?” Marthe asked.

Red Carl’s eyes widened. “It will be just me from now on, Fräulein Cnockaert. The hauptmann was killed yesterday by one of the Seven Sisters’ machine guns.”

“I’m sorry,” Marthe said, and meant it.

“Yes. He was a bloody fine officer, our Fashugel. We’ll not get another commander like him, not even if this war lasts another eternity.”

Chapter 41

Alouette

December 1915

Christmas in Madrid was a magical time. Although the war dragged on, the Spanish citizens remained, for the most part, oblivious to it.

On Christmas Eve, von Krohn requested Alouette to meet him in the Santa Cruz Square market. As she wandered through the merry crowd, the smell of roasted turkey filling the air, she felt unexpectedly light-hearted. That came crashing down as she caught sight of the Baron, who was accompanied by his wife.

“Alouette, I believe you’ve met Ilse,” von Krohn stated, rubbing at his collar.

“Joyeux Noël,” Alouette told her, recalling the Baroness’s affinity for everything French.

“Thank you,” the Baroness replied coolly, accepting a bag of spiced almonds from her husband.

“What are you doing later, Alouette?” von Krohn inquired, ignoring his wife’s suspicious glance.

“Oh, I thought I would head to the Palace Hotel. I hear they give a marvelous party.”

“That party doesn’t start till 11,” he replied. “You are welcome to come to our house. We are giving a dinner party for a few dignitaries.” He pulled at his collar again. “The military attaché Arnold Kalle will be there.”

“Really?” Alouette couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Oh yes, it would not be acceptable for Kalle to dine alone as a bachelor on Christmas Eve.” The Baroness’s tone implied that the same could be said of Alouette.

Alouette, reminded of the last time she attended the von Krohns’ dinner party, demurred. “I’m afraid I must decline in favor of a much-needed nap.”

Von Krohn murmured in her ear, “I will be at the Plaza by 1 in the morning.”

Alouette pretended she hadn’t heard him and took her leave.

That evening, Alouette was seated at a small table near the dance floor. She had just ordered a drink when she heard a thumping sound.

“Excusez-moi,” a young man said. The tables were very closely placed together and he seated himself at the table beside Alouette’s with difficulty. As he picked up his upper thigh, readjusting his leg, she saw that the portion underneath his knee was wooden. He reached out his hand. “Lieutenant Jack McKenna of the British Army.”

Alouette noted how blue his eyes were before she put her hand in his. “Alouette Richer.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Did the Germans do that?” she asked, nodding at his wooden leg.

“Yes,” McKenna answered with a laugh. “Your good friends, the Germans.”

“My good friends?” she repeated.

He put both arms on the table. Though his words seemed unfriendly, the tone in his voice remained amiable. “I’ve seen you around with von Krohn.”

She gave him an apologetic smile. “I knew the Baron in Switzerland before the war. He has taken it upon himself to introduce me to Madrid society.”

“Do you believe he is a desirable dinner companion?”

“Maybe not as desirable as yourself.” Even if he had an alternative reason for bringing up her German affiliation, it felt good to be flirting with a handsome soldier.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” McKenna asserted. “It would be difficult for an officer in His Majesty’s service to—” he frowned. “How can I say this without offending you?”

“Say what?” Alouette prompted.

He took a drink of his wine. “Let’s put it this way—a British officer should take care not to get caught in a Lark’s trap.”

She paused, contemplating whether he knew of her codename, or if he was simply alluding to the English translation of her first name. She raised her chin. “Are you engaged with British Intelligence?”

McKenna neither confirmed nor denied anything. “Why do you ask? Because you are a spy for the Germans?”

Alouette sighed. “It seems to all you men—whether British, German, French, or what have you—women are like birds of prey, sent out to blind an unfortunate hare and make it easier for the hounds to hunt it. Have you no other thought than to accuse every woman of espionage?”

McKenna frowned. “Well, for me, I cannot think of a better way to win this war. Women make the best war laborers, even if the nurses couldn’t save my leg.” As if to soften the blow of his remark, he continued, “How could I not have a grudge against the enemy, when it is their fault I can’t ask you to dance with me tonight?”

She let out a tinkling laugh and was rewarded when McKenna’s face relaxed. But his tone was bitter as he said, “Here is one of them coming to invite you in my place.”

She turned her head, expecting to see the Baron. She was therefore surprised to see a slim man with a full head of dark hair standing beside her.

He bowed. “Madame Richer, I am Arnold Kalle.”

Her heart sped up at finally getting to meet the archnemesis of the Deuxiéme Bureau, and, for that matter, von Krohn.

Kalle held out his arm. “Will you give me this fox-trot?”

Alouette was torn: part of her wanted to stay and chat more with McKenna, conscious that they might be of use to each other. But then again, as a formidable foe, Kalle also played an important part in her mission, and here he was, presenting her with an opportunity to get to know him better.

She placed a gloved hand in Kalle’s open palm. She didn’t dare glance back at McKenna as Kalle led her to the dance floor.

Kalle appeared to be slightly younger than von Krohn; Alouette figured him to be somewhere in his forties. Unlike his counterpart, Kalle had a handsome face and carried himself with a manly grace.

“Pardon me if I seemed rude earlier,” he said as he led her in the dance. “But our mutual friend the Baron sent me to warn you that the man with whom you were flirting is an agent of the British Intelligence Service.”

Alouette studied Kalle’s clean-shaven face. It was unlikely that von Krohn would have done such a thing, but if Kalle was lying, his expression betrayed nothing. “Please thank the Baron for his thoughtful forewarning,” she replied. “But please also tell him that I knew the man with whom I was dealing.”

“Is that so?” Kalle narrowed his eyes, but did not miss a beat in his dancing. “You are playing a dangerous game. McKenna is considered a very astute youth.”

“Dangerous for whom?” Alouette demanded. “For von Krohn, who gets jealous easily? Or for you, who, I fancy, does not?”

“Dangerous for us all.”

In lieu of answering, she rested her head against Kalle’s chest.

Encouraged, Kalle steered her to the sidelines and slowed his feet. “I see that little salon over there is now unoccupied. Should we rest for a minute?”

Alouette’s radar flashed danger, but she nodded anyway.

Kalle hesitated. “Perhaps I should mention to von Krohn that I have indeed gotten you away from your English neighbor. Otherwise he might fail to understand—”

“Don’t bother,” she said coolly. “He doesn’t own me.” With that, she marched into the little salon and set down in a blue velvet armchair. She crossed her legs, noting Kalle’s eyes following her movements. “And now, Herr Kalle, I wish to know why you have been following me since I arrived in Madrid.”

“Did von Krohn tell you that?”

“No,” she lied. “Is it not the duty of a spy to know everything?”

Kalle looked anxiously around the little room, but they were alone. “Once again, madame, permit me to warn you that you have involved yourself in a treacherous situation.”

“You are not the first to tell me.” Alouette folded her hands over her lap, wishing she had the foresight to bring her wine with her. It might have given her more courage to deal with this sinister man. “Tell me, Kalle, why were you given the Iron Cross? I was under the impression that, like the French Croix de Guerre, the German Iron Cross was given only to those who had been in the firing line. Is it because your profession is really so risky?”

Kalle’s already narrowed eyes grew positively beady. “If I were decorated, madame,” he spit out with vehemence, “it was for defending my native country.”

She lowered her fan and pasted a toothy smile on her face. “Do you mean to accuse me of betraying my native country?”

“I do not yet know whether you are defending or betraying it.” His face relaxed and a muscle played in his cheek, as if he were trying not to smile. “What I do know, madame, is that you are as keen as a knife.”

She lowered her head. “And you are as well, Kalle. And in order that we do not risk putting out each other’s eyes while playing with such sharp weapons, I propose a truce.”

Alouette studied the effect her words had on him, as if she were gauging the range of an airplane’s guns from the cockpit. Every bullet must have hit its mark as he appeared taken aback. Nevertheless, he replied, “I’ll accept your offering.”

She shook his outstretched hand. “I wonder what young McKenna has been doing while we’ve been conversing.” She rose. “I had already succeeded in making him tell me that the British Admiralty soon hopes to eliminate the disastrous consequences of your submarine warfare…”

Kalle managed to recover his voice. “He told you that?”

“Yes, but seeing as it was naval, it’s more von Krohn’s domain than yours. I didn’t think it concerned you.”

He shook his head in amazement. “You are indeed the devil and must get the better of everyone you encounter.”

“I am not the devil, Kalle. I’m just doing my best to navigate this, as you put it, treacherous situation.”

He stood up. “Shall we meet again?”

As Alouette headed back to the table, she noticed McKenna had gone.

“Madame,” a waiter called. “Señor McKenna asked me to give you this.” He handed her a small envelope.

She sat at the table as she opened it. Inside was a hundred peseta note and his calling card. On the back of the card he had scribbled, “I did not dare to pay for your drink in your absence, but I beg you to consent to pay for it yourself.”

She looked up to signal the waiter, noting that the Baron had taken a seat in the opposite corner of the room. She caught the waiter’s attention. “Here,” she said, putting the peseta note in his hand. “Joyeux Noël.”

The waiter’s eyes widened. “Feliz Navidad!” he called as Alouette grabbed her drink and headed to the Baron’s table, where he sat simmering.

“Did you have a good evening with your Englishman and with Kalle?” The bitterness oozed from his voice.

Alouette scrunched her eyes, picturing von Krohn as a helpless hare which she had just succeeded in blinding with jealousy. “I did, thank you.”

“Well, I’ve acquired some of my own news. It seems the German Navy is poised to win the war, and there is nothing your suitors can do about it.”

“Oh? How so?”

The normally discreet von Krohn could not resist bragging to Alouette. “We have commissioned fifty brand new submarines—they are capable of remaining at sea for several months. They will be able to break through the blockade once and for all and Germany will triumph.”

Chapter 42

Marthe

March 1916

After eighteen months of fighting, the war at the western front had turned into a stalemate, with both sides digging into trenches but making no major strides. Equally as unfortunate, Marthe’s espionage antics since the death of Hauptmann Fashugel had also reached an impasse.

She was returning from the hospital late one night when she became aware of someone behind her. She quickened her pace only to hear the stranger doing the same. She glanced back, thinking she would see the ominous form of a gendarme, but the stranger was not in uniform.

“Would you kindly direct me to the Grand Place?” His voice was oddly familiar.

She paused in her walking, realizing that the stranger was Herr Jacobs, the safety-pin man who’d boarded at the grocer’s house for a short while. He was dressed in threadbare clothes, his boots nearly worn through the toes.

“Follow me,” she replied.

“I’m actually looking for the Café Carillon. Do you know of it?” He stood in the middle of the road instead of on the sidewalk. “Even the houses have ears,” he said in a low voice, nodding at the brick walls surrounding them.

“My father owns the Café Carillon.”

Herr Jacobs nodded, clearly gathering that she and her father had finally been united. He pursed his lips and Marthe turned to see a group of soldiers standing on the corner of the Grand Place.

“Meet me at the Sturms’ farmhouse tonight,” he said quietly. “There’s someone there I want you to meet.”

She nodded her assent. Mevrouw Sturms was a Flemish farmwoman who was staunchly proud that two of her twelve children were Allied soldiers. Marthe had previously helped her pass letters to and from her sons.

Herr Jacobs grabbed her hand and said loudly, “Thank you, nurse. I will pass on your sound advice to my poor mother.” He touched his hat and then strolled off. He carried his left shoulder as straight and strong as Marthe remembered, but his right one was hunched now, as if he’d suffered a grave wound.

Marthe had no trouble making her way out to the farmhouse that night. Mevrouw Sturms did not say anything as she ushered Marthe inside and led her to a small, sparsely furnished room before shutting the door and walking away.

The room was poorly ventilated and smelled like stale cigarettes and rotting wounds. A man lay on the bed, and, as he struck a match, Marthe caught sight of his face. “Max!”

Her brother paused to look at her, the match nearly burning his fingers. “Marthe?”

She rushed to the bed.

“Oof,” he said as she embraced him tightly.

She pulled back. “Are you hurt?”

“Only a little.”

She didn’t believe him and undid the few intact buttons of his shirt with her deft nurse’s fingers. His shoulder was covered with rough bandages, which she removed, revealing a deep cut, the hastily-finished stitches doing nothing to seal the wound.

As if on cue, Mevrouw Sturms reentered the room and handed Marthe a tray of first aid supplies before retreating again.

“It’s lucky the bullet just grazed me,” Max stated. “Otherwise I might have had to answer some awkward questions from a Hun doctor.”

Marthe dipped a washcloth into a bowl of warm water and dabbed at the wound. “What sort of questions, Max? What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? A better question is what are you doing here? They told me some woman named Laura was coming.”

“I am Laura.”

Max moved her hand aside. “What do you mean, you’re Laura?”

She resumed her cleaning. “That’s my code name.”

He laughed, a hollow laugh, not his normal deep chuckle. “Code name? What all have you been up to?”

She gave him the short version of what had happened to her since the war started while she threaded a needle sterilized with iodine. “And you, Max? We’ve been worried sick about you.”

“I’ve been fine.”

“Clearly not,” she scolded. “Not with this gash. Tell me.”

Max’s voice was uncharacteristically somber. “Have you heard of the Langenboom gun?”

She shook her head.

“It was a huge gun they used to bombard Dunkirk. It could shoot miles behind the line.” He took a breath as Marthe continued sewing up his wound. “My commanding officer got word that there was one posted outside of Moere and needed someone familiar with the area to dig up information on what the Huns were planning.” He shot her his familiar grin and her heart swelled. “So I volunteered.”

“Max.”

His grin grew impossibly wide. “My code name is No. 8. It seems spying runs in the family.”

“What happened?”

“An airplane dropped me outside of Pitthem. I tried to get hired on at a nearby farm but the Boches wouldn’t employ any new laborers near the gun. But then I noticed that they used prisoners to repair the road.”

“And what did you do?” Marthe asked, fearing she knew the answer.

“I got myself arrested. I picked a fight with a Hun.”

“Did you hit him?”

“Nearly. Settled for cursing him out, but it was enough to get me three weeks of road labor in the shadow of the Langenboom. Oh Marthe,” he repositioned his body to face her. “You should see it. They’ve got underground ammunition compartments as big as Westrozebeke’s Grand Place, buried under cement walls two meters thick. And even though it’s patrolled night and day by Hun guards, they’ve surrounded it with barbed wire.”

“Wow,” Marthe breathed. “That’s some gun.” He shifted in the bed and she saw his face twist in pain. “What happened to your shoulder?”

“We slept in a hut not far from the bastion. Our guards, believe it or not, were lazy devils and three nights ago I managed to climb out of the hut and go exploring. I had just finished mapping the gun’s position when a patrolman approached me. I ran off and nearly got back through the window but a bullet scraped my shoulder. I hid the wound from my guards until my term was up and they let me go.”

“And now you’re here.”

Max nodded. “Herr Jacobs has just delivered my newest orders: I’m to destroy the Langenboom as soon as possible.”

“No, Max. You’re injured. You have to give yourself a few days to get your strength up.”

“In a few days they could turn that gun loose on Moere and kill everyone in the town.”

“Max,” she admonished him. Although he was older by three years, Marthe had always been the more responsible sibling. Some things never changed.

“Marthe, please don’t tell Mother and Father that I’m here. If something goes wrong…”

“What are you talking about? You know that I cannot keep this a secret from them. And if something does indeed go wrong—not that it will because you are going to stay in bed—they would want to see you one last time.”

“I don’t want them to have to lie if they are questioned by the Boches.” He waved his non-injured arm. “Come now, ‘Laura,’ you of all people should understand that.”

“If Mother and Father found out that I knew of your whereabouts…”

“It’s only until I can manage to blow up the Langenboom. Then we can all celebrate, together as a family.”

Marthe sighed before glancing out the window at the rising sun. “I’d better go before they start asking questions. I’ll just tell them I had to stay at the hospital all night.” She rose and put her hand on his arm. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course I will. I’ve survived this long.”

“I can use some of my contacts to see what they know.”

“Don’t you go blowing up that gun on your own, little sister. This is my job.”

“It can wait a few days. Until then, you stay here and rest. I’ll let Mevrouw Sturms know how to change your bandages and I’ll be back the night after tomorrow to check on you.”

“Good night, Marthe.”

As she walked to work two mornings later, a small boy ran past her and slipped a note in her hand. She recognized the boy as one of Mevrouw Sturms’, and Marthe’s heart thudded in her chest as she read the note. “No. 8 is desperately hurt and wishes you to come as soon as you can.”

She called to an orderly just entering the hospital gates. “Mein herr, please give the Oberarzt my regards. Something terrible has happened and I must return home.”

He nodded. “Be here all the earlier tomorrow.”

Marthe arrived at the farmhouse red-faced and sweating. Mevrouw Sturms greeted her wordlessly and led her back to the little room. Herr Jacobs knelt beside her brother, who lay in the same bed as before, a clean bandage on his shoulder, but now a red, raw wound stretched in a jagged line across his chest. Another bandage, this one stained with blood, covered his lower abdomen.

“Well, little sister,” Max gasped. “It seems luck is not on my side, but I’ll polish off the Langenboom yet. Just wait till I’m well again.”

She took his clammy, pale hand in hers. “What happened?”

Herr Jacobs answered for him. “Last night No. 8, your brother, decided to blow up the ammunition compartments under the Langenboom.”

Max gave a wry smile. “I was hoping that a little spark would blast the whole place to bits.”

“And it probably would have,” Herr Jacobs added, “if two German secret service men hadn’t spotted him and tried to question him. He had on his person the complete layout of the bastion and several sticks of dynamite.”

Max’s voice had become a whisper. “I thought I had safely escaped, but a stray bullet got me, once again.” He shut his eyes.

“Max?” Marthe squeezed his hand. To her immense relief, his eyes slowly opened.

“I’ll give you some time,” Herr Jacobs said, rising. “And Max,” he paused at the door. “You did a brave thing.”

“I only wish I could have finished the job.” He still had that characteristic half grin/ half sneer on his face, but Marthe could tell that her older brother was dying. He focused his eyes on her. “Now, little sister, don’t you go blowing up the Langenboom while I’m ill. This is my job.”

“Max?”

“I’m going to get some rest now, Marthe. I’m very tired. So tired,” he repeated as his eyes closed again.

Half an hour later, her older brother, her tormentor, partner in crime, and personal hero, was dead. Marthe sat by his side, losing track of time as she reminisced on their childhood: Max laughing, Max putting pinecones on her chair, Max pulling her braids.

When she finally rose and dried her tears, she took the plans for the Langenboom from his jacket and handed them to Herr Jacobs. She kept the two sticks of dynamite for no other reason that they seemed like useful articles for a spy to possess. And because they had once been Max’s.

Chapter 43

M’greet

May 1916

The Paris of 1916 wasn’t terribly different from the one M’greet had grown to know and love. The Germans had been concentrating their attack on the historic city of Verdun, miles away from the capital, but close enough that soldiers at the front would come to Paris for rest, and to forget the horrors of war. And it was not just men from the main French and English troops, but those of their colonies, such as Algeria and Morocco, which, with their Zouave uniforms, gave the city an even more international flair than normal.

M’greet’s patterns while she stayed in the city of lights did not change a great deal—she rose around 10 each day and went down to the lobby for coffee and yesterday’s stale bread, and then returned to her room to get ready to visit furriers, shoe-makers, perfumiers, florists, jewelers, or whatever her whim was for that day. She then would return to her room to change her outfit for dinner. Having abandoned her mission, she never gave Fräulein Doktor or the rest of the Germans much thought whatsoever, besides missing her beautiful, confiscated furs on a particularly cold evening.

Though M’greet’s overall routine didn’t vary much, her dinner companions often did. First, she resumed her relationship with Freddy, but when he left again for the front, she took up with Jean Hallaure, and then Nicholas Casfield. She was quite used to being surrounded by admiring men, so when two men followed her on a shopping trip, she didn’t give much notice, especially because neither was particularly handsome. But the same men trailed her the next day to a furrier, and then after that to a jewelry shop.

She complained to the front desk numerous times, but the clerk could do nothing. She began making it a game to lose them, spending van der Capellan’s money on automobile taxis, gleefully watching the men’s surprised faces as the taxi pulled away, splashing mud on their trousers.

Nicholas Casfield offered to accompany her to dinner one night at the end of May. She was, of course, late in meeting him and as she descended the steps of the hotel lobby, saw that he was engaged in conversation with another soldier.

“Nicky,” she called, wanting his full attention on her. Both he and the other soldier looked up. She walked slowly down the stairs, knowing that her diaphanous dress would trail prettily behind her.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she asked in a slightly breathless voice once she reached them.

The companion stuck out a hand. “Vladimir Masloff,” he said smoothly.

M’greet put a hand on her chest. “That’s quite a mouthful. Are you Russian?”

“Indeed,” he replied.

“I shall call you Vadim.” This put a smile on the man’s handsome visage. M’greet batted her eyelashes as she studied him. He was very young, perhaps around half her own age. Thick eyebrows framed his dark eyes and his cheekbones cut a line across his face, which was clean-shaven, the better to reveal his sensuous, rouge-colored lips.

There was something about those lips that made M’greet forget all about Nicholas Casfield. “Would you care to escort me to dinner?” she asked, tucking her arm in Vadim’s.

Nicholas took the hint. He twirled his nearly empty glass. “I’m going to get another drink,” he said before walking across the lobby.

“So, you are the famous Mata Hari.” Vadim’s French was slightly broken, his accent poor.

M’greet waved her hand. “Not anymore. I haven’t danced for ages.”

“What is your current name?”

“Margaretha Zelle-Macleod.”

“That is even more of a mouthful than mine.” He thought for a minute. “I shall call you Marina.”

He told her over dinner of his background: he belonged to the 1st Special Imperial Regiment, a unit that was dispatched by the Czar himself to the French front.

“And you are an officer,” M’greet stated admiringly. “You must be extremely talented to have your star rise so fast.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m stationed at Mailly, in the province of Champagne. I’m only on leave for a few days before I must return.”

M’greet touched his hand. “I shall keep you company until then.”

After dinner he invited her for a stroll along the promenade in the Bois de Boulogne. When they returned to the hotel, M’greet encouraged Vadim to exchange his room on the second floor for the one that adjoined hers. After they’d said public goodbyes in the hallway outside, Vadim knocked on the inside door and M’greet invited him into her room.

They were inseparable for the next few days. M’greet wanted to soak up as much of Vadim as she could before he had to return to the front. She’d been a courtesan for nearly ten years, and had met many, many men, but Vadim was different. Perhaps it was because he still held a touch of innocence in this world of hardship.

He asked her to accompany him to the train station when it came time for him to return to his station in the province of Champagne.

M’greet wept openly. “I cannot wait for you to get leave again. I have to see you sooner than that.”

Vadim pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “What will you do? You can’t exactly follow me to war.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I will think of something.”

The train whistle blew. “I’m sorry, Marina,” Vadim said softly. “I have to go.” He put both of his large hands on her face and tilted her head upward before kissing her mouth.

“I love you, Vadim,” she called at his retreating back. “I love you and I will see you soon!”

He waved as he mounted the train. She took a deep breath as it began to pull away.

“Marina!” Vadim appeared in the corner of a crowded window. “I love you too!”

She waved the handkerchief, shouting “I love you,” until the train was a tiny dot in the distance and the smoke had dissipated.

Jean Halluare was sitting on a velvet chair, pretending to read a book in the lobby of the hotel when she returned. Hallaure was a second lieutenant who had been wounded and then installed in the Ministry of War. M’greet had spent a few nights with him in the middle of March—he came from an exceedingly well-off family, but he was awfully boring.

Hallaure stood. He was tall and cut a handsome figure in his cavalry uniform but the sight of his brass buttons reminded M’greet of Vadim. Her legs felt weak. “Champagne,” she croaked out.

Hallaure pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s a bit early, but I suppose…”

M’greet sank into the couch. “No. Where is the Champagne province? I must get there.”

He resumed his seat and put a tanned hand on M’greet’s white one. “It’s in the war zone.”

“Name some nearby cities.”

He sat back and rubbed his chin. “Reims. Calais. Vittel.”

M’greet sat up straight. “Vittel. Yes, Vittel. I’ve been there before. The waters are said to cure any ailment.”

“You would need to get a special pass to go there now. It’s too close to the action.” He patted her hand. “Forgive me for saying this, but, although you look stressed, you do not look that ill. Besides, there are plenty of other spa towns that are further from the front.”

“I must go to Vittel,” she told him firmly.

“Then you will need to procure a doctor’s note and ask at the Military Bureau for Foreigners for a permit to travel to a war zone.”

She put a hand to her throat and coughed before rising. “I will visit my doctor soon. For now, I must rest.”

Chapter 44

Marthe

June 1916

During the first week in June, Canteen Ma failed to call for the first time since Marthe had met her. Another week passed with still no sign of the old woman.

One evening Marthe was returning from work when she saw that the man who brought the liquor supplies to the café was standing outside the back door.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” he said, tipping his hat and indicating the bottles at his feet. “Will you please check the voucher?”

“My parents normally take care of the café business,” Marthe started uncertainly, but the man thrust the voucher into her hands anyway. She unfolded it and just caught a small paper cylinder as it fell. She gave the man a puzzled look, but he lifted his lapel to reveal two safety pins running diagonally underneath.

“Where is Canteen Ma?” Marthe asked as she handed back the voucher.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was told that I will be your main contact from now on.” His frown deepened. “I doubt you will ever buy fruit from Canteen Ma again.” He gave her one last nod before walking away.

Marthe hefted the box of liquor, her heart weighing on her as much as the bottles of schnapps. She supposed that Canteen Ma’s luck had run out, a fate that they all faced every day. Perhaps she had already gone before a firing squad, leaving nothing in her wake but a creaky cart, no one to recognize or honor all of the work she did for the Cause.

At any rate, Marthe would miss seeing the eccentric old lady.

* * *

A few weeks later, Alphonse approached Marthe in the courtyard and informed her in a low voice that the Germans were accumulating large amounts of rifle ammunition and using the grounds of a house near the Grand Place as their dumping ground.

“Should we let the Allies know this would make a good bombing target?” Marthe replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alphonse pulled at his lip. “No. They’ve also been constructing anti-aircraft guns, and I doubt the Seven Sisters could get close enough without suffering a great deal of damage of their own.”

“We can’t just let them stockpile all of this stuff to use against the Allies.” Marthe thought for a second. What would Max have done if he was in the same situation? “Alphonse, I’ve got it.” She gestured for him to follow her into a corner, away from any prying ears. “I’ve got sticks of dynamite. If we light them and toss them into the ammunition stores, that should be enough to turn it all into one big inferno.”

“No. Marthe, that’s madness. There’s a ring of soldiers constantly patrolling the outside walls. We could never get the dynamite past them.”

“We’ve got to do something. Even if it’s just informing the Allies so they can come up with a plan.”

Alphonse nodded. “You let your contacts know, and I’ll try to think of an idea in the meantime.”

A few days later, Alphonse pulled Marthe aside as she was leaving the hospital. “Have you ever heard anyone mention a secret passage underneath the hospital grounds?”

“No.” She sat down on a bench underneath a yew tree. “Is there such a thing?”

Alphonse nodded, clearly too excited to sit. “In 1914, Roulers was bombed by shells. I had just finished an ambulance shift and joined a couple of orderlies who were investigating the craters left by them. One of them revealed a big black hole surrounded by stonework. We went down with torches—it seemed to lead for miles under the town, but we didn’t have the leisure time, nor the strength, to follow it to its conclusion so we covered it over with some dirt and forgot about it.”

“Do you think that the others have forgotten about it as well?”

“I believe so.” Alphonse finally took a seat next to her. “Most of the men who went down with me have long been transferred, and the wooden staff hut was erected right over the crater. But look at this,” he held up a history book. “Roulers, like many medieval towns, once had an open sewer running through the middle of the main street. Don’t you see, Marthe?” He dropped the book. “This sewer leads right past where the ammunition store is located.”

She began to see Alphonse’s point. “If we could get into the sewer, we could work our way through until we were underneath the dump, set off the dynamite, and vanish, leaving the stores to incinerate.”

“Exactly!”

“But,” Marthe pulled at her bottom lip. “What if we misjudge the distance we’ve gone and stick our heads out of the ground in the middle of the Grand Place after curfew, or, worse yet, at the feet of one of the sentries?”

Alphonse pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Yes. It will be risky—we could even come right through the floor of the Town-Kommandant’s office.”

She slumped, crossing her arms across her chest.

He blew out a ring of smoke. “But if we are careful and use common sense, I don’t think we will. It’s possible to use careful calculations, at least up to a point.”

At this, Marthe sat up again.

Alphonse picked up the book and flipped through it. “The sewer runs mostly straight—it had to. Look,” he displayed a page. “We can use this old map to estimate how far it is to the center of the dump.”

“Surely it’s not that easy to know how far you’ve traveled underground.”

He flicked his finished cigarette. “I’ve thought about that—we’ll make a length of string 100 meters long. If the dump is 3 kilometers away, that’s thirty times the length of my string. But I would need a partner to help me measure and hold the string taut. What do you say, Marthe?” He put a hand on her arm. “Are you willing to take on such a risk?”

The warmth of his touch seemed to seep inside her, filling her blood with an unexpected fire. Alphonse must have seen something peculiar in her face because he removed his hand to dig in his pocket for another cigarette.

“Of course,” she replied once her insides had returned to a normal temperature. “Especially if the reward is seeing all those potential weapons being blown to bits. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow night seems as good a time as any, provided they don’t send me to the front with the ambulance. Find a reason to work late at the hospital, and meet me at nine in front of the staff hut.” He glanced over at her. “But be sure to get some rest tonight, Marthe. We are going to have quite a series of hard evenings ahead of us.”

As soon as the town clock struck the nine o’clock hour, Marthe set out for the staff hut. Most of the other employees had long gone home, and only the orderlies on duty were in the wards. A lone figure, shadowy in the closing dark of the evening, stood outside the long wooden hut.

“Hello?” Marthe spoke with a disguised tone in case the person was not who she thought it was.

To her relief, a familiar voice answered, “Hello, Marthe, you are right on time. Sit down for a moment.”

She sat as the dim figure of Alphonse paced in front of her. “I’ve done some more reconnoitering, and I think our plan is sound. This hut,” he reached out and set his palm on a wooden slat, “is slightly raised to keep out the dampness of the ground… and the rats. It leaves us enough room to crawl beneath and slip right into the hole, without having to raise up floor-boards, only to replace them again when we leave.”

The ever-practical Alphonse had worked out even more logistics than she’d anticipated. “What’s in the sack?” she asked, nodding at it.

“Cement, a hammer, a saw, a strong chisel, and, of course, plenty of nails.” Even in the extensive darkness, she could see his white teeth flash as he grinned. “I’ll not be able to visit the canteen for at least a month, now that my pay is pledged for all of this gear.”

He beckoned Marthe to follow him inside the little hut. “The first thing we need to do is,” he gently placed his sack full of supplies on the floor of the cabin, “hide our light.” He grabbed a bunch of newspapers, and the two of them covered the windows. Alphonse then lit a lantern and gestured to several loose wooden planks in the corner of the cabin. “These were left by lazy workmen. They’ll form the floor of the sewer beneath us.”

“How deep is it?” she asked as she helped him move one of the planks toward the gap.

“It’s about a 2.5-meter drop.” He paused to gaze at her. “This is going to be a messy job, Marthe. I hope that cloak of yours is an old one.”

Once again, she felt her face heat up, but ignored the feelings that her proximity to Alphonse ignited. “How will we get out again once we are down there?”

“That’s where these will prove incredibly useful.” He dropped a plank and then the sack into the black hole they’d uncovered. He then gave her a mock salute before sliding into the darkness.

It seemed like an eternity before Marthe heard a faint thump. She peered into the dark hole, only just able to discern the gleam of a torch.

“Well, Marthe, I’m safe in the sewer.” Alphonse’s voice was garbled and she heard him spit. “Just remember to keep your mouth shut tight.”

She drew her cloak around her and then scooted to the edge of the hole, feet first, the way Alphonse had done. She dropped down, and he caught her waist.

“Thanks,” Marthe murmured as she stood unsteadily on the loose rubble of the sewer. He moved away and raised his torch. She could see they were standing in a passageway, the walls and ceiling paved with flat stones, surrounded by a cold, damp stillness.

“We should get moving.” He rummaged around in the sack and produced a length of cord. On either end were wooden pegs. He handed one end to her and took the other, setting off down the passageway.

Marthe stood still, watching the light from his torch growing fainter as the cord tightened. She reached up to rub at her eyes and brushed a mesh of cobwebs. The dust it uncovered caused her to sneeze as she felt the peg in her hand jerk. As she started forward, she heard rustling in the opening above. She froze, certain that they’d been caught even before they’d made headway into the sewer. She raised her torch to reveal two beady black eyes. She maneuvered through the sewer as quickly as possible.

“What’s gotten into you?” Alphonse asked when she reached him.

“I saw a rat,” she breathed.

“Yes,” she could hear the laughter in his voice. “You’ll run into quite a few of them.”

They spent an hour in the subterranean sewer, taking turns walking with the string until it pulled taut, signifying another 100 meters. The only sound besides their own footfalls was the ever-present scurrying of the rats who managed to stay just beyond the reach of their torchlight.

At last they’d made 30 passes. Marthe joined Alphonse underneath where he suspected the store lay. He scraped up a little mound of dirt with his hands and drew a cross with white chalk to mark the spot.

She lifted her lantern to contemplate the seemingly impenetrable stone above their heads. “The roof above might collapse if we try to pull away that rock,” she stated.

“My father was a miner,” Alphonse replied. “Do you know what a miner would do if he had to remove rock but wanted to preserve his head?”

She shook her head.

“He’d put props against the roof before he picked at the mortar.”

“The loose planks?”

“Exactly.” He held out his hands, measuring distances. “We’re going to need a ladder to help us get to the ammunition dump, and at the other end.” He pulled out a pocket-watch and held the torch near it. “I’ve got to be in my barracks by midnight, or else I might have to answer some awkward questions.”

Marthe moved closer to him. “Do you really think this will work?”

He lit a cigarette, the match casting light on a horde of rats scurrying away. “What do we have to lose if it doesn’t?”

She pictured the piles of ammunition that, hopefully, lay just above their heads. The actual act of blowing up the dump loomed much more dangerous than walking through a sewer, but Alphonse’s presence alleviated some of her nervousness. “Tomorrow night, then? Same time?”

“Same time.”

They began their journey back to the hut. Now that the work was finished for the night, Marthe could hear her heart hammering, keeping pace with the rats’ scampering. “I don’t know that much about you, Alphonse. Who were you before the war?”

He lit another cigarette. “Who was anyone before the war? Does it matter at this point?”

She thought for a moment, picturing herself, little Marthe Cnockaert as a nursing student at University, ready to do anything she could to please her family. And now here she was, planning to blow up a German ammunition store. “Did you always know you wanted to be a priest?”

“No.” His tone grew softer. “I wasn’t sure I was ready to give up a family for God.”

“But you changed your mind.”

“Yes. There are some things worth sacrificing for, no matter what the cost.”

She agreed with him on the statement in principle, but not necessarily with forfeiting the chance at love.

“What about you, Marthe? What will become of you once the war is over?”

“I suppose I’ll stay a nurse. At least until I get married and have babies. That’s what women do, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Even though he was right next to her, Alphonse’s voice sounded far away. “Somehow I can’t picture you in that role.”

“I want a family,” she stated, her voice firm. “I know that more than ever… now that Max is gone.”

“I didn’t know that you knew for sure about Max. Did you get word from the front?”

Glad for the change of subject, Marthe spent the rest of their journey back filling him in on what happened to her brother. “That’s where I got the dynamite sticks,” she told him as they reached the hole below the staff cabin.

“I wondered.” They paused and looked up, feeling the air of the cabin on their faces. “I’m going to lift you up as high as I can, and you will have to pull yourself out.”

Marthe nodded, feeling an unexpected ache when Alphonse put his hands around her waist. As he hoisted her up, she realized she wasn’t as sure about her future as she’d sounded before in the pit. She didn’t know if she wanted that family after all if it couldn’t be with Alphonse.

Chapter 45

M’greet

June 1916

M’greet wanted nothing more than to be with Vadim in Vittel. She had not heard a word from him since he left for the front, despite asking anxiously at the Grand Hotel’s front desk every day. Following Hallaure’s instructions, she managed to convince her doctor, another former lover, that a mysterious illness had come over her and required her to go to the spa at Vittel as soon as possible.

When she obtained the doctor’s consent, she set about trying to get a pass. The official at the Military Bureau for Foreigners appeared somewhat friendly and told her she wanted the Deuxiéme Bureau next door. 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain was an expensive-looking apartment building with tiled floors and high ceilings. She adjusted her straw hat with its fashionable gray plume before she went up to the front desk.

An officer greeted her and asked for her papers. He gave them a cursory glance before nodding at her. “Come with me.”

He led her to an office where a large man with greasy hair and a too-small mustache that did nothing to hide his pock-marked face sat behind a desk. “Ah, Miss Mata Hari, come in, come in.”

M’greet was only a bit startled that he used her stage name—her papers only gave her real name—but figured that her dancing fame had once again preceded her.

He nodded at her but didn’t rise. “I am Georges Ladoux.”

Taking the papers from the officer, Ladoux flipped through them with his fat hands. “Ah. I see you wish to go to Vittel. Are you not aware that it is in a military zone?”

“I am well aware.” Although he was slow to invite her to sit down, M’greet arranged herself in a hard-backed chair anyway. “But it is also a resort that I have gone to before. You will see there is a note in there from my doctor so that I may be permitted to take the waters.” She coughed delicately.

“It is difficult for foreigners to get a permit to go there. You are Dutch, are you not?”

M’greet searched her mind for one of her usual answers, but Ladoux’s beady eyes made her think twice. “That is correct.”

He picked up a paper from the pile and used the edge of the desk to straighten it. “It seems you have come under the suspicion of England.”

She opened her eyes wide. “I’m not quite sure how. Was it that business in Folkestone so long ago?”

He put the paper down. “Folkestone. Yes. And this man, this Hoedemaker, he seemed to believe you were not being completely honest.”

“Nor was he. He implied to the entire ship that he was in my room after hours.”

Ladoux sat back and crossed his arms, focusing his gaze on her face. “The British are convinced you are a German spy. I, however, am not so sure.”

She leaned forward. “You have to believe me when I say that I am pro-Allies. Completely.”

“Your friend Jean Hallaure informed me that you would request to go near the war zone.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a cigarette. “But, if you love France so much, you could render us a great service. Have you ever thought of that?”

Great service. She sighed to herself—here was yet another man asking her to spy. “I do love France, but this is not the sort of thing for which one offers themself.”

Ladoux lit his cigarette in lieu of replying.

“Besides,” M’greet added as a thought occurred to her. “My services would be very expensive.”

Ladoux blew out the match. “What would they be worth to you?”

“I suppose, if I could deliver what you are expecting, a great deal. Although, if I were to fail, it would cost you nothing.”

He exhaled a circle of smoke. “If I give you a pass, you must promise me you will not seduce any French officers at the airfields near Vittel. As far as aviators go, you never know what could fall upon you from the sky.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I wouldn’t dream of it. There is a Russian officer I wish to see, and with whom I am very much in love.”

“Ah.” Ladoux flicked ash into a tray. “I have seen you having lunch with him.”

She narrowed her eyes. This fat little man was the one having her followed all over Paris. “You have seen me, or your lackeys that tail me everywhere have reported such?”

Ladoux coughed and then waved smoke out of his face. “Their reports are mostly regarding you visiting the finest Parisian perfumeries and shops, but nothing else.”

“Then this stupid game needs to stop.” M’greet tapped a gloved hand on the desk. “Either I am dangerous, and you will expel me, or I am nothing but a pretty little woman who danced all winter and now that summer has come, wants nothing more than to be left in peace.”

He stabbed his cigarette out. “I will grant you this pass with the understanding that you will meet with me again on your return from Vittel.”

She rose to leave.

“And, madame, in case you are looking, you will find your friend Masloff in a hospital at the front.”

She refrained from gasping aloud. Ladoux was clearly trying to get a rise out of her, but she refused to give in. “G’day, Captain.”

“Good-day, Madame Zelle-MacLeod.”

The following afternoon, M’greet went to the Quai d’Orsay to visit Harry de Marguérie. She was so used to looking upon Vadim’s young face that Harry looked like an old man.

She told him everything. To his credit, he did not seem to be jealous about Vadim. After she’d finished her story, he ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Did it ever occur to you that little Normie, had he lived, would be the same age as Vadim?”

She opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. “It’s not like that,” she managed to croak out after a beat. “We’re in love. I just want to be near him. And now this Ladoux man wants me to become a spy.”

He laughed. “Another disguise, Marguérite?”

“This time it would be in the service of France, not to better my own life.”

He shook his head. “You know, some people view the work of espionage as opportunistic and mercenary.”

“Some would say the same thing about myself.”

That old grin again. “True.” His face grew serious as he asked, “How old would you say Ladoux is?”

“I don’t know. Forty-something, though the fat might have hidden some of his wrinkles.”

“Did you ever ask yourself why this, as you say, forty-something man is still a captain?”

“Does it matter?”

He put his steepled hands under his chin. “French men at the front have a survival chance of less than half.”

M’greet frowned as she recalled what Ladoux said about Vadim.

Harry didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “Officer promotions are handed out swiftly in order to fill these dead men’s posts, so you’d think by now Ladoux would have a higher rank.”

She supposed the points Harry brought up should have bothered her, but at that moment, she could think of nothing else but Vadim. “Maybe that’s the highest rank he can achieve in his line of work.”

Harry tucked his hand underneath his face and thought for a minute. “This line of work is, indeed, extremely dangerous, but if anyone can serve my country with such work, it is you, Marguérite. Ladoux probably knows that too.”

She gestured toward the window. “If that’s so, why do you suppose he is still having me followed?”

“Is he?” He went over to the blinds and peered out. “Two youngish-looking men, one in a brown suit, one in a green?”

“That’s them. They’ve been tailing me for months.”

“I wonder why Ladoux would offer you a position in the French Intelligence Service if he suspects you enough to have you tailed.” Harry picked up his suitcoat from the chair. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to have some fun. Watch what happens when Ladoux’s flunkeys try to follow the Secretary of Foreign Affairs as he takes Mata Hari out to dinner.”

The next day M’greet returned to Ladoux’s office. She stalked in this time, displaying a confidence she did not quite feel. “Captain, in principle, I submit.”

Ladoux’s stern expression showed no surprise. “Does that mean you agree to work for me?”

“Yes, provided you will still allow me to go to Vittel.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper before sighing, “So be it. You will report back here when you return for further instructions.”

His tone indicated that he had finished with the conversation, but M’greet was not satisfied. Yesterday he had seemed so interested in her affairs and now it was as though he couldn’t care less. “Captain, is it possible for me to send a telegram to Vadim Masloff from this office? I have not heard from him since he left.”

“Is this official espionage business?”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“Then I suspect you know the answer to your inquiry.”

M’greet rose, but Ladoux did not look up as she left.

She headed straight to the post office, trying to shove off a nagging thought about Ladoux’s indifference. What did it matter? She was going to Vittel to see Vadim! She sent him a quick note for him to expect to see her within the week.

Chapter 46

Marthe

June 1916

Marthe once again met Alphonse in front of the staff cabin a few days later.

“I made a ladder to get in and out of the pit,” he told her. “So you don’t have to worry about getting a mouthful of dirt this time.”

She was about to ask when he’d found the time to concoct a ladder when he suddenly seized her in an embrace. She peered up at him. The seconds turned into hours as his lips grew closer and closer until they were upon hers. They were still locked in a passionate kiss, her eyes closed, her head whirling with questions, as the sound of marching soldiers broke her revelry. She opened her eyes to see three soldiers nearby, taking a shortcut across the hospital grounds.

“Fräulein Cnockaert does indeed have a lover,” one of them chuckled as they passed.

When they finally broke apart, both of them panting, Alphonse apologized. “That just shows you how careful we have to be, Marthe. This is very dangerous work we’re doing.”

“Are you sure you want to become a priest?” She wiped her mouth with her cape as discreetly as she could.

“Yes,” he replied, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “It is my calling. Just as much as this work we do.”

Marthe forced her lips into something that could pass as a smile.

They lowered themselves into the sewer in silence. Their going should have been much easier this time, due to the hastily-made rope ladder, but Alphonse fumbled as he descended and dropped his torch. Luckily it was not harmed, and, as he lit it, Marthe saw that another ladder lay at the bottom of the sewer, accompanied by a flat wooden circular piece.

“It’s a lid,” Alphonse said, upon catching sight of her puzzlement. “To camouflage the hole we’ll make at the other end of the tunnel.” He handed her a pickaxe. “Ready?”

Silence descended once again as they made their way through the sewer. Anytime she felt something at her ankles, Marthe lowered her torch to scare away the rats, watching them flee into the corridor with a feeling of satisfaction, as if she were frightening off her own worries at the same time.

Once they’d arrived under the stone marked by the white chalk, they set to work. Alphonse had already propped the loose planks to form a tetrad against the stone ceiling so it wouldn’t crash on their heads as they worked. Half-blinded by the descending dirt and dust, perspiration dripping down her burning neck and shoulders, Marthe attacked the stone ceiling with her pickaxe. After half an hour, he stopped working and peered up at the stone. All of the mortar was gone from around it.

“Stand back,” he told her before removing the prop. The slab refused to give way. He reached into his sack and grasped a crowbar. As he inserted the crowbar to wiggle the slab loose, she closed her eyes, hoping nothing would fall on his head. Suddenly he leapt backward as a piece of the slab crashed down. The echo reverberated through the tunnel and Marthe said a silent prayer that the Germans hadn’t heard it above ground.

After a little more work with the crowbar, Alphonse had opened a wide gap, through which they could discern moonlight. They moved the other ladder into position and he ascended it. “Marthe, we did it,” he called down. “Hand up the lid.”

The stone lid was heavy but she was able to lift it high enough for Alphonse to grab onto it.

“And now the dynamite,” he said when he’d reappeared. She carefully transferred the dynamite into Alphonse’s strong hands.

“You can come up now. We are protected from view of the sentries by piles of ammunition.”

As Marthe climbed the ladder, she could see giant tarpaulin-covered mounds extending in every direction. “We did it,” she giggled once she was on solid ground.

“Stay here,” he commanded when he’d finished maneuvering the camouflaged lid into place. “I’m going to look for a good spot to place the dynamite,” he stated before vanishing among the piles of ammunition.

Soon she could hear the measured click of a sentry’s boots and cowered into a nearby mound as best she could. She saw the glimmer of a bayonet as the sentry passed by, but thankfully he took no notice of her.

She started visibly as she heard another sound behind her, but it was Alphonse returning from his reconnaissance mission. He pointed off to her right. “Over there is a pile of petrol. Place one of the dynamite sticks in there and then lead the fuse to our hole.” He took hold of the other stick. “I’m going to put this one in that stack of rifle bullets.”

Marthe lifted up the tarpaulin and was about to place the stick as directed when her foot slipped, striking a stray can of petrol. The faint metallic sound of the petrol can hitting another sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise still night.

“Is someone there?” called a gruff voice.

She maneuvered herself against a pile of ammunition, this time careful not to strike any more cans.

“Hello?” called the voice again.

After a few more beats, the voice was silent and she was able to put the dynamite in place.

She found Alphonse waiting by the hole.

“Did you hear anything?” she whispered, too embarrassed to reveal her blunder.

“Nothing,” was his terse reply.

She helped him prop up the camouflaged lid before he drew the two fuses together. “What a shame we won’t be able to see the sentries’ reaction when the whole thing blows.” He struck a match and shielded it with his hand. “Okay, Marthe, get back into the sewer. As soon as my head drops below the parapet, knock away the prop, but mind you not before—I don’t want a bump on my head.”

After she’d climbed back down, she watched Alphonse bend to touch the match to the fuses and then she heard a fizzling sound. After he was satisfied they were burning, he descended the ladder. She reached out with the crowbar and hit the prop, causing the lid to drop into place.

“Now run!” Alphonse commanded, and she sprinted as if the whole German army were after them.

They had only gone a few meters when a loud rumble shook the tunnel. Their hands went instinctively to their heads, but nothing fell. Another boom sounded, and then silence.

“Well,” he said, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well, I think we did it.”

Marthe began to laugh uncontrollably. As if her giggles were contagious, Alphonse did the same. It was as if the explosion had also cracked the thick veneer of austerity that surrounded his heart. Whooping madly, he spun her around. She nearly collided with the walls of the tunnel before she realized that, in their mirth, they’d accidentally extinguished the torchlight.

A hand found hers in the darkness, and then something soft touched her lips. The moment she’d been dreaming about was finally happening again—Alphonse was kissing her! And this time there were no soldiers around to fool.

She reached up and entangled her hand in his hair.

When they finally broke their embrace, both of them were panting.

“I—” Alphonse began, but Marthe touched his lips with her finger before placing her lips upon them once again.

She had no idea how long they kissed in the darkness of the sewer. He finally stopped to light a cigarette before he bothered to light the torch.

They walked back toward the staff cabin in an exhilarated silence, Alphonse’s strong hand still wrapped around Marthe’s.

When they emerged into the night, they could see an orange glow coming from the direction of the ammunition stores. She expected Alphonse to pull away again, but he squeezed her hand. “I have to go back to my barracks before I’m discovered, but you might be able to see some of the commotion on your way home.”

His face was close to hers, so she kissed him again, a quick, gentle kiss this time, not the long, needy ones of the tunnel. “Good night, Alphonse.”

“Good night, Marthe.”

Chapter 47

Alouette

June 1916

The tension between the military attaché, Kalle, and von Krohn continued to grow throughout the first half of 1916. The Baron often accused Kalle of appropriating naval matters which were supposed to be under his own jurisdiction.

Von Krohn returned to the apartment one night in June in a foul mood. Alouette found him stuffing papers from his desk into a handbag. “I have to leave for Cadiz as soon as possible,” he stated in a weary voice.

“Am I to accompany you?”

“No.”

“Oh Hans.” She threw herself dramatically into a chair. “Every time you are in a conference with Kalle, you come back in the most devilish temper. And then you try to wall me up even more in this gilded cage.”

He stopped. “I’m sorry, Alouette. But great events are happening with the German navy that will allow us to end this war, which has come to an impasse in the trenches.”

She’d found that sarcasm usually worked to draw out information when he was in such a state. “You are going to win a victory from an armchair in a Cadiz office?”

“Do not question me further, Alouette.” His voice contained more than a hint of warning. “I would pay anything to see Kalle’s face in a few weeks when he hears the news, but for now we must have patience.”

She put a hand on his arm. “But Hans, I was really hoping for a vacation on the coast. It’s so hot in Madrid.” She moved her hand to his face. “And maybe this time we could share a room.”

His face relaxed. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “I suppose…”

“I’ll start packing,” she said quickly, before he could change his mind.

It turned out that a German submarine was to be interned in the Cadiz port. Alouette realized the significance of this right away: the ability of U-boats to come and go as they pleased in Spanish waters could be considered a violation of Spain’s neutrality. It might eventually anger the Allies enough to declare war on Spain.

Von Krohn was obviously taken aback when Alouette requested to see the submarine soon after entering their hotel room. “That’s an impossible task, and you well know it.”

She placed her bag on one of the two beds, willing herself not to wonder if von Krohn expected to share it with her. Instead of resorting to anger and demands, she forced her voice to take on a soothing tone. “Can you tell me, Hans, who is in charge of a submarine when it enters into neutral waters?”

“A commander is the master of his own vessel,” von Krohn stated, opening his suitcase. To her relief, he dumped his clothes on the other bed. “But in a case like this, he does not dare move without receiving permission from the Minister of Marine Affairs of the neutral country.” His voice boomed. “As I am the German naval attaché in this country, the commander of the submarine is subject to my orders.”

“Well, if that is the case, why do you hesitate to take me aboard the submarine? What difference can it possibly make now that the submarine is interned?” Von Krohn’s face remained stony, so she tried a different tactic. “I’d love to see the vessel that is currently at your beck and call.”

At last his expression changed, to that of a dreamy one, and Alouette wondered how it came to be that this man whom she detested had become so infatuated with her. He nodded his assent. “I’ll step out of the room so you can dress properly.”

They took a boat from the other side of the harbor, as von Krohn said the fewer people that saw them board, the better. As they crossed in a fisherman’s dinghy, the Baron told her, “Alouette, one of my greatest thrills is to give you any pleasure that lies in my power.”

Her grip on her purse tightened, but he obviously had other pleasures in mind than the one she most feared.

“Now you will have an idea of the scientific superiority Germany has over the Allies and you will see firsthand how resourceful my country is. But,” he glanced down at her, “remember to never tell a living soul that I allowed you to board a U-boat. And, Alouette, please don’t speak French to anyone on board. If you need to say anything, say it in Spanish.”

The submarine—according to the block lettering on the side, was named U-52— was anchored to the left of the port, hidden by a large brick wall. Alouette could see how easily it could sneak in and out of the harbor without being noticed.

The commander, an athletic-looking man in his mid-thirties, received them on the bridge. “I like your dress,” he told Alouette in Spanish.

She looked down, brushing imaginary dust off her black and yellow skirt. She’d paired it with a red blouse, purposefully dressing in the colors of the German flag. “Thank you. I wanted to show tribute to your sailors.” She nodded toward the crew, who stood at attention in full naval attire.

“Sie sind mutige deutsch,” the commander said with pride. They are brave Germans.

Alouette was taken off guard for a moment and nearly answered back.

Noting her bewildered expression, the Baron explained that she did not speak the language.

She took the commander’s arm and resorted to Spanish. “As an airwoman, I am especially intrigued by the submarine’s motors. Can you explain how they work?”

He grinned before leading her down the deck. “Of course. Let me give you a full tour.”

Von Krohn was forced to tag behind, though he intermittently cut the commander off in his explanations. It was obvious to Alouette that he was trying to reestablish the commander as his underling.

As they went back on deck, von Krohn said in German, “I won’t be back again.” He moved to examine a fitting. “I give you carte blanche to decide when to launch. If, however, there turns out to be any hitch, ring me up at once.”

Alouette sighed inwardly. Von Krohn must have been referring to the submarine leaving for a mission, probably to torpedo Allied boats, but, even though he spoke in a language he didn’t think Alouette understood, he was being deliberately vague.

The commander nodded before saying, “Alouette, before you go, I’d like to show you our megaphone.” He shot an apologetic smile to von Krohn. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

Von Krohn’s mouth turned downward as he nodded.

The commander led her down a narrow hallway to show her a brass funnel. “It dramatically increases the volume of the human voice.”

She ran her hand along the words crudely printed along the side. Gott strafe England. “What does this mean?”

He gave her a wry smile. “May God punish England.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. He responded back with another squeeze. “I’d like to see you again,” he told her in a low tone.

She turned to him with wide eyes. “I’ll be in Madrid in July. Perhaps you could visit me? I’ll be alone,” she emphasized.

“July is impossible. But perhaps we could meet in the fall.”

She pursed her lips into a pout. “Why not July?”

A look of sadness passed across his face before he smiled. A forced, mechanical smile, Alouette noted. “God keep you until we meet again, fräulein.”

He led her back to von Krohn, who helped her into the dinghy. The commander waved at them until they were out of sight of the submarine.

“What was that about?” von Krohn asked gruffly.

She shrugged. “I may be engaged, but I can still be flattered by the attentions of a handsome young man, can’t I?” She pointedly accentuated the words “handsome” and “young,” hoping von Krohn would take the hint that he was neither.

It worked. Von Krohn sulked the rest of the night, and, mercifully, did not venture over to her bed. Alouette fell asleep to the sound of the Baron’s snoring.

As soon as she got back to Madrid, she sent Ladoux a letter regarding what she’d learned about the submarine. She never received a reply.

Chapter 48

Marthe

July 1916

A few days after the ammunition store explosion, Alphonse called on Marthe at her house to offer to walk her to work. “They opened an inquiry as to the blast, but cannot find out any information,” he told her, the glee obvious in his normally stoic voice. “As all of the sentries remained at their post, they had nothing to report. None of them were injured, either.” His grin widened. “I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.”

“What was their conclusion?”

“That somehow an explosive device had been packed among the stores and ignited by accident.”

“So we’re in the clear.”

“Indeed.” They had paused outside of the Grand Place. Alphonse leaned in for a kiss and Marthe returned it willingly.

“What time do you need to be at work?” he asked as they broke for air.

Marthe lifted her arm to check the time, but froze as she looked upon her bare wrist. She realized she hadn’t seen her watch for at least several days.

“Is something wrong?” Alphonse’s sturdy voice broke through her panic.

“No,” she smiled up at him. “I just forgot my watch.”

When she got home from work that evening, she searched her room thoroughly but found no trace of the watch. The clasp had been loose for a while, and she’d meant to get it fixed, but obviously the plan for the ammunition dump had taken priority. It could be anywhere: under the hut, in the tunnel, at the dump itself.

Or maybe she’d just lost it during rounds at the hospital. For that reason, she decided not to tell Alphonse about her missing watch.

Chapter 49

M’greet

August 1916

M’greet traveled to Vittel by train. She waited impatiently at the train station for the hotel motor-car and was disappointed to see a plain old horse and carriage pull up.

“Where are the automobiles?” she demanded as the driver pulled his horses to a halt.

“Requisitioned for the front, madame,” he replied.

“And where do you suppose we put these?” she gestured to her trunks. She was traveling lightly this time and had only brought four.

He made a face as he took stock of them. “I suppose I’ll have to come back.”

“You there,” M’greet called to the two men standing near the ticket office, pretending to be preoccupied with a bulletin board. The taller man looked up and, as suspected, she recognized him as one of the same men who had been following her around Paris.

“Yes?” he asked.

She gestured to her luggage. “Do you mind helping me with those? I imagine we are going to the same hotel.”

He shot a bewildered glance at his partner. His partner shrugged in return and the two of them hauled three of the trunks to the side of the road.

The driver held out a hand to assist M’greet into the carriage before dumping the other trunk unceremoniously next to her.

They drove to the Grand Hotel of the Baths, where M’greet was installed in Room 363. She took the waters the next morning and, upon returning, requested that room 362 be reserved.

Vadim arrived that evening. He had a silk patch over his left eye, tied by two ribbons.

“Oh, my poor darling!” M’greet covered the right side of his face with kisses, deliberately avoiding the patch. “What happened?” she asked when she was satisfied she’d kissed every square centimeter of skin.

“German gas. My mask had a leak in it.” He carefully sat on the bed. “The doctors say I might completely lose my eyesight.”

“Oh, my Vadim, I’m so sorry.”

“This war is horrifying, Marina, in a way you will never understand.” His face was as white as the bandage wrapped around his eye. “I was a boy when I first signed up. Then, at my first battle, I became a man. And now, now I don’t know what I am… a walking wounded, a cripple, a should-have-been left for dead.”

She grasped his hand. “You are none of those things. You are a brave soldier who will quickly recover from his injuries.”

“Marina,” he turned to her and she was once again shocked by his appearance. “Surely if this terrible thing comes to pass, you will not stay with a blind man.”

“Vadim, how can you say such a thing? I would never leave you. Never.”

A small smile appeared on Vadim’s lips. “I thought you might declare as much. In that case, will you marry me?”

She clapped her hands. “Of course! I’d be delighted!”

That night M’greet made a vow to herself that she would never deceive Vadim with other men; she would let go of the Marquis, of van der Capellan, even Harry. Of course, that meant she would have to ask Captain Ladoux for enough money to get by, to rent an apartment in Paris for her and Vadim to live. She had no concern of Vadim losing his eyesight. But if he did, she reflected, it meant he would always remember her as being beautiful, even as she inevitably became older, with deepening wrinkles and graying hair. As she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of being the happiest woman on Earth.

Chapter 50

Marthe

August 1916

Alphonse no longer spoke about being a priest. Instead, he’d make plans for the both of them for when the war finally ended. “I will probably stay on as an ambulance driver in Roulers and walk you to work until we can get a place of our own,” he stated one morning when he met her at the café for breakfast. “Maybe I’ll even take classes to become a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Marthe asked.

“How else will we make money when you start having babies?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a laugh.

“Think it over.” He glanced at his own watch. “I can’t walk you to work this morning—I’ve been called in early.”

He kissed her before striding off.

As Marthe passed by the Grand Place on her way to work, she happened to glance at the town bulletin board and a “Found” notice caught her eye:

A soldier of the Army of Württemberg has been arrested for theft. A number of articles found on his person appear to belong to the citizens of this town. Any person who thinks he recognizes the following articles should report to the Town-Kommandment’s office during normal business hours.

Fourth on the list was “a gold watch with the initials M.C. engraved on the back.”

Marthe gave a sigh of relief, pleased that her watch had been located. The thief had either discovered it on the street or stolen it from someone who had.

Without thinking, she strolled across the street to the Town-Kommandant’s office. The secretary gave her a funny look but told her to go through the inner office door.

Marthe had met the Town-Kommandant a few times—he was there when she’d been awarded the Iron Cross. He nodded at her and bid her good morning. After she told him her business, he opened a desk drawer to pull out an envelope, which he then tipped onto his desk. Everyone else must have already claimed their stolen articles as only her watch fell out of the envelope. “Is this yours?”

She picked it up and fingered the engraved initials. “Yes, Herr Kommandant. It was a gift from my father and I’m very glad to have it back.”

“Well.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “Then I am pleased to at last find the owner of the watch.”

As the clasp was still broken, she put it in her purse and forgot about the whole affair until she got home that afternoon. It was a slow day at the hospital and the Oberarzt had let her leave early.

Mother was at the door, a worried look on her face. “Where’s Alphonse?” she asked by way of greeting.

“He was called to the front. I haven’t seen him all day. Why?” Marthe asked.

“The gendarmes were here this morning.”

“Looking for hoarded food again?”

“That’s what they told me, but the way they went about their task this time, I don’t think it was food they were looking for.”

“What do you mean?” Marthe’s voice rose. “Did they mention my name?”

“Not directly.”

“Then there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

An hour later, Marthe was eating dinner when one of the waitresses told her that a roughly-dressed man was at the back door of the café, asking if the letter for Fräulein van Eurne was ready.

“What do you mean?” Marthe demanded. “I don’t know anyone of that name.”

She went to the back door. The man’s clothes were indeed shabby, but his look was too shrewd to be that of a laborer.

“Meneer, I believe you have made a mistake. I do not know anyone with the last name of van Eurne,” Marthe told him.

“Are you sure?” He leaned in, his breath smelling of bratwurst. “You can trust me.”

She tried to control the shaking in her voice. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

His face seemed to drop with disappointment as he bowed. She watched him walk away, feeling vaguely frightened.

She quickly walked back in the direction of the hospital, toward Alphonse’s barracks. The door to his cabin stood open, and it appeared to have been ransacked, but there was no sign of Alphonse.

When Marthe returned to the café, she found an officer of the Brigade Staff, along with two soldiers and a gefreiter waiting for her.

“I have orders to search these premises,” the Brigade officer told her. “Gefreiter, place your men at the doors so that no one can come and go while we conduct our search.” His steely eyes landed on Marthe. “Fräulein, please hand me all of your keys.”

Mother made a small cry as her daughter surrendered her key ring.

“Your search will be fruitless,” Marthe told the officer with more assurance than she felt.

He ordered her and Mother to wait downstairs. They sat in silence, listening to the sound of drawers falling to the floor and the clanging of a metal trash can being tipped over.

Marthe could feel Mother’s eyes boring into her, but she focused on the pictures of the former owner and his family that still decorated the café walls. The same pictures Alphonse had once commented on so long ago. Marthe dug little crescents into her palm with her fingernails. Alphonse. She could never forgive herself if anything happened to him. She wasn’t worried whether or not she would be arrested—from the noise upstairs, it was clear the Vampires were intent on finding something incriminating. Just that morning she had written two coded messages to deliver to the chemist later that night. She’d hidden them under a loose strip of wallpaper in her bedroom.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs and the Brigade officer got into Marthe’s face. “You see what I have found, fräulein?” He opened his enormous palm to reveal her messages. “You will come with me to the Kommandant’s office to be formally charged.”

Mother let out a cry, but the officer ignored her. “We have enough evidence to put you in front of a firing squad at our leisure. Gefreiter, grab her.”

“Please, no,” Mother begged.

Marthe did not say anything as the gefreiter took hold of her arms and marched her out of the café. She recalled what Aunt Lucelle had told her when she recruited her: If you are caught, in all probability it will be your own fault. She could feel a tear work its way down her cheek, but the gefreiter still had hold of her arms and she had no choice but to let it fall.

Chapter 51

M’greet

September 1916

M’greet and Vadim’s time together had been ideal: they’d taken the waters, posed for a formal photograph, and spent the rest of their time in her room, away from the prying eyes of the detectives, who resumed their pattern of following her every place she went.

She returned to Paris to find a mountain of bills waiting for her. She shuffled through them: outstanding balances from many of the fancy hotels she’d stayed in over the past few years and invoices from a myriad of dressmakers and perfumiers. Of course, she had nothing to pay them off with—she hadn’t worked for a long time, and had spent a good deal more money in Vittel.

She decided to call on her lawyer, Edouard Clunet, to see if he could be of help.

He examined the bills in silence, his characteristic austere expression deepening into a frown. “Some of these are nearly half a decade old.”

“I know. You’d think at some point they’d just give up.”

“We’re talking about money here, M’greet. People will pursue debts long after you are lying in your grave.” He looked up. “Do you have any savings?”

“No.”

He took off his pince-nez glasses to rub at his face. “We are going to have to start a repayment plan to get some of these bills under control.”

“But I have just become engaged and plan on moving in with my fiancé as soon as he is back from the front. There is no money for repayment.”

“You are getting married again?” Clunet threw his head back and laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

M’greet grabbed the bills from his desk and shoved them into her purse. Clunet had been her lover many years ago and was clearly just jealous. “It’s true. I will become Mrs. de Masloff as soon as I can manage.”

“Good luck, M’greet,” Clunet said ominously as she left.

She headed straight to Ladoux’s office. “I need money,” she said by way of greeting.

Ladoux gestured for her to sit down. “How much are you talking about here?”

“A million francs.”

As usual, Ladoux’s expression showed no surprise. “To earn such a sum would require you to produce extremely sensitive information from the German High Command. The kind of information that would end the war. For you,” he gazed at her dismissively, “that kind of accomplishment would be nearly impossible.”

“Oh, not so impossible, Captain.” M’greet thought quickly, hoping to persuade Ladoux not to send her to Germany, where they might ask questions as to what happened to the 20,000 francs they had paid her. “I know just the man who could provide such information.”

Ladoux leaned in. “Who?”

“One of my ex-lovers was friends with the German army’s biggest supplier and can come and go as he pleases at the Grand Headquarters in Antwerp.”

“What is his name?” Ladoux demanded.

“General Von Bissing.” She’d once been introduced to the governor-general of occupied Belgium by van der Capellan. They’d only exchanged pleasantries at the time, but M’greet was sure that he, like most men, would easily fall prey to her considerable charms.

“And if you are caught?”

She waved her hand. “I’ve been in scrapes before. I can take care of myself.”

“Of that I don’t doubt. But this job is quite dangerous and you are taking the greatest gamble of them all—you will be playing with your life.”

“I am an adept gambler.” This was not true, but Ladoux did not know that.

He gave a loud harrumph. “I always bet on red in honor of France. Red is the color of the blood that flows for freedom at the front. Black represents your German friends. I warn you: red will win while black loses. Reflect on that before placing your bet. You have tonight to think it over.”

“I have already thought it over. I will play red.”

Ladoux pulled a cigarette case out of his desk drawer. “Do you care for one?” he held the case out toward her.

M’greet took a cigarette and put it in her mouth. “Thank you.”

He held a lit match up to the end of her cigarette. He took a puff of his own before asking, “Do you know how to use invisible inks?”

She refrained from rolling her eyes. “No. That sort of trickery goes against my nature. And anyway, I will not need them. I don’t intend to laze around for months, picking up tiny bits of information to send to you. I will make a grand coup, tell you all what I have learned in person, and then be finished.”

“You didn’t learn of secret inks when you were in Antwerp?”

M’greet froze, the cigarette halfway to her lips. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Ladoux sat back and crossed his left arm under the one holding the cigarette. “I’m sure that you do.”

She recalled what Harry had said in his office that day after she’d first met Ladoux. “If you are so convinced I am a German spy, why do you propose to recruit me?”

“Well, for one, I am hoping you will betray some of your associates to me.”

She stabbed her cigarette out. “Even if what you are accusing me of is true—which despite all your little agents and your dirty tricks, we both know it is not—I would never denounce anyone.”

Ladoux lit another cigarette. “You act as though spying is a dirty practice when you yourself are to become one, most likely a double agent. You, who makes a living off of other women’s husbands, refuse to reveal the names of fellow spies?”

M’greet held a gloved hand to her lips and coughed. “Even I have standards that I will not forsake.”

When she returned to the hotel that evening, she found that some of her debtors had gotten a court order for her trunks.

The desk clerk handed her a bill for five hundred francs. “They are saying they will surrender your belongings if you can pay half.”

“I can’t pay any of it,” M’greet responded, the desperation obvious in her voice. How was she supposed to seduce men in the name of France if her magnificent wardrobe was not complete?

She sent Ladoux a pneumatique asking the same question that evening. When she didn’t hear from him for two days, she paid yet another visit to 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain.

Ladoux did not seem pleased to see her. “I had heard that you were quite the revolving door, but didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of witnessing this behavior myself.”

“Nonsense,” M’greet snapped, well aware of his double entendre. “Did you get my request?”

“If you mean the uncoded pneumatique you sent—the one that anyone could have confiscated and read for themselves—then yes.”

“And?”

“And my superior refuses to give you an advance. Had you taken a bit more precaution, I could have maybe argued for a little money.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a packet of antipyrine. “I can teach you how to make a simple invisible ink with this stuff.”

M’greet snatched the packet.

“You are willing to learn about secret inks?” The hopefulness was too obvious in his voice.

“No,” she snapped. “You are giving me a headache.”

The frown returned to Ladoux’s face.

She sat down. “You cannot expect me to pay for all of my expenses on my own.”

“What about your Belgian lover?”

“If van der Capellan knew what the money was for, he would refuse to pay, and I would no longer have a protector in Holland.”

“Well then,” Ladoux gave a dismissive wave. “I guess you’ll just have to find someone else to pay your way.”

In a huff, M’greet left his office and then went to the post office, where she sent a letter to Anna, begging her to ask van der Capellan for six thousand francs. She couldn’t write to the Baron directly, for fear his wife would intercept the letter. She then sent an express letter to Vadim, paying for it with credit, reaffirming her love and promising to secure an apartment for them in Paris.

Chapter 52

Marthe

October 1916

Marthe awoke to a sliver of sunlight shining on her face. At first she wasn’t sure where she was, but then reality came crashing home: she was confined to Roulers’ military prison, formally charged as a spy.

A guard opened the heavy door of her cell, and set down a tray containing a mug of tea and a dirty plate of black bread before leaving, locking the door behind him.

Marthe ate automatically, washing down the hard bread with the tasteless tea. This scenario had been playing out for weeks: in the afternoon, the tray contained thin soup and at night the same soup accompanied by moldy potatoes. No one had spoken to her, and she occupied her time lying on her bed, staring up at the tiny window slit, not wanting to think of what had happened to Alphonse, least of all daring to dwell on what would become of her.

Finally, a detective entered her cell. He was a large man with a deformed lump in the middle of his nose, as though it had been broken and never healed correctly.

“You are going to die in a day or two,” he told her. “You might as well tell me the truth. We have your friends and they have confessed to your involvement in their crimes.”

Alphonse. Just thinking of him was like a blow to her heart. But something about what the detective said didn’t sit right with Marthe. Alphonse would never have revealed her name, not even under the pain of death.

The detective shook his fist in her face, and she had the mind to strike him across that hideous nose. “Speak,” he demanded. “Who were the other people helping you? Your mother? Your father? Out with it!”

She sat on the bed. The detective was lying when he said he had her friends. He knew nothing.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Are you going to tell me, or should we resort to other measures?” His face was next to Marthe’s, his spit showering her face. “We have ways of making sure people talk, especially women.” When he let go, her form went limp and she fell to the bed like a rag doll.

The detective tried one last time. “Who were those notes for? What did the codes mean?”

When he realized that Marthe was not going to speak, he left, stomping his feet as he walked out of her cell.

He came back a few hours later, bursting into the room while Marthe was sleeping, cursing and spitting at her until she woke up. This continued at all hours for the next two days; if it wasn’t the broken-nosed detective, it was another man, a cadaverous bald man, who hissed and whispered his curses instead of screaming them.

Marthe thought she would go insane with hatred for the horrible men, but she consoled herself with one thought: they didn’t have Alphonse, for if they did, they would never go through such lengths to get her to confess. She desperately hoped he was safe, wherever he was.

The detectives at last ceased their visits, and Marthe was once again left alone. A few days later, a young lieutenant entered her cell. He unfolded a piece of paper, and, after clearing his throat, read, “By order of the General Officer of Occupied areas, you are to be tried by a court-martial. You will be arraigned under Article 90 of the Military Penal Code, Section 2, which concerns the destruction of munitions and Section 4, regarding your service as an enemy spy.”

He folded the paper and clicked his heels together before peering at Marthe.

“I’ve been asked to act as your defending officer.”

Marthe’s voice was hoarse. “I do not wish for a defending officer.”

He sat in the rickety chair, the only other furniture she had besides the hard bed.

“You do not trust me. But, rest assured, I will not tell the authorities anything that you disclose.”

“I have no reason to mistrust you, Herr Lieutenant.” She was pleased to hear her own voice grow stronger. “It is just that I do not believe you can help my case.”

He nodded. “From what I can see of the evidence held against you, you are probably right.”

“Is it possible you could explain what information the prosecution has?”

He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I have been informed of the events leading up to your arrest. One day a passing soldier spotted a group of children playing around a hole in the ground near the supply dump which had gone up in flames under mysterious circumstances. Below the hole, the soldier discovered a stone shaft, which led straight to Roulers Hospital, upon which was found a concealed exit.”

Marthe nodded.

“A gold wristwatch was found in the tunnel, about half-way through.”

At this, she froze, remembering Alphonse spinning her around, right before he kissed her.

The lieutenant continued, “Suspicion fell upon you, since the watch bore your initials and you were an employee of the hospital. You know what happened after that.”

“And they have no knowledge of anyone else involved?” Marthe asked.

“Not at this time. But if you are willing to give up the names of your accomplices, I could probably argue for a lighter sentence. Life imprisonment, perhaps, instead of the death penalty usually reserved for spies.”

“I will never reveal any names.”

“I thought as much.” He stood. “Should you change your mind, I am at your service.”

“Thank you, Herr Lieutenant.”

He knocked for someone outside to unlock the cell. “Whatever you did, fräulein, I believe you did it for the good of your country, same as the rest of us. May luck be with you.” He bowed as the door opened and Marthe was left alone once again.

Chapter 53

M’greet

November 1916

The Baron’s money finally came through in early November and M’greet was at last able to retrieve her confiscated trunks. She rented an apartment on avenue Henri-Martin and left the belongings she wasn’t taking to Holland there. She then sent Vadim a letter, telling him all about the apartment and included a money order in his name for five hundred francs. As she signed it over, she realized that was the first time she’d ever given a man money.

She left Paris on a night train to Spain on November 5th. In Vigo, M’greet boarded the S.S. Hollandia. Even though the ship was from a neutral country, it was forced to dock in Falmouth for a routine inquiry by British authorities.

Two women were employed to search M’greet’s cabin. They were surprisingly thorough in searching through her trunks—they even removed the mirror from the wall and peered under her bed with the aid of an electric lamp.

M’greet watched them with derision, figuring the women, who were both dressed very plainly and had short hair, were the suffragette type. She wasn’t worried about their meticulousness: after all, she was employed by France, an ally of England.

The suffragettes finally left and M’greet lay on the bed to take a short nap.

Not more than ten minutes later, her rest was interrupted by a loud knocking. She opened the door to find a man in a khaki uniform and short mustache holding her passport.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Madame, is this your passport? Are you Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod?”

“I am.”

“Have you ever traveled under any other name?”

“My stage name is Mata Hari, but I don’t use that name on official documents.”

He stared at her fixedly for a minute. Once again, M’greet was not overly concerned and met his gaze. He pulled a wrinkled picture out of his pocket. “Is this you?”

She took the photo from him. It was an amateur photograph of a woman in a white mantilla, one hand placed on a hip and the other holding a fan. The woman was shorter and more muscular than M’greet. She recognized the woman as Clara Benedix, the spy she’d trained with under Fräulein Doktor.

“That sort of costume is not my style, sir. That picture is definitely not me.”

“I think you’d better come with me,” he replied.

The officer and one of the suffragettes, who turned out to be his wife, escorted M’greet by train to London. Luckily, they decided to unload her trunks from the ship before bringing her to Scotland-Yard, where she was put in a room by herself.

The questioning began the next day. They provided her with a translator, but, in M’greet’s opinion, he spoke Dutch like a dirty Flamand. When he told her interrogators that M’greet had a German accent, she decided she’d had enough and demanded to carry out the rest of the examination in French.

The main investigator was an elegant gray-haired man with bright blue eyes. He introduced himself as Sir Basil Thomson, head of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. His companions both worked for the Criminal Investigation Department.

Worried by the mention of Scotland Yard, M’greet asked Thomson if he thought she was a criminal.

“Tampering with a passport can be judged as a crime.” He produced her papers. “Someone here has changed your age, as you can see. A very clumsy forgery, indeed.” He tapped on the age, which M’greet had changed from 38 to 30 when she had first received it.

Under the circumstances, she figured a few white lies wouldn’t hurt anyone. “It is not a forgery.” She folded her shaking hands under the table. “Is it possible the Dutch ambassador can be present during this questioning?”

“Why do you need the Dutch embassy? Clara Benedix is a German.”

She sighed. “I am not Clara Benedix.”

“Did you ever have an inflammation of the left eye?”

Taken aback, M’greet replied that she’d never had anything wrong with her eyes.

“But one of your eyes is more closed than the other.”

She touched the left side of her face. “It has always been so, but nobody is usually so rude as to comment on it.”

Thomson ignored that last retort. He pushed the photograph of Clara forward. “The woman in this photograph also has this peculiarity.”

“Perhaps, but that is not me.”

He decided to change tactics. “Just before you left for Paris, did you receive the sum of 10,000 francs from anyone?”

M’greet’s heartbeat sped up as she recalled the money from Karl Kroemer and Fräulein Doktor. She crossed her still hidden fingers. “No.”

“We have information that Mata Hari received thousands of francs from the German Embassy.”

Her throat went dry. “Is it possible to have a glass of water?” she asked one of the other men who stood behind Thomson. He nodded and left.

When the man returned with the water, M’greet took a long sip before setting the glass on the table. “I was not going to say anything, but you might as well know that I am employed by Captain Ladoux of the French Secret Service.”

From the skeptical look on Thomson’s face, he didn’t appear to believe her. “Is that so? Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“I didn’t think it proper to inform you of Ladoux’s business.”

Thomson seemed at a loss for words and glanced at each of his companions in turn, who shrugged. “I will inquire further into this,” he replied finally.

Three days later, Thomson called her back into the examination room.

“You should know that Ladoux is claiming that he never hired you.”

M’greet couldn’t keep her mouth from dropping open. “Why would he say that?”

Thomson raised his eyebrows in an uncharacteristically inelegant fashion. “I don’t know. But,” he continued, relaxing his face, “our thorough search of your possessions has failed to turn up anything incriminating. In addition, we’ve received telegrams from several prominent men all insisting upon your identity as that of Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod.”

Flattered at the mention of these prominent men, M’greet demanded to know their identities.

One of Thomson’s lackeys handed him her file and he flipped through it. “Let’s see. The Baron van der Capellan, Robert Henry de Marguérie: Secretary of French Foreign affairs, and the Marquis Frederic de Beaufort—he signed his telegram as Freddy.” He shut the folder. “Therefore, we have no choice but to release you.”

She heaved a great sigh of relief. “I am to go to Holland, then?”

“No. You will return to Spain.”

“But—” she insisted.

Thomson held up his hand. “Spain.”

Chapter 54

Alouette

November 1916

Kalle’s agents had become a constant presence outside the Calle del Alcalá apartment. Consequently, Alouette had only been there infrequently in the past few months, and the Baron had given up going there altogether. He had invited Alouette to stay with him at his house, as the Baroness was away on a visit to relatives, but she had, of course, refused and instead returned to the Palace Hotel.

However, Alouette could not alienate von Krohn completely, so when he extended a lunch invitation one day in mid-November, she had to accept. She found him seated in his office, intently studying the map before him. An electric desk lamp was lit, but the rest of the room was dark. Without raising his eyes from his work, he waved her toward the seat in front of him.

Alouette knew better than to disturb him, so she waited in silence, refraining from drumming her fingers on the desk.

Finally he looked up. “Ah, Alouette, I’m glad you came.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it a few times.

“What is it?” she asked, as nervous as she always was when the Baron had that gloomy expression in his eyes.

“This fiancé of yours…”

“Zozo.”

“You mentioned once that he was an anarchist.”

Alouette shook her head, not recalling that particular conversation, but it was true that the man Zozo was a Bolshevik.

“Can you send for him to come to Madrid?”

“Zozo?” she repeated dumbly. “What would you want with him?”

“I’ve been tasked by the German Secret Service to start a propaganda campaign to, as they put it, ‘beat down the morale of the Frenchmen.’ They gave me several hundred pesetas, so obviously they mean business.”

“I could write to him…”

“Do it. And as quickly as possible. I want to beat Kalle in the race.”

Accordingly, Alouette wrote to Zozo, imploring him to visit her in Spain. She also wrote to Captain Ladoux to ask that he send Zozo as soon as he could. She mentioned the money von Krohn was willing to pay, thinking that, at the very least, would elicit a swift reply from Ladoux, but she was wrong.

With each day that passed without a reply from either Ladoux or Zozo, Alouette grew first perplexed, and then worried. What was happening at the Deuxiéme Bureau that was causing them to ignore her request?

The Baron, too, grew impatient. “Why is there such a delay in getting your fiancé here?” he asked her one day.

Alouette could only murmur a half-hearted reply about him encountering “unforeseen difficulties.”

“If he doesn’t come soon, I will have to look for someone else to unload all of these pesetas on.”

To her chagrin, Alouette read of the sinking of the HMS Nottingham in August. The German submarine responsible was said to be U-52, the same boat she had been aboard a few months earlier.

Still, Alouette heard nothing from France. Her fellow countrymen in Spain continuously snubbed her, thinking she was a German spy. She longed for an end to all of the lying, all of the scheming. And most of all, she longed for an end to her contact with Von Krohn. If only Ladoux would respond! She didn’t need praise or encouragement, necessarily, although either would have been welcomed. What she really wanted at this point was acknowledgment. But Ladoux continued his silence.

Alouette walked home from yet another tedious lunch with the irritable Baron, asking herself what the sense was in carrying on such a dangerous task now that she had lost communication with the Deuxiéme Bureau. She kicked every stone in her path and heaved a heavy sigh as she entered the Palace Hotel.

She was so wrapped up in her discontent she barely noticed the tall man in the aviator jacket standing in the foyer. He turned, the familiar grin finally registering.

“Zozo!” she shouted.

He met her eyes and then bowed his head, his eyes dropping to the ground.

Alouette understood: he was cautious about the hotel staff overhearing them. Trust no one. She flagged down a porter and said in the loudest voice possible, “I am expecting some letters in the next post. Please send them up to Room 11 as soon as you can.”

She had just shut the door to her room when someone banged on it. As expected, Zozo was standing outside.

She waved him in before she started questioning him. “What is happening in Paris? Why has the Captain not answered any of my letters? What took you so long to get here? Is Paris in danger? Are we?”

Zozo opened his mouth, but Alouette wasn’t done yet. “Every week I write to the Deuxiéme Bureau, but I never get a reply. I’m beginning to wonder what my purpose is here, and whether I should continue on. Captain Ladoux has deigned to reply to none of my last twenty letters, and von Krohn seems to become more suspicious each day that passes. I am nothing but a lion in a cage here, and I’m fed up!”

Zozo collapsed into a nearby chair, holding a hand to his forehead. After a beat, he put his arm down and peered at Alouette. “Captain Ladoux has been quite absent, I’ll agree. The last I knew he had been working with new recruits, including a supposed double agent, whom he was setting up to expose. After your last letter, I was at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain, for three days straight, my finger on the bell, but no one answered. Finally, I called on Captain Ignatieff, the head of Russian Intelligence in France. He was the one to pay for my fare to Madrid.”

“But what of Captain Ladoux?” Alouette’s voice was growing shrill, but she couldn’t help herself. “Why was the submarine able to escape from Cadiz despite all of my best efforts? I’ve been completely let down and I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”

A puzzling smile appeared on Zozo’s handsome countenance. She was indignant at his obvious amusement, which grew more intense as he said, “What do you want me to do about it? Captain Ladoux is confident in your relationship with von Krohn.” He cocked an eyebrow. “When do I get to meet the esteemed Baron… and take his money?”

“I could telephone him now and he’d come straightaway.” For some reason, Alouette felt the need to prove to Zozo the extent of the Baron’s attachment.

He nodded toward the door. “Be my guest.”

An hour later, Alouette and Zozo were indulging in aperitif drinks, a sherry for her and a bourbon for him, when von Krohn knocked on her door.

As she rose from her seat to answer, she apprised Zozo, “You are the most dangerous of anarchists.”

He gave her a mock salute and Alouette opened the door.

Von Krohn did not utter a word of greeting to either of them, but nodded at Zozo as he took the chair across from him. “You are a Bolshevik?”

“Yes,” Zozo answered. “I was a co-signer with Vladimir Lenin of the Socialist Revolutionary Pact.”

“What you have done in the past doesn’t fully inform me on how you can help in the future. France has proven to be far from open to revolutionary ideas, as was your Georgia.”

At this Zozo sat up straighter. “I am well familiar with Russian order. I cannot see much difference between that of Russia and France.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Nor can I discern the difference between that of the German order, which resulted in multiple revolutions, and is, as we speak, drowning out strikes with streams of blood.”

Von Krohn had his hand over his chin, obviously absorbing every word Zozo spoke. Finally he replied, “Bourgeois order is the same everywhere.”

Zozo rose and stood ramrod straight. “The people are starving—that’s the order. There is no justice for working men—that’s the order. Education is not for every man, only the rich—that’s the order.”

As if to slow the tirade, the Baron held up his hand, but Zozo was not finished. “It is like a grave in which the slaves, chained to their shovels, have been digging without respite for centuries, under the promise of the whip, and for the profit of a few slave traders. Don’t be surprised if, when the millions of disillusioned soldiers come home, they annihilate this so-called social order and replace it with decrees that are more humane.”

Now von Krohn stood, both hands in the air. “And yet Alouette tells me you have fought side-by-side with the French bourgeois against the Germans—”

“You don’t get it.” Zozo’s voice rose in anguish.

Whether it was false or real, Alouette wasn’t sure. Regardless, she was enjoying the showdown between von Krohn and her fake fiancé.

She grabbed a biscuit off the table and took a bite as Zozo continued, “The French watched as I fought single-handedly against five German airplanes. They believed that I was serving France against the Germans. Hence this medal.” He touched the Croix de Guerre pinned to his chest. “But they were wrong.” He shot a glance in Alouette’s direction before focusing once more on von Krohn. “Each decoration they awarded me was like a stroke of the master’s whip, trying to get the slave to germinate the seed. But all it was germinating was the harvest of revolutions to come.”

Alouette crunched on her biscuit. This is really good.

Von Krohn sat before holding up a wary hand. “If you would be so kind as to tell me what you plan to do with the money I will entrust to you.”

Zozo folded his arms across his chest. “I have no desire to serve you or your country, only my Russian brothers in their task for revolution.” He paused to gaze again at Alouette, who raised her eyebrows. Agree with his plan. “But,” he added, “if that includes galvanizing Frenchmen to rebel against their own government, I suppose it’s all for the Cause.”

The Baron nodded slowly, but Alouette could discern his barely-contained delight. She shot a grin at her compatriot. His ruse had worked!

Von Krohn stood once again. “I shall give you five hundred pesetas for your propaganda campaign.” His eyes traveled from Zozo to Alouette, forming a look of wounded pride as he left.

“Well,” Zozo took a biscuit before refilling his drink. “That was interesting.”

“It certainly was,” Alouette replied. “How much of it was true?”

He shot her a grin. “I am a Bolshevik.”

She felt a pang of jealousy. “You are lucky you can maintain your cover without having to pretend to be someone you’re not.”

He sat next to her on the couch. “Do you mean pretending you care about that callous Boche?”

“Yes. I’m just tired of all the games in general. I wish I could go back to France for good. I wish this terrible war had never started, that my husband had never died…” her voice trailed off.

“Somehow I can’t picture you married.”

She shifted to face him, bringing her knee next to his. “You knew him, back in our flight days.”

“That old man you were always with was your husband? I thought he was your dad or something.” He shook his head. “I feel as though, had he lived, you might have died yourself, of boredom.”

“Well, that’s because you are the type to date a new woman at every aerodrome.”

Zozo put a hand on her arm, and she didn’t pull away. “Right now we’re both grounded. And I’m the only one who knows your secret.”

“Don’t forget Ladoux.”

He dropped his hand. “And Ladoux.”

Ladoux. She felt nothing at the mention of his name. For the first time in months, the feelings of indignation and abandonment had vanished. All that was left was the feeling she was no longer alone, an outcast spy, alienated by the Spanish and the French alike. Zozo had come to her aid; he was now a comrade in her lonely battle. Alouette scooted closer to him and retrieved his hand. This time she put it on her leg.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“Like you, I’m a spy.” She knew exactly what kind of man Zozo was: there were no secrets with him. But he was also a warm body and she had been so lonely. “Why can’t I also be a woman who sleeps with someone she doesn’t love?”

He pulled down the collar of her shirt and kissed her neck. “Well then, be sure not to fall in love with me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

Chapter 55

M’greet

December 1916

M’greet had no idea why Ladoux had denied hiring her to Thomson, but she knew she needed to do something to impress him if he was ever going to deliver the money he’d promised. She was stuck in Spain, and, as she had failed in meeting von Bissing in Belgium, she decided to seduce a German envoy in Madrid. Of course, in order to do so, she would need an introduction.

After she checked into the Palace Hotel, she asked the clerk for a diplomatic list. She ran her finger down the sheet, looking for a military attaché. She paused at the first one that did not list a wife. “Captain Arnold Kalle,” she said aloud.

“Perdóneme?” the clerk asked.

“Can you get me an envelope and a pen?” she barked in return.

He did as bid and M’greet hastily wrote out a request to meet with Captain Kalle.

A messenger from the embassy delivered a note the next day, inviting M’greet to Kalle’s apartment for tea. She took great care in choosing her outfit, dressing in a raccoon-trimmed gray suit and matching hat.

A servant answered the door and led M’greet to the study. Kalle was tall and well-built, with an ample dark mane and no facial hair. He gestured for her to sit down and spoke in halting French, “I am not in the habit of receiving ladies who may have been sent to me by our enemies, but I am sure this is not the case with you.”

She laughed. “Why are you so sure about that, Captain?”

“Well, for one thing, I was promoted to major quite a few months ago. I am certain that Allied intelligence would be better informed as to my rank.”

“Oh, is that so?” M’greet asked, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I am sorry then, Major Kalle.”

“I noticed from your calling card that you are Dutch. Sprichst du Deutsch?”

“Natürlich,” M’greet replied smoothly in his native language. She decided to tell him that her heart was with the German cause, and explained to him of her arrest. “But I am clearly not Clara Benedix.”

He held up his hands. “I have promised the King of Spain that I would not get involved with intelligence.” He picked up his drink and took a sip. “You are to be commended on your German accent.”

“I lived in Berlin for quite some time.”

“Is that so? Did you ever meet any officers?”

She turned her shoulder. “A few. I knew Alfred de Kiepert quite well.”

“Ah.” Kalle sat back. “Now I remember you. I saw you once at dinner with him at the Hotel Adlon.”

M’greet batted her eyelashes. “I’m not sure I remember you.”

“But you are most unforgettable.” He nodded to himself. “I believe your arrest had been ordered in Barcelona.” He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted.

“Why Barcelona?” she asked, puffing prettily on the cigarette.

“I am not sure, but I can inquire of Baron von Krohn, the head of German intelligence in Spain.”

M’greet filed the name away in her head. She could see that Kalle was beginning to fall under her spell. She lounged back on the chaise. “What is life like in Madrid?”

“Tiring,” was his snappish response.

“Oh?” She straightened.

His expression softened. “Please forgive me for my rudeness. I’ve been arranging for the disembarkation of German officers and munitions from a U-boat off the coast of Morocco. It’s been taking all of my concentration lately, which accounts for my exhaustion.”

“Of course.” She got to her feet, offering Kalle a full view of her décolletage as she did so. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you any more than necessary tonight. I will take my leave.”

“I would like to meet you again, though.”

She gave him her room number at the Palace Hotel. He kissed her hand before she left.

M’greet wrote to Ladoux as soon as she returned to her room, giving him the name Baron von Krohn and revealing the information about the submarine landing in Morocco. She called for a porter and told him to send the letter through the post straightaway.

“Yes, señorita,” the porter said, bowing.

Chapter 56

Alouette

December 1916

Alouette and Zozo continued their casual relationship until he returned to Paris in early December. As the Baron had left on holiday with his wife, Alouette was once again alone in a foreign city.

One evening she found Major Kalle in the dining room of the Palace Hotel. He was accompanied by an exotic-looking woman with an olive complexion. They sat at a middle table, directly under the electric chandelier, which revealed a few stray gray hairs in the woman’s otherwise luxurious black locks.

“Arnold?” Alouette called as she approached them. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, Alouette, I’d like you to meet the famous Mata Hari.”

Alouette held out her hand. The woman looked as though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was to shake it, but she did anyway.

“Sit down,” Kalle told her before turning to the woman. “You must forgive her. Alouette may be French, but she has the most interesting background.”

The woman leaned forward. “You are French?”

“Yes, but I’ve adopted Spain as my new homeland,” Alouette said, casting a sly glance in Kalle’s direction.

“Is that so? I do love Paris,” the woman commented. “Although it is necessary for me to return to the Netherlands as soon as possible. I was just going to ask Arnold here for his assistance.”

“You would have to pass through several borders,” Alouette replied.

They both looked at Kalle for his reaction.

“Impossible.” He waved his hand. “I’m sorry, Mata, but I cannot.”

“I see.” The woman took a sip of her drink. “It must be very difficult to disembark troops from a submarine off Morocco’s coast. How will you pull off such a coup?”

Alouette nearly spit out a mouthful of wine. To her delight, she could see Kalle’s face turn dark with anger.

“Beautiful women must not ask too much,” he replied before getting up from the table, nearly spilling everyone’s drink as he did so.

The woman seemed to have no remorse for Kalle’s sudden departure. Alouette waited until he was out of earshot before leaning in and saying in a low voice, “I was like you once.”

“What do you mean, like me?” the woman snapped. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, but I do. I too had to depend on men for my livelihood. But I was fortunate to meet a man who loved me for who I was, and never tried to keep me in that gilded cage we both fear.”

“What happened to him?”

Alouette played with the stem of her wine glass. “He died in the war.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman sounded genuine this time.

Alouette decided to lend the poor thing a hand. It was obvious the woman was in way too deep with Kalle. “I know someone who might be willing to help you.”

“Oh?” The woman relaxed her face into an expression that appeared almost friendly. “Who?”

Alouette straightened her finger, as if about to tap on her wine glass, but instead discreetly pointed to a man across the room. “That is Colonel Joseph-Cyrill Denvignes, a senior attaché to the French Embassy.”

If the woman was suspicious as to why Alouette was indicating one of Kalle’s mortal enemies, she didn’t show it. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Alouette replied, her voice once again low. “We Francophiles have to stick together.”

Chapter 57

M’greet

December 1916

M’greet left the tall blonde woman to make her away across the room.

“Colonel Denvignes?” she asked, approaching the stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair. She held out both hands for him to grasp. “It’s such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A warm smile appeared under his substantial mustache as he took her hands. “Aren’t you the woman who came in with Arnold Kalle?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you noticed.”

“I couldn’t help it. I have never seen anyone more breathtaking. What shall I call you?”

“Mata Hari,” she said, withdrawing from his grip.

“And what is your purpose in visiting Madrid, Miss Mata Hari?” His voice held the tinge of a challenge. Noticing an empty sitting room, she motioned for him to follow her.

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” she hissed once they were out of earshot of the dining room. “I am one of yours.”

“Pardon?”

“If only I had met you a day earlier, I would not have had to go through the trouble of sending a letter to Paris. I could have given you the letter and you could have taken care of it.”

“What information?”

She relayed to him all she had learned from Kalle, figuring that, even though she had just met the man, his position in the French Embassy meant he was trustworthy.

“Is it possible for you to get more specifics?” he asked when she’d finished.

M’greet frowned. “I tried to at dinner, but Kalle seemed reluctant to provide any more.”

“Try again.” He must have sensed her hesitation as he patted her hand. “For France.”

She nodded.

Denvignes rose. “You are a very beautiful woman, Mata Hari, a true Parisian flower. Is it possible for you to join me for lunch tomorrow? That is, if Kalle does not call.”

She gave him a seductive smile. “Of course.”

For the next week, Denvignes took on the role of both substitute spy-master and ardent suitor. He seemed enamored with M’greet, and plied her with lavish gifts. At lunch one day, he rather reluctantly informed her he was to start out for Paris in the morning.

His hand reached toward M’greet’s bosom, and to her surprise, plucked a posy from her corsage. “I will carry this to France to remind me of my Parisian flower. Can we continue this relationship when I return?”

“I would love for that, Colonel, but unfortunately I must be leaving Madrid soon.”

“I see. Well, then perhaps we shall meet again in Paris. I’ll be staying at the Hotel d’Orsay.” He wound a ribbon around the posy before adding, “Is there anything I can do for you while I’m gone?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward. “Will you please pay a call on Captain Ladoux and tell him how well I’ve done?” She pursed her lips. “Since I’ve been here, I haven’t heard a word from him. Going forward, I’d like for him to treat me with more respect.”

“Of course.” He set the beribboned posy down. “In the meantime, should you retrieve any new information from Kalle, pass it on to my replacement at the embassy instead of sending it back to Paris.”

“I will,” she promised.

Perhaps as not merely a coincidence, only hours after Denvignes departed, Kalle sent an invitation for M’greet to pay a call to his apartment.

As soon as she was shown into his study, he stated, “I’ve heard your French friend was ordered to return to Paris.”

M’greet’s heart sped up. “Have you?”

He poured himself a drink. “You must have repeated what I’d told you, for the French have sent their radio messages everywhere, asking when the officers will alight in Morocco.”

“It wasn’t me,” she insisted. She brightened as a thought occurred to her. “Maybe it was that blonde woman at dinner?”

“Alouette? Most certainly not.”

M’greet decided to change the subject. “How do you know what the French are telegraphing?”

Kalle took a long gulp of his drink. “We’ve had the key to their cipher for months now.”

“Oh.” She walked over to him and put her hand on his arm. “How very clever.”

She could feel his arm muscles relax. He set his drink down on the bar. “I can forgive such a beautiful woman as yourself, but if Berlin knew it was me who told you this information, it could cost me my life.”

“They will never know,” she assured him, unbuttoning her blouse. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom, where she let him do what he wanted with her.

Afterward, he lit a cigarette. “This war will perhaps lead elsewhere. There are among us Germans some officers who are nothing but brutes.”

M’greet took a puff on his cigarette. Was he wishing to confess something? “The German army has some of the bravest men in the world.” She turned toward him, offering a full view of her naked body.

“The French do as well,” he conceded. “Especially the aviators. They have one right now who flies over our lines to deposit a passenger, a spy behind enemy lines, that we must search for. But we also have our own agents in France who are very well informed.”

“How do these agents get word to you?”

“There are many means. We use couriers instead of sending letters.”

“Well, I find that astonishing. I have traveled a great deal during this war and, judging by the inspections to which I have been subjected, I wonder how anyone could pass the security checks with secrets. In England, they even examined my hatpins.”

He reached out to caress her bare thigh. “But it is not with women like you that one transports such things. Our couriers are a little dirty, people whom one doesn’t usually notice. They carry the reagents to our ink formed into little white balls in their ears and under their fingernails.”

M’greet gave a fake moan of pleasure. “My God, such inventions!” She shifted abruptly, as if a thought had just occurred to her. “I only wish that I could return to my home country for a trice. I have a daughter there I haven’t seen in ages.”

Kalle blew out a ring of smoke. “I told you I cannot assist you with the border guards. But,” he sat up and reached into a desk drawer. “Maybe this will help.” He dumped several bills in the space between them.

M’greet counted them as soon as she left his apartment. Kalle had given her $3500 francs.

Chapter 58

Marthe

January 1917

The months before Marthe’s trial dragged by. She wished to get the whole business over quickly; knowing that the trial would be a sham and her condemnation was certain.

Finally, the stomping of a great many feet could be heard outside her cell and the door flew open, revealing a German unteroffizier and two privates, their callous eyes staring straight ahead. To them, Marthe was already a convicted spy, and, in a short while, they would aim their rifles at her heart with the same lack of interest they displayed now.

The unteroffizier gave her a curt nod and Marthe followed him, the privates walking behind her. They left the confines of the prison and marched across the grounds to the courthouse. She had not been outside in months and she took a deep breath of the winter air, noticing everything: the smoke wafting from the prison kitchen, the bird poised on a leafless tree branch, the German flag waving in the breeze in front of the courthouse.

In too short a time, Marthe was inside the courtroom, facing eight officers in impeccably neat uniforms seated at a long table.

She was led to a shorter table with two empty chairs. She sat in one and pulled it forward. It squeaked along the floor, causing the jury members’ frowns to deepen. She offered no apology. Instead, she placed her folded hands in front of her and stared straight ahead.

Another officer stood. He was short, with glasses that emphasized his stony eyes. The prosecution.

He began pacing the narrow space between the accused and the judge. “Marthe Cnockaert, a Belgian subject under the jurisdiction of the Imperial German Government, is accused of grave offenses against the Military Code. These offences are treasonous to our great country and are punishable by death.” He paused to see the full effect of his words, but the only sound to be heard was a rustling of papers.

Marthe remained frozen, refusing to follow the little man with her eyes and thus only caught sight of him when he stopped directly in front of her.

“I will prove the guilt of the accused fully and conclusively. After leaving her home village of Westroosebeke, she took on the role of nurse in order to carry out her destructive deeds. There is no doubt she was dangerous even from those early days, working under the façade of being a ministering angel, while all the while passing on secrets regarding our army’s positions.” He pointed at Marthe. “This woman has caused the death of hundreds of our comrades-in-arms!”

The jury refused to show any verbal response to his accusations, but this time the sound of paper rustling was accompanied by the furious scribbling of many pens.

The prosecutor continued, “I will call witnesses who will testify to her guilt. We must remember, gentlemen, that these are times of danger; our Fatherland and the safety of our soldiers fighting in the trenches must be ensured. No sentiment toward womanhood must cloud our judgement. The only fate for the operative responsible for the destruction of the stores of our armies is death!”

This time there was absolutely no other sound as the prosecutor took his seat.

The judge straightened. “These are very serious charges, Fräulein Cnockaert. What say you?”

Marthe refused to speak the language of their so-called Fatherland and replied in Flemish. “Ik zeg niks.” I say nothing.

The judge peered at her over the top of his pince-nez glasses. “Who were your other associates in the burning of the ammunition dump? It is well known you worked with the spy Lucelle Deldonck.”

Marthe was a stone wall.

“Fräulein, I have to warn you, you are hurting your own case.” The judge took off his glasses to plead with her. “Be frank with the court. These messages were signed by ‘Laura.’ Are you Laura?”

After another moment of silence, he nodded at the prosecutor. “Proceed with the evidence.”

Over the next few hours, the prosecutor called several Germans to testify against Marthe, including the brigade officer who had arrested her, the gefreiter who had discovered her watch, and the secretary to the Town-Kommandant who had heard her claim the watch. It was well into the afternoon when the detective from the prison came to the stand.

Marthe stiffened when she saw his face, with that hateful distorted nose. She tried to focus on the wooden desk in front of her instead of listening to his testimony, but when the detective stated, “The prisoner admitted her collusion with the enemy more than once to me,” she could no longer restrain herself.

“That is a lie,” Marthe stated quietly. “This man invaded my privacy night and day—when I was weak from hunger and lack of sleep, he threw me against the wall and shook me, threatening to kill me. And I never admitted such a thing. This is the kind of man you will listen to under oath?”

The judge held up his hand. “We concern ourselves only with facts in this court. If your charges are disproved, you will be released.”

“I do not recognize this court or its verdict,” Marthe replied, her voice so low that every man in the room leaned in to hear her. “I am well aware that my fate had already been determined before I even walked into this room. But if you think that your country can keep down the Belgian spirit of freedom, you are mistaken.” She stood up, her voice growing stronger. “I see myself as a soldier in the field, with the same rights to defend my country against an invader who has ravaged our land, raped our women, and who has rewritten our laws for their own convenience.”

This finally elicited feedback from the jury, who buzzed with anger as she sat down.

“Do you intend to call any more witnesses?” the judge asked the prosecutor when the court had quieted. The prosecutor shook his head.

Just then the unteroffizier came in and handed a note to the judge before saluting and exiting as quickly as he had entered.

The judge read the note, his eyebrows knitting together and his frown deepening. He then called the prosecutor to the bench and the two spoke in furious whispers.

The prosecutor threw up his hands and retreated back to his table as the judge cleared his throat. “Although this is against the usual procedure, the court has decided to hear the evidence presented by Herr Doctor Herbert Stolz.”

All heads in the room, Marthe’s included, swiveled to the back as the Oberarzt entered.

After he was sworn in, the Oberarzt began his testimony. “The accused has worked untiringly under my command for more than two years and has always taken great pride and generosity in her work as a nurse. I have come here on my own will to testify to her excellent character and her endless willingness to alleviate the sufferings of our wounded countrymen.”

Marthe could feel her facial muscles relax as she looked upon her former boss.

The prosecutor rose and walked toward him. “Would it surprise you to know that the accused has confessed to her guilt?

“That does not concern me.”

The prosecutor spat out his retort. “What should concern you is that the accused obtained the job of nurse at a German hospital in order to conduct espionage against said countrymen.”

“She may have conducted espionage in the interests of her country, just as you and I act in the interest of our country. But it is my opinion that Fräulein Cnockaert carried out her duties as a nurse purely in the interest of helping humankind.” The Oberarzt turned to the judge. “This woman was awarded the highest honor that our Fatherland bestows—the Iron Cross.”

At this, several men in the jury gasped.

The judge banged his gavel. “The sentence for the accused will be announced in four days’ time. Remove the prisoner and clear the court.”

Chapter 59

M’greet

January 1917

M’greet’s stay in Madrid proved to be more than fruitful. Armed with all of the information Kalle had provided, she intended to return to Paris and demand payment from Ladoux. The only question was how to get back.

She’d befriended two Spanish envoys: the senator Emilio Junoy and his assistant, Diego de Leon. Their relationship was strictly platonic, as her only concern was getting them to sign her travel papers. To emphasize her intentions, M’greet told them all about Vadim, who, to her knowledge, was still at Verdun.

“But señorita, the Battle of Verdun ended weeks ago,” Junoy replied.

“Oh.” M’greet’s face wrinkled unintentionally. “I wonder where in the world he is now?”

She was surprised when Junoy told her over lunch the next day that he had been approached by a “handsome Slav, clearly in the employ of French intelligence” who had demanded to know why they had been seen in the presence of someone clearly hostile to the Anglo-French alliance.

“He couldn’t have possibly meant me,” M’greet insisted.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Junoy replied. “I told him we knew you as a charming, intelligent, spiritual woman, and that no word of politics had ever crossed your lips.”

“In fact,” de Leon added, “when we asked you about the whereabouts of your soldier fiancé, you had no idea. If you were indeed an enemy spy, you’d be much more informed of military operations.”

There was no way M’greet could argue with that statement.

“But I do have good news.” Junoy produced a French visa. “You’ll now be able to return to Paris as soon as possible.”

“Oh thank you!” she blew him a kiss with her gloved hand.

* * *

One of the first things she did after checking into the relatively inexpensive Hotel Plaza Athénée was visit her customary hair salon, to touch up her hair color and cover her emerging grays.

Afterward, she called on 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain.

“Captain Ladoux is not in,” a suave, dark-haired stranger told her.

“Do you know when he will return?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.” The dark-haired man shot her a wide grin, as if he already knew the answer to his question. “Do you care to wait for him?”

“No.” M’greet frowned. How was she supposed to get paid if Ladoux was nowhere to be found? “Do you know anything as to the whereabouts of Colonel Denvignes?”

“Ah, yes.” He scratched at his unruly beard. “I believe he returns to Madrid this evening.”

Denvignes had implied he would be in Paris for several months. M’greet forgot all of her carefully cultivated demeanor as she demanded, “What?”

“If you can get to the Austerlitz station in time, you might be able to catch him before the train leaves.” He stepped into the street to wave down a passing taxi.

The passengers had already boarded by the time the taxi arrived in Austerlitz. M’greet hailed a conductor and begged him to inform the French military attaché that she was in need of his presence.

She was relieved to see Denvignes appear at the door of his carriage a few minutes later.

“Yes?” he asked coolly, as though he didn’t recognize her.

“So this is the way you leave town, Colonel, without a word. Have you seen Captain Ladoux?”

He stuck his head out of the doorway to look up and down the platform before replying in a small voice, “No, but I did pay a call on his chief, Colonel Goubé. He told me that your information was very interesting and that you must be an intelligent woman.”

“Is that all?” she demanded. “Did you explain our relationship?”

His grip on the railing tightened. “I told him I had met you briefly in Madrid.”

Briefly? M’greet narrowed her eyes at the person standing before her, clearly of a different mind than the one who had once been so affectionate toward her. “Why did you lie? Did you forget about your Parisian flower?”

The train began to pull away. Denvignes called after her, “Je suis désolé mon petit.” I am sorry my little one.

Early the next morning, M’greet arrived again at the offices of the Deuxiéme Bureau and requested to see Ladoux. After being kept waiting for over an hour, she was told to call the next day after 5 pm.

When she was finally allowed entry into Ladoux’s office, she refused a seat. “Who questioned Senator Junoy about my allegiance to the Cause?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ladoux insisted. He took out his customary cigarette case, but didn’t offer one to M’greet. “In any case, you must not forget that you do not know me and I don’t know you.” He struck a match. “It is certainly not this office who sent someone to interrogate the senator.”

“Why have you not responded to my calls? Where are the thanks for the services I have rendered you?”

Ladoux’s face was blank. “What services? That stuff about Baron von Krohn and the submarine? We knew that already.”

She threw her arms up. “Did you know of the information about the code-breaking, or the aviators dropping spies behind enemy lines?” When Ladoux’s expression did not change, she cried, “The secret ink hidden under their fingernails?”

“This is the first I’ve heard about any of this.”

M’greet collapsed into a chair. “Didn’t Colonel Denvignes tell you anything about my exploits in Madrid?”

“No.” He stabbed out his cigarette. “And there is no way the Germans have our codes. Kalle was feeding you what we call intoxication—fake news.”

“But…” She was not going to leave his office without the promise of payment, no matter how small. “Isn’t there any chance that Kalle’s information is correct and the Germans have been intercepting our messages this whole time?”

Ladoux put his hand under his chin. “I would be very surprised if that were the case.” He appeared to soften under M’greet’s desperate gaze. “Let me see if I can uncover any further information regarding this mess.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Do not leave Paris until I’ve had the chance to get to the bottom of this.”

Chapter 60

Marthe

January 1917

The days between Marthe’s trial and her sentencing felt like years. As her German wardress delivered her dinner on the third night of waiting, she finally spoke to her. “You are a fool not to admit your guilt and throw yourself upon the court’s mercy.” She dumped the tray of bread at Marthe’s feet. “You must not think that the Oberarzt’s intervention can possibly help you. There is but one fate for a spy, and that is death!”

Mercy of the court? Marthe pictured her jury’s faces: cold, grim, as if carved from stone. She could not imagine those granite faces granting her any mercy.

In the morning, she once again awoke to the sun’s rays through the slats of her window, imagining that soon the time would come when there would be no more sunshine.

As if on cue, the unteroffizier arrived. “Have courage, fräulein. The time of your sentencing has come.”

The nightmarish walk was repeated and Marthe followed the unteroffizier up the stone steps to the court house. The judge and jury were in the same positions as last time.

The judge began reading in a formal tone, “It is a terrible thing to condemn a fellow human being, especially when that creature is a woman.” He fixed his grim gaze on Marthe before continuing, “You have been the cause of the deaths of many Germans. It has been decided that you will suffer death by firing squad.”

To her credit, Marthe did not cry. She thought about what the wardress had advised her. Clearly begging for mercy would not help, not that she could ever bring herself to stoop so low. The tragic farce had indeed been played out. Now all she had to do was wait for death.

Chapter 61

Alouette

January 1917

Zozo returned to Madrid in mid-January, taking the room next to Alouette’s in the Palace Hotel. Von Krohn requested a meeting with him to find out how the campaign was going thus far and to introduce a new part of the plot.

“It is now time to completely shatter the morale of the French troops at the front,” von Krohn stated. “I am going to give you a copy of a French newspaper. You are going to follow its format as closely as possible, for I want the French soldiers to believe they are reading actual news reporting the giant losses of Allied troops and the likelihood that Germany is going to win the war.”

Zozo shot a warning look in Alouette’s direction, as if he expected her to gasp aloud or otherwise give herself away. But she remained as cool as ever. “I am confident in Zozo’s ability.”

Instead of looking reassured, von Krohn’s face flashed with something else. Jealousy perhaps.

Alouette decided to provoke him further and captured Zozo’s hand in hers. Their affair wasn’t the sort where they demonstrated affection in public, but Zozo squeezed her hand back.

“You may set your mind at rest, Baron von Krohn,” she told him. “I will carry out your wishes to your satisfaction.”

“Very well then.” The Baron’s face was steely. “I have changed pesetas into 300,000 francs. You are to return to France as soon as possible. As you cannot cross the frontier with such a large amount of money, we will bring you to the border in a car tomorrow evening. I will hand over the money at that point, and men in my charge will take you to France.”

Zozo bowed gracefully as Alouette’s heart unexpectedly filled with indignation. He was going back to France while she was stuck here!

Zozo claimed he had something to do the next day, so Alouette spent the afternoon alone. When she exited the hotel to meet von Krohn, Zozo was standing on the corner, his hands in his pockets.

She joined him on the sidewalk, wishing she could join him on his journey. Not necessarily because she wanted to be with him, but because he was the last link to her real identity. Of course she couldn’t tell him any of that. “What will you do with the newspapers?” she asked instead.

He cast his eyes up and down the boulevard, but no one was in sight. “Burn them, of course.”

“And the money?”

“Most of it will go to the Deuxiéme Bureau. Not all of it, of course,” he said with a wink. “I have to spend a little of it myself.”

“Of course.”

He took one hand out of his pocket to offer her a cigarette. “I’ll miss you.”

Alouette accepted the cigarette as she thought of a reply, but just then the Baron’s car pulled up to the curb.

“Do you have the money?” Zozo asked the Baron as he got out.

Von Krohn gestured toward a leather bag on the floor of the front passenger side. “300,000 francs.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Alouette commented.

“It’s not so much when you think about how this plan could save Germany months of fighting,” von Krohn replied as his chauffeur loaded Zozo’s bag. “That is, if your friend can see it through.”

“Fiancé,” Alouette corrected him, noting with satisfaction the glower that appeared on the Baron’s face.

“But, Herr Davrichachvili, I must warn you.” Von Krohn grabbed her from behind. “If you dare betray us, I shall hold Alouette hostage.”

To her dismay, Zozo grinned. “The Russian General Martinoff told me the exact same thing at Tiflis. I had to leave my then-fiancé, a different woman,” he added, “as hostage, pledging my word to the general that I would not incite the peasants to rise up.”

Von Krohn relaxed his grasp on her arms. “What happened?”

“I incited the peasants to uprise, and we held the Russian army at bay.”

“And your then-fiancé?” the Baron asked. Alouette was going to ask the same thing, but flicked her cigarette with feigned indifference instead.

“She told me to do what I must do for the cause. Exactly as Alouette would do, isn’t that right Alouette?”

She shrugged.

“The Cossacks killed her,” Zozo continued. Alouette glanced up, giving him a helpless look, but he ignored her. “Two days afterward, General Martinoff was blown up in his carriage. So you see…” he blew out a ring of smoke, “her death was not in vain.”

“Luckily we are traveling by motor-car today,” the Baron put in.

“Horse-carriage or automobile, what does it matter?” the supposed Russian nihilist stated. “Every man—or woman—is responsible for their own destiny.”

Von Krohn stood stiffly by the door of the car as Zozo crawled into the backseat and Alouette followed.

“Heinrich,” von Krohn called to his chauffeur. “I’ll drive tonight. I know these roads well.”

As von Krohn started the car, Zozo tried to make more anarchist conversation. Alouette sat with her hands folded across her chest, stewing. She hadn’t expected Zozo to part with declarations of undying affection, but she also didn’t expect him to admit to the Baron he’d sacrifice her life if it meant seeing his mission through. At least he admitted that he’d miss me. She glanced in the rearview mirrors to see that the Baron’s narrowed eyes had left the road and were focused on her.

All of a sudden, bright lights blinded Alouette. Then there was the sound of metal striking metal, and the feeling of being shoved against the door. She passed out for what seemed like hours, but was probably only mere seconds. She awoke, coughing from the smoke in her lungs, and realized the car had stopped moving. They had struck a utility pole.

Chapter 62

M’greet

January 1917

As she waited for Ladoux to get back to her, M’greet resumed her usual rounds of shopping and visits to the manicurist and hair dresser. She knew she was once again being tailed, but paid no attention to her followers. Soon, Ladoux would see for himself that she had done a great service and would call off his lackeys for good.

Vadim was due back in Paris on January 8th. When he did not arrive, M’greet grew worried, writing to him twice a day to affirm her undying love and demanding a response from him. After a week went by with no reply from Vadim, she decided to write to Anna, begging her to contact van de Capellen to send more money.

When Anna sent a letter confirming that she would do her mistress’s bidding, M’greet noticed the envelope’s seal had been broken. Someone had been steaming open her letters.

Daring to hope that her lover’s replies to her had been confiscated, she called the Grand Hotel, where she and Vadim had spent many pleasurable hours together, to see if they had any information on when he would arrive.

“Vladimir Masloff?” the clerk repeated.

“Yes,” M’greet stated impatiently, expecting him to demand her to spell it out, something she wasn’t entirely sure she could do correctly.

“It appears that he checked in yesterday.”

She almost dropped the phone. “Please let him know that a visitor will be arriving to see him shortly.

“Can I also supply him a name?”

“No,” she replied before hanging up the phone.

Vadim greeted her with a sheepish smile on the good side of his face. He was still wearing the eyepatch and stood stiffly in the lobby.

M’greet mirrored his stance. “Why haven’t you answered any of my letters?”

The grin turned to a look of bewilderment. “I did. Did you not get my explanation?”

“Explanation of what?”

He glanced toward an empty couch. “Let’s sit.” He attempted to put his hand on her back, but she shrugged him off, wanting to make him suffer for the long months of silence, even if they weren’t completely his fault.

He sat down across from her and took a deep breath. “I was under the impression that you already knew, and you were coming here to reprimand me.”

“Knew what?” she snapped.

“Why I can’t marry you.”

Her mouth closed involuntarily. She bit her tongue and widened her eyes, willing herself not to cry. “And why is that?”

“My colonel received a letter from some French officer, who claimed you were a ‘dangerous adventuress’ and that you are only after money.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The good side of his face softened. “I do know that. But my colonel is forbidding me to see you again. I can’t marry you,” he repeated.

“Quit the army.”

He reached out to pat her knee, but she moved her leg away just in time. “I can’t desert. In case you are unaware, Russia is in the middle of a revolution. I would be killed if I went home.”

“We can go to the Netherlands. It’s neutral—they don’t care about accepting deserted soldiers into their borders.” She had no idea if that were true or not, but it sounded good.

Apparently it wasn’t good enough for Vadim. He stood. “I’m sorry, Marina.”

“Don’t call me that. You no longer get to refer to me with a nickname. If you must mention me, which I hope you never have to do again, use ‘Mata Hari.’ That’s apparently the woman you think I am, anyway.”

With that, she walked out of the hotel and out of Vadim’s life forever.

When M’greet caught sight of the same familiar men waiting for her outside, she decided she’d had enough. She hailed a taxi and gave the driver strict orders on where to turn so that they zig-zagged erratically through the Parisian streets.

When they’d finally lost the detectives, M’greet directed the driver to the office of her lawyer, Edouard Clunet.

She strolled in, not caring if he had a client at that time, which he did not. “I want you to send an official letter to Captain Georges Ladoux at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain,” she declared.

Clunet glanced up from his paperwork. “Is that so? That is the headquarters of the Deuxiéme Bureau. What business do you have there?”

“Nothing more, apparently.” She nodded at the inkwell in the middle of his desk. Clunet sighed as he picked up the pen.

She began dictating: “Captain Ladoux, I do not ask your secrets and I do not wish to know your agents. Do not discuss my methods, do not ruin my work with secret agents who can’t possibly begin to understand me. I desire to be paid as soon as possible for I wish to leave Paris.”

Clunet set his pen down. “Don’t you think demanding payment sounds a bit mercenary?”

“If I am not ashamed to accept money, then I must not be ashamed to say so.” She snatched the letter from him. “If you want, I will mail it myself.”

He handed her a stamped envelope. “M’greet,” he started, but, envelope in hand, she was already out the door.

M’greet had just settled down to eat breakfast a few days later when she was disturbed by someone banging on the door. As soon as she unlocked the latch, the door burst open and a well-dressed, middle-aged man with an upturned mustache barged in. The man paused in front of her while five gendarmes filed in and began ransacking her room.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod?” the man inquired.

“Yes?”

“You are under arrest for the crimes of attempting espionage against France and passing on intelligence to enemy countries.”

She was taken to the Palace of Justice and shown to a tiny office. The room was so small that it could only accommodate a table and three chairs. Both of the seated men got up as she entered. The shorter one introduced himself as Pierre Bouchardon, investigative magistrate of the Third Council of War.

The other man nodded without saying anything before sitting down again. As he picked up a pen, M’greet realized he was just a clerk.

Bouchardon struck a match and soon the room was filled with the stench of his cigar. “Have you been informed of the charges against you?”

“I have.”

“You have the right to call a lawyer.”

M’greet waved smoke out of her face. “I do not think that is necessary at this point. These charges are clearly a result of a miscommunication between myself and Captain Ladoux of the Deuxiéme Bureau. I am innocent of all charges.” She assumed that there had been another mistake, such as that tiresome Clara Benedix incident. She rose. “If you would just contact Ladoux, he can explain everything.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy, Madame Zelle-MacLeod. Captain Ladoux was the one who started this investigation.”

“But—” She racked her brain, but could not come up with a suitable way to finish her argument. That lying imbecile has betrayed me.

Bouchardon’s next words were addressed to the clerk. “Please make arrangements to deliver Madame Zelle-MacLeod to Saint Lazare.”

She gave a horrified cry before grabbing Bouchardon’s arm. “Please, monsieur, please don’t send me to prison. I am of a delicate constitution—”

He shrugged her off. “Oh, we know all about your lodging preferences.” He opened the door. “We will continue our conversation in a few days.”

That first night, M’greet was placed in a padded cell, in case the shock of the day had caused her to develop thoughts of suicide.

The prison doctor paid her a visit, and, after examining her, asked if she was in need of anything.

“Yes,” M’greet replied sullenly. “A bath and a telephone.”

“Neither are available for prisoners at Saint-Lazare.” He gestured toward a stained bucket in the corner. “That is for you to relieve yourself, and you can wash up with this bowl of cold water.”

M’greet went over to the bucket and lifted her dove-gray skirts. She hadn’t gone to the bathroom all day and told herself that doctors were used to seeing all types of bodily fluids.

“You know, this prison was used to house 18th century prostitutes with venereal diseases.” He gave her a withering glance. “Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

Her eyes became slits as she rearranged her skirts. “How dare you.”

He moved toward the door and she realized he was about to leave her alone in this horrid place. She changed her tone to a high-pitched plea. “Please sir, can you arrange a different room for me? Take pity.”

But the heartless doctor left without further comment.

Chapter 63

Alouette

February 1917

The Baron, who had been driving the doomed car, suffered only cuts and scratches from broken glass. Alouette’s face was also cut, but her left ankle, which had been broken previously in an airplane accident, was fractured and her left knee was pulled out of its joint.

After a night or two in a Madrid hospital, von Krohn had Alouette transferred to his house. He claimed he wanted to protect her from the prying eyes of journalists, but she knew his real reason was to maintain his semblance of control over her, especially since her supposed fiancé, whose arm had been broken, remained at the hospital.

For weeks she lay helpless on a bed in the Baron’s office. After she was able to put weight on her leg, she’d trek back and forth between the guest room and a pull-out bed in the office, spending her days lamenting over the money Zozo would never receive. Von Krohn must have already hired someone else, who was most likely not a double agent and might actually earn it by writing German propaganda to further lower the morale of French troops.

One day she was standing at the patio door of his office, propped up by a crutch, enjoying a little sunshine, when the Baron came in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, the tenderness obvious in his voice.

“Fine,” she snapped. All the tenderness in the world could never change the deep resentment she held toward him.

A maid popped her head in. “Señorita Maria is here.”

“Tell her to wait in the parlor and I’ll be there in a minute.” Von Krohn reached for Alouette’s hand. “We will continue this conversation later this afternoon.”

She recalled that Maria was one of von Krohn’s other female agents, one she’d warned Ladoux about months ago, but had yet to be arrested.

Alouette made her way toward the closed double doors that led to the parlor, balancing on her crutch with her ear to the door. Von Krohn’s tone was low, but she could still discern most of what he said. “Very good. I’ll send Antonio to look for two fountain pens. Call again tomorrow at the same hour and I’ll pass them on to you, along with full instructions.”

Alouette hobbled over to the nearest chair and sat, deep in thought. She had to find a way to warn Paris and have an agent shadow Maria immediately. She frowned at her bandaged foot, thinking the normally straightforward task seemed nearly impossible.

As soon as von Krohn returned, she remarked, in as casual a voice as she could manage, “I say, Hans, I can’t go on wearing your wife’s undies indefinitely. I should like to purchase some new ones.”

He smiled an oily grin, probably picturing her in sexy lingerie. “I’ll take you out after my afternoon siesta.”

“No. I’d like to go on my own.”

The grin disappeared. “You cannot manage an outing such as that by yourself. Not yet.”

“But the doctor has given me permission to walk a little bit at a time. And I’ve managed so far on this crutch just fine. Besides,” she racked her mind for a reason for him not to accompany her. “I must pay a visit to Zozo and see how he is getting on.”

This produced the reaction she desired. “Fine. If you want to risk your healing leg just to see him, go ahead. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

He left the room, the door banging behind him.

The servants helped her into the motor-car, and Alouette instructed the chauffeur to first drive her to the Palace Hotel so that she could pick up her mail.

The desk clerk deposited a pile of letters in front of her and gave her a satisfied smile before walking away.

Alouette wondered what was behind his reaction as she flipped through her mail. One of the envelopes contained a newspaper clipping sent by one of the Deuxiéme Bureau’s clerks. She picked it up and read the headline: “The Spy in the Car,” before she tossed it aside with shaking hands. She could only imagine what the newspaper article had speculated about the reason why the prized airwoman of Nancy was in a car with the German naval attaché and a known anarchist.

Someday, Alouette promised herself, shoving the rest of the letters into her purse. Someday they will all know what I’ve sacrificed for France.

She summoned the clerk, now surmising that his smirk had been because he too thought she was a German agent, to help her back to the car. She asked the chauffeur to head to her apartment on the Calle del Alcalá. The driver helped her upstairs before Alouette dismissed him, stating that she was going to change and then lie down for a few minutes.

She went to her desk and pulled out a piece of paper and a packet of antipyrine. After a moment, she threw them both onto the floor, cursing loudly at the lack of organization in the French Secret Service. Even if she did write to Ladoux, there was no way he would receive the information in time to prevent whatever it was Maria and von Krohn were up to. Not to mention she had no guarantee the Deuxiéme Bureau was even receiving her letters at this point. She racked her brain before calling the Palace Hotel.

“May I speak to General Denvignes?”

The hotel clerk put down the phone for a moment before informing her that the general had left for Paris several days ago.

Alouette hung up, barely able to refrain from banging the telephone receiver against the wall. She had no one left to contact. There was no way she could visit the French Embassy and demand to speak to Denvignes’ replacement: not only would her crutch attract attention, but Madrid was so teeming with German spies that von Krohn would hear of it within the hour.

She returned to the Baron’s house in utter defeat, claiming that her foot was too sore to attend dinner.

* * *

A few days later she was seated in the parlor when von Krohn entered. He tossed a French newspaper on the table in front of her, and Alouette’s heart hammered as she picked it up. The headline read, “German Incendiaries Blow Up Munitions Factory Near Bayonne. Total Dead and Wounded: 90.”

Her confusion slipped into horror as she realized what von Krohn had sent Maria to do. With no one to stop her, she probably accomplished her mission with ease. Alouette shoved the paper aside.

“Is something wrong?” von Krohn asked.

She glanced at the Baron, taking in the grin of triumph lighting up his ugly face and realized she was supposed to be delighted at the murder of her fellow countrymen. “A tremendous accomplishment,” she managed to croak out. He nodded with satisfaction before reaching in his desk and taking out a fresh piece of paper, probably to brag to his superiors about the outcome of his bloodthirsty scheme.

Chapter 64

M’greet

March 1917

Bouchardon continued his interrogations of M’greet on a near daily basis. For one particular session, her lawyer, Edouard Clunet, was allowed to join them.

After Bouchardon re-established her life narrative: where she grew up, what her father did, etc., he tried to get into the specifics of her marriage and little Normie’s death.

“I do not wish to answer any more questions about that period of time,” M’greet stated with a wave of her hand. “It has no bearing on anything you have accused me of.”

Bouchard glanced at Clunet, who shrugged. “Very well then,” Bouchard replied. “Tell about this Vladimir Masloff.”

“Oh.” She blinked quickly. “It was a grand love on both sides.”

“Is that so?” Bouchard asked, the doubt obvious in his voice. He flipped through some papers. “Would you claim the same about the Baron van der Capellen?”

“No,” M’greet replied. “He was married.”

Bouchard frowned. “What about the Marquis de Beaufort?”

She flicked her hand again. “A tryst. But fun while it lasted.”

“And the German, Lieutenant Alfred Kiepert? Or the Berlin police inspector, Walter Griebel?” He looked up. “I need a separate file just to keep all of your men straight.”

M’greet leaned forward. “What exactly am I on trial for? My morals?”

“Well,” Bouchardon said, shuffling some papers. “I wouldn’t exactly consider you a respectable woman.”

She glared at her lawyer, who was chewing his fingernails. He took his hand out of his mouth. “Now, Monsieur Bouchardon, as you have no hard evidence of espionage activity, I would request that you allow Madame Zelle-MacLeod provisional liberties.”

“You know that I cannot grant her any liberties,” Bouchardon’s tone was patronizing. “She is a suspected German spy. You should also be aware that cases of this kind rarely rely on physical evidence. It is more about witness testimony and character analysis of the accused. Now,” he turned back to M’greet. “Let’s talk about your meetings with Arnold Kalle. Did Captain Ladoux tell you specifically to contact this man?”

“No. Ladoux never gave me explicit instructions,” she replied testily.

“So you were not obeying orders.” He nodded at the clerk to make sure he wrote that down.

“There were no orders!” M’greet insisted. She relayed how she decided to contact Kalle after being sent back to Spain by Scotland Yard. While she was explaining what had happened, Bouchardon got up to pace up and down the tiny room.

“Let me get this straight,” he said after she’d finished. “You sent the information you picked up from Kalle using your own handwriting, writing in the open for anyone’s eyes. When you got no reply, you repeated said information to a stranger—Denvignes—just because he was with the French Embassy.”

“But—” she was going to argue just that: Denvignes’ position made him an ally since Ladoux wasn’t responding.

Bouchardon held up his hand. “If you are to be believed, that would make you the worst spy I have ever encountered. And,” he resumed his steps. “That would mean that Captain Ladoux, the esteemed head of the Deuxiéme Bureau, had engaged an amateur and completely unqualified agent, with no clear instructions on how to disguise intelligence nor deliver it in a secure method.”

Clunet examined his hands and then selected one of the longer fingernails to continue gnawing on. M’greet shook her head at her lawyer’s uselessness. She could at least refute one of Bouchardon’s points. “Ladoux tried to get me to use his secret ink, but I refused.”

Bouchardon looked at his watch. “I think we are done for the day.”

M’greet got unsteadily to her feet. “Please do not send me back to prison. I cannot bear it for another night. The conditions there are so foul. I am not the same as those other women prisoners, but they treat me as though I am. I won’t make any trouble for you, I promise!”

Bouchardon fixed her with his condescending stare. “From what you have told me, you are very much like ‘those other women.’ You are a courtesan, they are streetwalkers. The difference is only in sobriquets: under the law you are all prostitutes.”

Clunet put his hands, with their bloodied cuticles, on the table. “Now see here.”

But Bouchardon wasn’t done yet. His gaze still fixed on M’greet, he continued, “You’ve lived your whole life having delusions of grandeur. If you choose to imagine yourself better than your fellow prisoners, so be it. But there is not much of a leap from being an, as you call yourself, ‘international woman,’ to a traitor. Both are evidence of a lack of morals, as you yourself have demonstrated time and again.”

Once again M’greet blinked back tears. The last thing she wanted to do was go back to that hateful place, but she would not reduce herself to begging. “If that’s what you think, then my grave has already been dug.”

Bouchardon left the room without a reply.

The clerk began collecting his things as M’greet turned to Clunet. “What was that all about?”

“M’greet.” He coughed into a wrinkled hand. “I am an expert in business law, not criminal proceedings. I’m afraid I’m in over my head.”

“You’re in over your head?” M’greet flung her arms into the air. “What about what they are doing to me?”

He buried his face in his hands.

“Edouard?”

He finally looked up. “I wish I could help you more, M’greet, but, as you said, it sounds as if your case has already been decided. They are going to keep questioning you until, out of desperation, you tell them what they want to hear. I cannot attend any more: under the French system, you are only given legal representation during your first and last interrogation sessions. We are lucky they allowed me to be here today.”

“What am I going to do?”

“I would be as honest as possible with them. You have nothing left to lose at this point.”

This time she let the tears flow freely. “That place is so horrible, Edouard. There’s filth, so much filth. I just want to be in a clean hotel, with all of my nice things…”

He reached out to pat her hand. “I know, M’greet. I know.”

Not only was Saint-Lazare filthy, it was cold and damp. M’greet was transferred from her padded room to a smaller, even dirtier cell.

As she lay in bed that night, she could hear the rustling of small creatures: rats, maybe, or cockroaches. She had thought her tears had dried, but she cried all through the night, with no one to hear her, thinking she might go mad with worry. What had she done to deserve such treatment? Only what she had been told to do.

In the morning, her unwashed body was covered with tiny, itchy red bumps. For once she was grateful not to have a mirror around; she was sure her face was swollen and her eyes rimmed with red. If only she had her make-up, she could have easily fixed that, but her cosmetic kits had been sent to a chemist for analysis, to see if secret ink could have been made from them. As if she would have wasted her precious ointments to make ink!

As predicted, Clunet was absent from the next interrogation. Bouchardon began with the question: “Whom have you served? Whom have you betrayed? France or Germany?”

M’greet replied in a quiet voice, “My goals were to aid France and damage Germany, and I believe I succeeded in both.”

“Were you ever recruited to work for German intelligence?”

A denial formed on M’greet’s lips, but then she remembered how Clunet had told her to tell the truth. “Yes. Karl Kroemer recruited me. But I only agreed because Germany owed me money! I considered it payback for the furs they stole from me at the beginning of the war.”

“Why didn’t you tell Captain Ladoux about this beforehand?”

“I never intended to do their bidding, so I didn’t think it was relevant.” She also didn’t consider it important to tell them about Fräulein Doktor.

Luckily Bouchard didn’t ask. “You entertained many officers in Paris. Did you pass on military information you solicited from them to Germany?”

“No. I love officers and have loved them all my life. I would rather be the mistress of a poor officer than a rich banker.”

He grimaced. “I don’t think that statement rings particularly true. What about your affair with Harry de Marguérie?”

M’greet gripped the arms of her chair. “What’s he got to do with any of this?”

Someone knocked on the door to the little room. “Ah, right on time,” Bouchardon stated before answering the door.

She looked up in surprise as Ladoux stalked in.

“Please sit down, Captain,” Bouchardon gestured toward the empty chair across from M’greet.

Her hands were tingling and she looked down to see that she was clutching the chair rail so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She removed her hands to flex them.

“Would you care to make a statement, Captain?” Bouchardon uncharacteristically remained seated this time.

“I would,” Ladoux replied smoothly. “The accused was never under my employment.”

“That’s a lie!” M’greet countered.

Bouchardon’s directions were sharply put. “If the accused would remain quiet during the captain’s testimony.”

Ladoux continued, “The accused had never been given money, nor an agent number, nor was any communication protocol put forth.”

“But you promised me one million francs as payment if I succeeded.”

Ladoux glanced at the clerk before stating slowly, with perfect enunciation, “Let the record show I made no such promise.”

“And with good reason.” Bouchardon repeated what M’greet had told him earlier about Karl Kroemer.

Ladoux sat back and clasped his hands. “I knew all along she was a German agent, though she never cared to admit that to me.”

M’greet folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t feel obliged to reveal that to you, because,” she shot a look at Bouchardon, “once again, I never intended to carry out tasks for them.”

Ladoux dug a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “That’s not what these telegrams say.” He pushed the papers toward Bouchardon.

“What telegrams?” M’greet asked.

“They are from Kalle to Berlin,” Ladoux stated to Bouchardon. “We intercepted them via the Eiffel Tower.”

Bouchardon picked one up and read it to himself before summarizing, “Kalle is recommending that German Intelligence pay H-21 ten thousand francs.” He shifted through them and selected another. “Here Kalle says he paid H-21 3,500 pesetas.” He glared at M’greet. “Did you ever receive money from Kalle?”

M’greet could feel her face growing red. “Yes, but only because…”

Ladoux’s fat head was nodding furiously. “You see, the Germans gave her a code name, and paid her great sums of money, something France never did.”

She banged her fist on the table. “I’ve already told you I never provided any information to them. Kalle only gave me that money to help me return to France, since no one at the Deuxiéme Bureau was responding to me.”

Bouchardon leaned forward. “We must make clear that, from our point of view, maintaining contact with the enemy is legally considered a crime equivalent to actually furnishing intelligence to said enemy.”

“Is that all?” M’greet started to get up. She’d rather sit in her dingy, disgusting cell than continue this conversation.

“Not quite,” Bouchardon waved at her chair. “There is the matter of Lieutenant Masloff’s deposition.”

M’greet heaved a sigh before resuming her seat.

Bouchardon passed a paper across the table. “As you can see, the lieutenant denies ever having been in love with you.” He tapped at a sentence. “He called your affair ‘merely casual.’”

She shoved the paper back at him. “I have no reply to that statement.”

Ladoux stood, his short, fat body towering over the still-seated M’greet. “If you do not reveal the names of your German accomplices, you will be shot as a spy.”

She had finally reached her breaking point. “You know nothing of my character, nothing! Because of my travels, my foreign acquaintances, my manner of living, you think poorly of me. But…” she stuck her finger in Ladoux’s fat face. “You are a petty, small man. It is not my fault you did not know how to employ me properly. This is all your doing, not mine.” The tears coursed their way down her face, but M’greet did not bother to wipe them away. “Everything I thought I once knew is collapsing all around me. Never would I have believed that such cowardice could come from him,” she nodded toward the awful paper with Vadim’s statements, “a man for whom I would have gone through fire.” She rose. “I will defend myself, and if I fail, it will be with a smile of profound contempt.”

Chapter 65

Alouette

March 1917

Alouette was still seething over the explosion of the French munitions factory. What was happening at the Deuxiéme Bureau? The answer came, once again, in the form of a newspaper. The headline read: “Arrest of Famed Dancer and German Spy.” Perusing the article, her eye caught the following sentence: “Lady MacLeod was the mistress of the German naval attaché in Madrid.”

Struck with inspiration, Alouette hobbled into von Krohn’s office, intent on getting more information out of him. She threw the newspaper onto his desk. “One of your women spies has been arrested in Paris.”

His face turned white as the blood drained from it. “One of my women spies? What is her name?”

“Mata Hari, the dancer.”

The color returned to his face, but it still held a look of bewilderment. “It is possible that this woman is in the pay of Arnold Kalle, but I know nothing about her.”

Alouette tucked her crutch under her armpit in order to fold her arms in front of her. “Prove it.”

He sighed before going to his locked cabinet. He took a set of keys out of his pocket and opened the drawer to retrieve a file. He carefully locked it again before setting the file down on his desk.

Von Krohn opened the file to reveal a pile of photographs of women, some with a typed paper stapled to it. Alouette assumed the typing contained vital information about each woman’s position and location, but von Krohn flipped through them too fast for her to make anything of it.

She decided to force him to slow down. “There!” she shouted, pointing to a picture of a dark-haired woman. “That’s Mata Hari!”

Von Krohn frowned as he read the information before shaking his head.

Alouette already knew it was not the woman in question, but at least it got him to go through the file at a slower pace. When he reached the last picture, he shut the file firmly. “I told you, she’s not one of mine.”

“Is it possible she was employed by the Embassy?” Alouette was dying to know what else was in that locked cabinet.

“I suppose it is possible.” By this time, von Krohn seemed almost as eager as she to find out if Mata Hari were employed by Germany. He extracted a few more files, but they could find no evidence whatsoever that Mata Hari had been sent to Spain by Germany.

Chapter 66

M’greet

June 1917

M’greet’s trial was the farce she had predicted it would be. The prosecution called six witnesses, the first being one of the two men who had followed her all throughout Paris. His name turned out to be Police Inspector Monier, who spoke about M’greet meeting her lovers in fancy hotels and expensive restaurants and of her extravagant shopping trips, but gave no evidence of espionage. The second witness was the man who had arrested her, Commissioner Priolet, who, once again, could provide no proof of her spying for Germany.

Next up was Ladoux, who said pretty much the same as he did before: that he had never employed her as a French agent, but pretended to do so in order to prove her employment for Germany. He was followed by Ladoux’s boss, Colonel Goubé, who claimed that M’greet was “the most dangerous spy he’d ever encountered,” but offered no reasoning as to why he thought that.

The last two witnesses to give so-called evidence of her guilt did not physically make it to the stand. The prosecution read aloud a statement from Lieutenant Hallaure, the man who’d suggested that M’greet go to the Deuxiéme Bureau in the first place. He claimed he wasn’t aware of the supposed sickness that required her to take the waters in Vittel.

To M’greet’s chagrin, the last testimony was that of Vladimir Masloff. Bouchardon read the same proclamation, the one where Vadim claimed he’d never loved M’greet, aloud to the jury.

Clunet had elicited several people to come forward in M’greet’s defense, but the only one who dared show his face in court was Harry de Marguérie. Of all the men who had claimed to love her, had showered her with adulation and money through the years she’d been Mata Hari, only Harry stood by her side. He began his testimony by insisting she’d never discussed military matters at any point.

Bouchardon paced in front of Harry in his typical manner. “Are you saying that you spent multiple days in the presence of the accused and never once mentioned the subject that has all of Europe obsessed—namely, the war?”

“We spoke of art and music. You are right, the war is a constant topic of conversation in my line of work, and it was a relief to not have to chat about it endlessly.” He looked directly at M’greet as he continued, “Nothing will ever spoil my good opinion of this lady.”

As Harry left the stand, instead of showing obeisance to the jury, he bowed to M’greet.

Despite the lack of evidence, the jury needed less than half an hour to declare her guilty. Not only was she condemned to death, but the tribunal also stated that all of her precious possessions were to be sold in order to reimburse the French Government for the cost of her trial.

“It is impossible!” she screamed after the verdict was read.

Clunet put a restraining hand on her arm. “I will appeal,” he stated. But M’greet knew that all had been lost: they had condemned her not because she had given the enemy any information, but because she had refused to play by society’s rules.

Chapter 67

Marthe

June 1917

Those days waiting for her execution were the longest of Marthe’s life. Each morning she awoke, she wondered if she were twenty-four hours closer to the firing squad.

One day, the same unteroffizier who had escorted her to her trial and then sentencing, appeared at her cell door. “Please come with me, fräulein. The judge has summoned you back to court.”

The judge was in his customary position, as were the jury but Marthe noted the absence of her prosecutor this time.

The judge picked up an order. “It has previously been decided that, as a convicted spy, you will be put to death by firing squad.”

She nodded bravely, realizing they must have finally scheduled the date of her execution. At last these months of torturous waiting can come to an end.

“But…” as he cleared his throat, Marthe looked up, not allowing herself to dare hope. “There has been new information to come to light.” He addressed the jury. “One of our own men, Alphonse Martin, has come forward.”

Her face colored at the mention of Alphonse’s name. Why had the judge said that he was one of theirs?

He continued, “The accused knew him as an ambulance driver for the hospital. But he was also a double agent, one who exposed many Belgians spying for the Allies. He had been working on finding out who this ‘Laura’ was. According to him, it was not the accused, but rather an old woman who sold fruit out of a farm cart, and who’d previously been discovered and taken care of. Herr Martin insists that the accused is innocent of nearly all charges.”

Marthe willed her racing mind to focus. It was obvious they thought Canteen Ma had been operating under the code name Laura, which was not true. But what was that about Alphonse being a double agent?

The judge set down the paper. “Based on this information, plus the fact the accused has been awarded the Iron Cross, and the special testimony provided by our own countrymen, Herr Martin and the Oberarzt at Roulers Hospital, the Commander-in-Chief of Areas under Occupation has graciously decided to commute her death sentence to one of imprisonment for life.” He turned his stern eyes to Marthe. “Do you have anything you wish to say?”

She shook her head numbly. She couldn’t have said anything if she tried.

The unteroffizier led her back to her cell. Marthe supposed she should have felt elation at escaping the death penalty, but she felt nothing. The judge had to have been mistaken. There was no way Alphonse was a double agent. If their relationship had been based on the simple matter of him trying to trap Marthe, he would have never lied to the judge about Canteen Ma being Laura. And if the judge were correct, then she didn’t know the first thing about Alphonse. Why would he have helped her blow up the ammunition dump if he was working for Germany?

Marthe was moved to a new cell, where, as a prisoner for life, she began a soul-numbing routine. She was awakened at dawn to a tray of tea and black sour bread and then taken to another room, where she, along with twenty-five other women, were expected to repair German uniforms, before being returned to her cell for a dinner of bean soup. The endless sewing was difficult on her eyes and fingers, but she welcomed the few hours away from her thoughts.

The lack of food and fresh air depleted her health. The prison warden sent for a doctor from the hospital, and, to Marthe’s delight, it was one with whom she had been friendly. He was deeply shocked at her appearance and slipped her some extra bread.

“Do you know of the ambulance driver named Alphonse?” Marthe asked once she had swallowed the bread; it was dry but much more palatable than the prison rations.

The doctor frowned. “I believe so. Tall, brown-haired?”

She nodded. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Alphonse being a double agent.

“He no longer works for the hospital.”

“What happened to him?”

The doctor shrugged. “I think someone once said he intended to become a priest. Perhaps he’s gone on to seminary school.”

For once, Marthe wanted to be alone with her thoughts. “Thank you, Herr Doctor.”

He patted her leg. “Don’t worry. The war must be over soon: humanity cannot stand much more of it.”

As she watched him leave, Marthe thought to herself there wasn’t much left of humanity. But she forced that thought away. Just because she had been imprisoned, and the man she loved turned out to be an enemy spy, didn’t mean that there was not still good in the world. Or even in Alphonse. Maybe he’d only pretended to work for the Germans. After all, it was partly on his word that she hadn’t been sentenced to death. Or maybe all the things he’d done to convince her of his loyalty were based on lies.

Knowing that she would never again lay eyes on her lost love, Marthe hoped that he would find peace, either as an agent of Belgium, or Germany, or God. As for herself, she now had no idea what her future would be. Whether for good or evil purposes, Alphonse had stolen that from her. For the first time in many days, she started to cry.

Chapter 68

Alouette

October 1917

In mid-October, von Krohn handed Alouette yet another newspaper. She read the headline aloud: “Mata Hari put to death by French firing squad.” She paused, her mouth still open. After a moment of reflection, she stated “I never thought it would come to this.” Although she herself had lived in fear of standing in front of a German fusillade for the past three years, it never occurred to her that the French government would send one of their own to the execution post at Vincennes. And that it would be Ladoux to hammer the last nail into the proverbial coffin.

Von Krohn took the paper and refolded it. “She was either a terrible spy or else an incredibly accomplished one.”

Alouette recalled how the dancer had revealed Kalle’s involvement with the Moroccan submarines at dinner. “I think it might be the former.”

“Well, both possibilities make her boss, the head of this so-called Deuxiéme Bureau, look like an incompetent buffoon.” His lips turned up into a sinister smile. “Or else maybe he’s a double-crossing fraud and we should be recruiting him for our side.”

“Hans, didn’t you say that you believe the French cracked your government’s code a few months ago? That they could decipher whatever telegrams they intercepted at the Eiffel Tower?”

“Yes. That’s why we had to switch to a new cipher last fall.”

“Did Kalle know that?”

“Of course.”

She shook her head. Ladoux must have known that too. He must have figured out that Kalle was setting Mata Hari up, feeding her intoxication of no use to the Deuxiéme Bureau and then using a code he knew the French could interpret to lie about her involvement. Kalle probably sacrificed Mata Hari to keep his other agents from suspicion. She had simply been a helpless pawn in Germany’s game, yet Ladoux let her go to her death anyway. Why? There was only one person she could ask, and he was in Paris, a place Alouette couldn’t suddenly go jaunting off to without good reason.

Luckily von Krohn presented her with an escape route. “I’m going to Malaga for a few days.”

Alouette pretended to be elated. “When do we leave?”

His face fell. “I can’t take you, Alouette. I’m sorry.”

She pursed her lips in a fake pout. “Why not, Hans?”

He patted the hand holding the cane that had replaced her crutches. “You’re not strong enough yet. Besides, I’m going to be paying a visit to my wife.”

Alouette nodded, making up her mind that she’d take the Paris express as soon as he left.

After she’d boarded the train, Alouette opened that evening’s paper. All of Europe, it seemed, had caught Spy Fever, seeing agents of espionage in even the most innocent of people. The paper listed some of the more famous cases. The Germans had even arrested a Belgian nurse to whom they had previously awarded the Iron Cross.

For once in her life, Alouette had to admit she was in over her head. She longed to return to Paris for good, but knew she wouldn’t be able to until she’d put an end to the German Intelligence’s Spanish branch. And that meant the end of von Krohn.

An overwhelming feeling of depression swept over her. She felt that she was no closer to stopping von Krohn than when she first started. She thought of that stupid filing cabinet in his office, hiding all of his secrets. If only she could get access to his keys, she could reveal every bit of information contained in those files.

As she stared at the passing landscape, a plan formed in her mind.

Of course, the first thing Alouette did when she reached Paris was to pay a visit to 282 boulevard, Saint Germain. Against all odds, Ladoux was actually present.

“How dare you not answer any of my letters. You are keeping me a virtual prisoner in Spain!” She used her cane to point at him.

He looked understandably shocked at her condition: she’d lost a fair bit of weight, and she was still not able to walk without support. “Is that all from the accident? Monsieur Davrichachvili told me about it.”

So Zozo had made it back to Paris. She hobbled to a chair. “Yes, it was from the accident. Something you would know if you deigned to read any of my letters.”

“I assure you, I’ve read them all. I just haven’t been able to respond. There are circumstances underfoot about which you don’t need to know…”

“Oh I know. I know you are the one who sent Mata Hari to her death. I just don’t know your motivation.”

Ladoux held up his hand. “Alouette—”

“We all know these are the consequences you risk when you agree to play your little game, Ladoux.”

He seemed about to explain his side of the Mata Hari plot, but Alouette wasn’t in the mood to hear any more lies. “I want you to help me with one last coup, and then I’m out.” She told him about von Krohn’s filing cabinet. “There are names and photographs of all of the Baron’s contacts, not to mention there must be oodles of other information of worth. If I could slip some sort of drug into his drink, I could steal his keys and then empty the safe.”

“That’s too much of a risk.”

“No.” She glanced at her cane, which lay just out of reach, longing to bang it on Ladoux’s desk. “I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and need to leave Spain for good.”

He threw up his hands. “Leave then. No one is stopping you.”

“My conscious is. Something you probably know nothing about. I have to do one last mission for France.” She fixed a pleading gaze on her boss. “Help me.”

“I can see that you are extremely tired and overwrought.” He lit a cigarette. “But…” she could tell he was about to deny her again so she changed her expression to one of menace. “Very well.” He dug into his desk drawer. “I’ll permit you to try out your plan, if only to prevent your resignation.” He passed her a visa, along with two little packets. “Drop one of these packets of powder into the baron’s beer. It will not take long to act, but be careful not to overdose him, as the results could be fatal.”

Alouette’s lips curled into a smile as she tucked the packets into her purse, thinking it wouldn’t be so terrible if von Krohn died of an overdose after all.

Ladoux mimicked her smile, though his twitched with something else. Irony? “Good luck, Alouette.”

She decided to pay a visit to Zozo and see what he thought of her plan. He had healed remarkably fast, though his arm would carry permanent scars.

He invited her into his predictably messy apartment. She sat down on a cigarette-burn scarred couch, the only furniture he possessed, and told him about her encounter with Ladoux.

“Let me see these powders,” he said, holding his arm out.

After she’d handed a packet over, he ripped it open and then sniffed at its contents. “Give me another one.”

She obeyed and he poured both into a beer before drinking it.

Alouette was momentarily stunned. “But Ladoux said you could die from an overdose.”

Zozo grinned. “Did he now? Just you wait to see the results of this so-called devastating drug.”

She scrutinized him, searching for any possible effects, but she couldn’t detect any change whatsoever.

He returned her gaze. “You look too skinny. Let’s get you something to eat.”

They went to a café down the street. Zozo’s gait was steadier than Alouette’s as he held her arm. If anything, he was even more alert than normal.

“Why would Ladoux lie to me?” Alouette asked after polishing off a sandwich. “It’s obvious he had little appreciation for my plan.”

“I’m sure he had good reason for not backing your scheme.” He changed tactics when he saw this statement did not cheer her in any way. “Don’t lose heart. Ladoux has a lot of things going on right now.”

“Right now? Mata Hari’s already dead. What else could be happening?”

Zozo set his beer down. “Just things.”

“Did you know Mata Hari?

“I met her once or twice, and Ladoux asked me to interview her contacts in Spain. I don’t think she was the sinister spy they made her out to be.”

“Did you know the Germans were lying about her through a code they knew the French had broken?”

“No.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. “Her lawyer asked me to deliver her final letters to her daughter, as well as to the Secretary of French Foreign Affairs: Harry de Marguérie and someone named Vadim, but Ladoux ordered them to be destroyed.”

“Why did Ladoux hate her so much?”

Zozo put his hand over hers. “France is not in a good place right now. The soldiers are threatening to mutiny, and I think Ladoux needed a scapegoat. He hired her thinking she was a German spy, and I guess she never managed to change his mind. She was a hapless victim of Ladoux’s propaganda.”

“He should have saved her, not let her die.” Alouette’s rage was boiling over. What if Ladoux had done the same thing to her? “You should have saved her.”

A look of confusion passed over Zozo’s fine features. “Me? I couldn’t have—”

Alouette grabbed her cane and got to her feet. “If you knew she was such a ‘hapless victim’ then you should have said something. Now it’s too late.”

“Ladoux is just trying to do what we all are: stay alive.”

She hobbled toward the door. “Well, I’m not going to play his game anymore.”

“Alouette, wait—” Zozo called, but she didn’t stop.

As soon as Alouette saw the Baron, she could tell something was wrong. She had been a careful student of his facial expressions for so long that she knew the particular one he demonstrated now was a barometer of consternation.

“What is it?” she demanded with more than a touch of impatience.

“I’ve just returned from a conference with Prince Ratibov, the German Ambassador. One of our submarines has torpedoed a Spanish steamer, endangering relations between my country and this one. Spain might even decide to side with the Allies. I expect to receive my marching orders at any moment.”

“And what of me?” Alouette asked, the desperation in her voice real.

Von Krohn turned to face her. “You will stay here and take my place. I’ll arrange for you to receive money and instructions through Portugal.”

She frowned as it occurred to her that if the Germans cleared out of Spain, the information contained within von Krohn’s safe would be utterly useless.

“I have full trust in you, Alouette. You will head the information bureau here, and when the war is over, Germany will hail you as a queen.”

There was no way Alouette would allow any of that to happen. She was employed as a double agent in order to supply France with information regarding its enemies, but she had no desire to rise any higher up the ranks of German intelligence.

Before she could reply to von Krohn, he gathered up a pile of papers from his desk. “I’ve got to return to the Embassy and see if we can clear up this matter.”

Alouette remained seated in his office after he’d left, staring at the filing cabinet. It was, of course, still locked. She pulled out a blank piece of paper to write the Deuxiéme Bureau regarding this new information. She asked for a visa to return to France, having given up the notion she’d ever infiltrate the Baron’s safe.

Ladoux never replied.

The Spanish eventually relented and rekindled their diplomatic relations with Germany. Von Krohn would be staying in Spain after all. But that didn’t change Alouette’s mind any further.

She was on her way to meet the Baron for lunch in the Palace Hotel’s restaurant when a desk clerk called her over.

“Madame, I am afraid you are going to have to change hotels.”

“What do you mean?”

He had the audacity to not be embarrassed. “Your room is being reserved for a Frenchman. My manager has decided to no longer cater to German spies.”

She glared at him. “Fine.”

She walked away slowly, not wanting to reveal the burning lump that had formed in her throat from the injustice of it all. As she strolled outside, a hot wave of hatred swept over her. Hatred for the war, for Germany, but most of all, hatred for von Krohn, who’d gotten her into this mess. Someday that stupid desk clerk would learn how he’d misjudged her while she was fighting heart and soul for her country.

Her sour mood hadn’t lightened when she sat down for lunch.

“What’s wrong, Alouette?” von Krohn asked. “Another headache?”

“No. I’m fed up with Spain, with living in exile.” It was rare for her to be completely honest with the Baron, but this was one of those moments. “I want to go back to France.”

His eyes widened. “You are exhausted and clearly in need of a vacation. Have patience and we can visit Morocco in a few days’ time.”

“I want to go back to France, now!” She banged a gloved fist on the table for emphasis, causing the glassware to rattle.

“You can’t do that, Alouette. It would mean your death, and you know it.”

“And whose fault is that?” she asked, bitterness dripping from her voice.

“Wait until the end of the war. It can’t be too far off now. The minute it is over, I will make arrangements for you to go to Germany.”

She clenched her fists. “I am a Frenchwoman! A Frenchwoman! Do you know what that means?”

He shook his head dully.

Ladoux’s betrayal, coupled with the embarrassing situation with the desk clerk this morning, had finally pushed her over her limit. “It means that, from the first day I met you, I’ve been working for my own country. I have kept records of all of your movements and reported them to Paris. That’s what it means to be a Frenchwoman.” She jumped to her feet, her eyes on von Krohn.

A confused smile formed on his thin lips. She could tell he was wrestling over whether to believe her or not, probably finding it very difficult to accept he’d been duped by a woman.

She leaned in toward him, resisting the urge to spit in his face as she shouted, “Ich bin eine Französin!”

His face puckered in horror to hear her speaking a language she claimed she didn’t know.

For the coup de grâce, she dug a ticket out of her purse and waved it under his nose. “As you can see from the date on this, I’ve been to Paris quite recently.”

He stood, turning purple with rage. “You—”

“Yes, me!” She pumped a fist in the air, wanting the entire restaurant, if not the whole of Spain, to hear her next words. “Get this into your thick head, Baron von Krohn, naval attaché to Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany. I came to Spain to serve my country and spy on you for France’s benefit.”

He struck her across the mouth with such fury he broke one of her teeth.

Alouette put a hand to her bleeding mouth, knowing that, had they not been in a public place, he wouldn’t have hesitated in killing her with his bare hands.

She turned and fled as fast as her legs could go, leaving her cane on the ground beside the Baron.

Chapter 69

Alouette

October 1917

The person who answered the door at 282 boulevard, Saint Germain, was not familiar to Alouette. “Where is Ladoux?” she demanded.

“He is not here.”

“I am the Skylark and I demand an audience with him.”

“As I said, he is not here, but Colonel Goubé will see you.”

Colonel Goubé was a bald man with a thin graying mustache. He rose when Alouette entered his office. “You should not have left Madrid without our permission.”

She paused, dulled by his reception. “I came here to speak with Captain Ladoux,” she finally replied in an acid tone.

“Captain Ladoux no longer works here.”

“Very well then, I will meet with his successor.”

“I am his successor, Madame Richer,” he replied, his face turning amber. “And, I demand you to return to Spain.”

“I can’t,” she spit back at him. “I’ve compromised my position, after managing to ruin von Krohn’s career.”

“Another will be sent in his place.”

She bowed her head, deeply hurt. She didn’t want any monetary reward, but thought Goubé could at least show some appreciation for all that she had accomplished. Even Ladoux could, possibly, have been capable of that. “By the time they’ve set someone else up in von Krohn’s position, the war will be over. Where’s Zozo?”

“Monsieur Davrichachvili has gone back to Russia to help Lenin and the Bolsheviks in their revolution.”

She could feel her disappointment mounting. Now that she’d finally been able to retire to her home country, all of her supposed allies were gone. “Would you please tell me how to contact the captain?” she asked Goubé in a pleading tone. “It was he who had originally engaged my services, and seeing that they have come to a conclusion, it is only fitting that I should tender my resignation to him.”

His face appeared to soften. “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

“Why not?”

He leaned his elbows on the desk. “Captain Ladoux has been arrested on suspicion of betraying France to our enemies.”

“I see.” Alouette’s heart sank even lower. Another tragic end to spy mania. Whether or not Ladoux was truly a double agent was no matter at the moment, but it was another sign that it was time for her to be done.

She held up her hand and gave a resigned wave before exiting 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain for the last time.

Chapter 70

Marthe

October 1918

After almost two years of being imprisoned, Marthe was awoken one morning by the urgent clanging of church bells. The shouting in the courtyard came closer, and soon she could hear the stomping of many boots along the corridor of her prison.

She braced herself as someone threw open the door to her cell. A disheveled man with a ragged beard stood in the threshold. “The war is over!” he shouted. “You are free to go!”

Marthe found Roulers in near ruin. The British had almost bombed it out of existence; there was hardly a building with an intact roof in the entire town. She knew that most of the inhabitants had been evacuated months ago. Mother had sent word that both she and Father had found shelter at the Sturms’ farmhouse outside of town, the same place Max had died. An ironic twist to be sure. Those kinds of ironies had occurred since the beginning of the war, she mused as she came upon a deep trench carved into the ground and found herself gazing into the sewer where she and Alphonse had their first kiss. Good luck to you, Alphonse. Wherever, whoever you are.

The sound of a hurdy-gurdy brought her out her revelry, and she watched as a group of civilians began dancing on the street corner, reminding Marthe this was a time for celebration. There would be plenty of time later to mourn those who were lost.

She grinned as she realized the men patrolling the streets wore the light blue uniforms of the French and the khaki uniforms of American doughboys. There was no need to check for safety-pins now as the Vampires and the rest of the Germans had been forced out of Roulers.

She arrived at what remained of the Café Carillon where a party of British officers sat on the ruined patio, eating their lunch.

“You look hungry,” one of them said, passing her a sandwich. He laughed as Marthe devoured it. “You were hungry,” he stated as he dug in a nearby box for more food.

“I belong to the British Secret Service.” Marthe sat down, arranging her tattered skirt. “But I’ve been a prisoner, and have no money. My parents—”

“Just eat now,” the officer said, handing her another sandwich.

She could feel him staring at her as she chewed. She couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were as blue as the sky over Roulers, and that one of his legs was wooden. Though he was unshaven, his facial features were well-defined. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had a dependable air about him that Marthe immediately found attractive.

“This will help to wash down those sandwiches,” he said, producing his canteen. “I’m Lieutenant Jack McKenna.”

“Marthe Cnockaert.”

* * *

Not long after the end of the war, she married that handsome young officer and became Marthe McKenna. They built a new house among the burned ruins of the old one in Westrozebeke, the house where Father had nearly burned to death. They also restored the garden, planting flowers as fragrant as those of the 1914 Kermis, when her adventures had begun.

Epilogue

Marthe Cnockaert was eventually awarded British, French and Belgian honors for her work in World War 1. In 1932, she and her husband, John McKenna, published “I was a Spy,” about Marthe’s espionage adventures. Winston Churchill penned the foreword for the book, stating, “Her tale is a thrilling one. Having begun it, I could not put out my light till four o’clock in the morning.” More spy thrillers followed, making her a minor celebrity. The couple never had any children and McKenna left Marthe in the 1950s. She died in 1966 in Westrozebeke, at the age of 74.

Alouette (Marthe) Richer married Thomas Crompton, a financial director of the Rockefeller Foundation, in 1926. His death two years later left her a wealthy widow. She received a French Legion of Honor in 1933 for her espionage work during the first war. Her minor fame was extended when Georges Ladoux published the book, “The Skylark,” in which he called her “Marthe Richard,” a name she eventually took on. She published her own memoirs, entitled “I Spied for France,” in 1935 before resuming her spy game in World War 2 by befriending several members of the Gestapo in German-occupied Paris. She ran for political office after the second great war and championed the closing of Parisian brothels. She died in 1982, at the age of 93.

Margaretha Zelle MacLeod’s body was not claimed by any of her survivors after she was executed at Vincennes and it was sent to the Museum of Anatomy in Paris. Some claim the body was then dissected by medical students and disposed of. Her head was embalmed and at one point became part of a display of infamous criminals. It was discovered to be missing in 2001.

When John “Rudy” MacLeod was informed of his ex-wife’s death, he stated, “Whatever she did, she didn’t deserve that.” Their daughter, Non, died less than two years after her mother, at the age of 21.

In October 2017, 100 years after her death, Mata Hari’s files were declassified. The evidence for her actually being employed as a German spy is scant, though she herself admitted to taking money from them in compensation for her stolen furs. Whether or not the intercepted telegrams were a set-up by Kalle, Ladoux, or both, remains a mystery.

Georges Ladoux was arrested under suspicion of espionage four days after the execution of Mata Hari. He was eventually committed to house arrest and spent the rest of the war undergoing interrogations, similar to what he’d put his supposed double agent through. Although the case was dropped after the cease-fire, he was arrested once again for concealing evidence for a colleague at the Deuxiéme Bureau. The case was acquitted on May 8, 1919. In 1923, he was finally promoted to the rank of major. He wrote several books, including a somewhat fictionalized biography of Marthe Richer and another of Mata Hari, in which he maintains his belief that she was a German agent. He died in 1933 at the age of 58.

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Selected Bibliography

Craig, Mary W. A Tangled Web: Mata Hari: Dancer, Courtesan, Spy. Stroud: History Press, 2018.

Ladoux, Georges, and Warrington Dawson. Marthe Richard, the Skylark: The Foremost Woman Spy of France. London: Cassell and, 1932.

McKenna, Marthe. I Was a Spy! London: Jarrolds, 1933.

Proctor, Tammy M. Female Intelligence: Women and Espionage in the First World War. New York: New York University Press, 2003.

Russell Warren Howe. Mata Hari The True Story. Little Brown, 1995.

Richard, Marthe, and Gerald Griffin. I Spied for France. London: John Long, Limited, 1935.

Shipman, Pat. Femme Fatale: A New Biography of Mata Hari. HarperCollins, 2009

Acknowledgments

Thank-you to my critique partners: Ute Carbone, Theresa Munroe, and Karen Cino for their comments and suggestions. I am eternally grateful to the gracious Kathy Lance for her superb editing skills.

And as always, thanks to my loving family, especially Tommy, Belle, and Thompson, for their unconditional love and support.

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Read on in the Women Spies Series- The Spark of Resistance: Spies and Traitors in World War II!

Prologue

May 1945

Vera Atkins barely recognized the woman standing alone on a platform at Euston railway station. She was clad in a bedraggled coat, unusually thick for this time of year, that hung too loosely on her frail figure. “Yvonne?”

The woman turned. At only eighteen, she had been one of the youngest hired, and still bore the look of a child, though now a starved one with dark circles around her eyes and matted blonde hair.

Miss Atkins had the mind to hug her, but was afraid she’d either break the girl’s bones or Yvonne would collapse under the weight of her former boss’s arms.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Miss Atkins said instead. “Was your journey all right?”

Yvonne attempted a smile. “As good as could be expected.”

Pleased as Miss Atkins was to see Yvonne, her thoughts were eclipsed by one, niggling inquiry. She voiced it after they had settled into the car, Miss Atkins sitting as straight as always, Yvonne’s head leaning against the seat. “What do you know of the other girls?”

Yvonne’s eyes flew open. “The other girls?”

“Yes. Who else was with you?”

Yvonne closed her eyes again, scrunching her face in recollection. “I saw Alice at Ravensbrück, and they said there was another British woman there, Lise, but she was in solitary confinement and I never got a good look at her face. And I encountered Louise, Nadine, and Ambroise at Saarbrücken when I was taken there, temporarily. I remember going into a prison hut and seeing them, and thinking, ‘The whole women’s branch of F Section is here.’”

Miss Atkins mentally matched the code names with the real identities of her girls: Didi Nearne, Odette Sansom, Violette Szabo, Lilian Rolfe, and Denise Bloch. Nearly forty women had gone into the line of fire, and most of them, except Yvonne, were still missing in action. “I’ve been looking into it, but I was notified that there had been no British females held at any concentration camp.”

Yvonne turned to her. “I never told them I was a British agent. I thought I would have a lighter punishment if they believed I was French. But I knew that Louise, Nadine, and Ambroise felt differently.” She shook her head sadly. “They were moved out of Torgau the night before I was.”

“And what do you think became of them?”

“I don’t know,” was Yvonne’s terse reply. “I’d heard they were brought back to Ravensbrück, same as me, but I never saw them again.”

They arrived at Yvonne’s father’s house. Miss Atkins reached out, as though to touch her former employee’s tangled curls, but thought better of it. She folded her hands across her lap. “Don’t worry,” she told Yvonne as the driver helped her out of the car. “I will find them.”

The Spark of Resistance Chapter 1

Mathilde

He moved through the crowded restaurant with the lithe limbs of a Gypsy. Indeed, his eyes were as black as a Roma, though his hair was styled like a Frenchman’s.

Those dark eyes now focused on Mathilde. “Do you mind if I sit here?” He did a good imitation of a Parisian accent, but she could detect a hint of something else.

“Not at all.” Jeanne leaned forward, the décolletage of her velvet top dipping low. She patted her impeccably coiffed hair. “And you are?”

“Armand Borni.” He glanced over at Mathilde, as if to weigh whether or not his perfectly French name fooled her.

Mathilde stretched her lips into a thin smile. It was one of those dull evenings at La Frégate, the kind when she questioned just what she was doing there. Jeanne had requested their usual seat near the entrance, the better to watch the comings and goings of wealthy Parisians attempting to escape the gloom of their lives under the Occupation.

The undoubtedly fictitious Armand arranged his napkin on his lap. He met Mathilde’s eyes for a split second before hers dropped, focusing on his teeth, which, like his accent, were obviously fake. She tucked a strand of her own unruly dark hair back behind her ear as she caught sight of a pair of German officers entering the restaurant.

The crowd immediately fell into a palpable hush, the way Mathilde’s classmates used to at boarding school whenever the subject of their gossip came into earshot.

“Feldwebel Müller,” Monsieur Durand, the owner, rushed over to the newcomers. “How good of you to come.” He reached out to pump the German officer’s hand a few times before turning to his companion and repeating the gesture.

Armand’s face showed the tiniest frown before it returned to its carefully staged neutral expression.

Jeanne looked up. “It’s Feldwebel Müller and Leutnant Fischer again. They come here every Friday night.”

Mathilde, still unversed in the Wehrmacht ranking system, glowered as Monsieur Durand led the men to his best table, where an older couple was already seated. The restaurant owner gestured for a passing waiter to assist in moving the couple. “Those Nazis must be pretty important for Durand to oust the Bergers from their table.”

“Of course they’re important,” Jeanne responded pointedly. “Even though they are low-ranking officers, if La Frégate becomes part of the Gaststätten für Reichsdeutsche, Monsieur Durand will probably get a pay raise.”

“What is the Gaststätten für Reichsdeutsche?” Mathilde’s tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar German words.

“It means ‘restaurants for the German Reich.’ My husband’s printing house was told to make pamphlets for the visiting German soldiers. They have lists of all the vendors promising accommodations for them, even...” Jeanne leaned forward to whisper, “brothels.” She sat back and took a sip of wine. “Any business in the pamphlet gets special treatment and won’t be subject to rationing.” Her voice dropped once more. “Not to mention Durand’s mother-in-law is half-Jewish. He probably hopes to work his connections so she doesn’t get deported.”

Mathilde, never the type to conceal her emotions, shuddered. It wasn’t enough to see the grayish-green suited soldiers marching around her beloved city. The notion of watching them ravage a meal in her favorite restaurant made her sick to her stomach. “I don’t understand how we let them into Paris so easily in the first place, and now here we are, catering to their every whim.”

“What do you mean?” Jeanne asked. “You are not wishing that we are still fighting them, are you?”

Mathilde sighed. “No. What was to be done was done. But I still hate that they are here. I cannot stand to see the swastika flying over the Eiffel Tower.”

Throughout the women’s conversation, their new guest had remained silent, but chose that moment to speak up. “You cannot just hate the Germans.”

“What do you mean?” Mathilde asked, turning toward him.

He laughed. “I’ve only known you for a few minutes, but even I can see that you deal in absolutes. You cannot simply hate them, you must despise them with every thread of your veins.”

She put a manicured finger to her lips as she glanced at the oblivious Germans across the room, indulging in a steak meal even though today had been declared a meatless day. “Why leave anything half-finished? If one is to hate, one must do it fully.”

Armand’s expression deepened for a brief moment before he dug into his salad, stabbing at a piece of lettuce with more force than necessary.

“There are ways, you know,” Armand’s statement as they left the restaurant was carefully casual.

“Ways to what?” Mathilde asked, her eyes on Jeanne, who was several steps away, trying to wave down a cab.

“Defeat the Nazis.”

“I’m not sure if you know this, but our soldiers refused to fight them here.” Mathilde spoke deliberately slowly, as though Armand were half-deaf, not concealing the fact she recognized he was a foreigner. “We signed a peace treaty that resulted in our soldiers being captured as prisoners of war. And now they’ve taken over our city and shame us every way they can.” She nodded toward a nearby placard that had been printed in German above the old street sign. Because of the blackout, the streetlights remained unlit and the French sign was barely visible, but the black-lettered words on the German one were quite legible, though unpronounceable. As bulky and awkward as a swastika, Mathilde thought. As unwelcome as the Germans themselves.

 “I am well aware of Paris’s plight,” Armand replied. He leaned in closer, his voice low. “What would you think if I told you we could establish communication with London to pass on our own propaganda? To encourage our compatriots to challenge the Germans any way they can?”

Mathilde’s mouth dropped open.

Armand glanced at Jeanne’s back. “I cannot say anything else here. There are spies everywhere. But not the right kind.”

Jeanne finally succeeded in her task and turned to Mathilde as the cab stopped.

“Aren’t you coming?” Jeanne demanded. “Curfew is in half an hour.” They all looked at their watches. Mathilde had once thought time was beyond being owned, but the Germans had even taken control of the city’s clocks and turned them all to Berlin time, two hours ahead of Paris. As a result it seemed even the sun was reluctant to confront Hitler; with winter looming, it set earlier and earlier in the evening, shrouding the already-dispirited city in even more darkness.

Armand shut his pocket watch with an audible click as Mathilde waved her friend along.

“Come to my apartment,” Mathilde said once Jeanne’s cab had pulled away. She wrapped her thin fingers around Armand’s and led him down the street.

“I know nothing of espionage,” she told him when he was comfortably seated on her couch.

“But you know France… much more than an exiled Pole.”

Mathilde nodded to herself as she fixed them chicory coffee. “You’re Polish. What happened to make you hate the Germans so much?”

He laughed. “Besides being from Poland?” His tone dropped as Mathilde sat beside him. “I was a fighter pilot before I was taken prisoner by the Nazis. They sent me to a POW camp.”

Mathilde’s eyes widened. “Did they torture you?”

“I managed to escape before they could do their worst. A widow hid me in her house and then gave me her husband’s papers.” His voice grew hoarse. “But my brother is somewhere in one of those camps. And my parents are still in Poland.” He put his hand over hers. “You have to help me. I will not accept that Poland is defeated.”

She squeezed his hand. “I think the same of France. And now that the occupiers refuse to hire me as a nurse, I have more time on my hands.”

His face hardened. “I should warn you that this work will be extremely dangerous—”

“I don’t mind the risk,” Mathilde interrupted. “As you said, I do know people in most parts of the country, especially in the Free Zone.” This included her husband, but she of course made no mention of him.

He took on a dreamy look. “Can you imagine you and I plotting against the Germans? You’d become the Mata Hari of the Second World War.”

“Mata Hari? Didn’t she betray her own country?”

He laughed and Mathilde couldn’t help but smile. She paused to mull over what Armand was proposing. In what he would probably claim was her characteristic, all-in way, she decided to be the best spy the Allies had. “If we are to be working together, I suppose I should know your real name.” She said it both out of curiosity and as a test, to see if he trusted her fully.

He did not hesitate. “Roman Czerniawski.”

It was her turn to laugh. “That’s quite a mouthful. I shall call you ‘Toto.’”

“Toto? As in the dog in the Wizard of Oz?”

“Yes.” She touched his arm. “As in my dependable sidekick.”

“Oh, so now I’m your sidekick? It was my idea in the first place.”

She shrugged. “You’re cute, with big brown eyes just like Toto.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Mathilde Lily Carré.”

He put his hand on her knee. “I think Lily suits you better than Mathilde. I’m going to call you Lily from now on.”

She bestowed her most seductive smile on him, thinking he wouldn’t be the first man to refer to her by that particular name.

The Spark of Resistance Chapter 2

Odette

The gray-haired gentleman took a sip from his teacup before asking, “Tell me, Mrs. Sansom, how did you come to have those pictures of Calais’s beaches?”

“Were they helpful? I’ve been wanting so badly to do something for the war effort, so when I heard that the Royal Navy was requesting pictures of the French coast, I sent them in right away.” Odette frowned. “I know they were just panoramics of my brother and I when we were growing up, but—”

“Oh, they will work quite well. I take it you were born in France?”

“Yes. I moved to England when I got married, but I grew up in Amiens, and my mother is still there, suffering under German rule. My father was a banker, but he died at Verdun in the Great War.”

Major Guthrie cleared his throat. “As did many. At that time, we thought it would be the war to end all wars, but now, with the Nazis…” He trailed off, appearing at a loss for words, the way Englishmen often were when the subject of Hitler was brought up.

“If it would help, I could draw you a picture of the Amiens village square.”

He seemed relieved at the digression. “I think we probably have one in our files.” He set his teacup down before clearing his throat again. “Mrs. Sansom, I believe that your French background might be quite useful to the War Office.”

She sat back. “The War Office? What would the War Office want with me?”

“We need people who are familiar with France, and who speak the language, of course.”

After a moment’s thought, she replied, “I do want to help as much as I can, but I have three young girls, and my husband, Roy, is fighting on the continent.” Major Guthrie’s face fell, so she continued, “Perhaps I could do some translating for you? Or house soldiers?”

“Yes.” He attempted a wan smile. “Raising three children on your own is quite a large undertaking. But I would like to pass your name on. As you said, we might have some part-time work for you.”

“Of course.”

It wasn’t until she got back to Somerset that she realized Major Guthrie had neglected to return her photographs.

A few weeks later, Odette was sitting in a lounge chair, taking in the pleasant country sun when her youngest daughter, Marianne, dumped a packet on her lap. “Here’s the mail, Mummy.” Marianne waved an opened envelope in the air.

As it fluttered, Odette caught sight of a red cross printed at the top. “What’s that?” she asked, her heart beginning to race. What if Roy was hurt?

“It’s Uncle Louis,” Françoise, her oldest daughter said sadly, sounding much older than ten. She sat at her mother’s feet. “He’s in a hospital in Paris.”

Odette snatched the letter from Marianne and scanned it, but there was not much more information about her brother than what Françoise had already stated.

“But you can’t go and visit him, can you?” Marianne’s voice had taken on the little girl’s whine it often did when she was upset.

“Even if you could go, you can’t stop Grandma’s house from getting overrun by Nazis.” At eight, Lily, the middle child, was ever the realist.

“No,” Odette refolded the note. “No, I cannot go to France. I wish I could.”

“What’s this?” Françoise’s deft fingers lifted another official-looking envelope. “Who is Captain Selwyn Jepson?”

“I don’t know,” Odette answered wearily, longing for a moment of peace, away from prying young girls.

“He’s asking you to visit him in Whitehall next week.”

Odette gathered up the rest of the letters, the one from Jepson falling to the bottom of the pile. “It probably has something to do with that part-time job Major Guthrie mentioned.”

“Are you going to work for the war?” Françoise demanded.

“If I can fit it in, I’d like to do some little thing,” Odette replied.

“But you aren’t going to leave us, are you, Mummy?” Marianne’s voice grew even higher as her eyes reddened. They’d already been forced to evacuate their London home for the safety of the Somerset countryside, away from the Luftwaffe bombers that had been terrorizing the city for the past year. It had been enough uprooting for the six-year-old. For all three girls, and Odette herself, for that matter.

Odette reached out to pat Marianne’s hand. “Of course not, chérie.”

The Spark of Resistance Chapter 3

Didi

Didi tossed yet another rejection letter onto the floor. “The Women’s Royal Naval Services only wanted drivers.”

Her sister Jackie, older by four years, nodded at the paper on the ground. “I must have gotten twice as many as you. The WRNS sent me that exact same letter. I probably shouldn’t have told them I can’t drive in complete darkness with all of these black-outs.”

“Do you think…” Didi cleared her throat. “Did it ever occur to you that we shouldn’t have come here?” It hadn’t been easy getting out of Occupied France, even though they were British citizens, but they’d eventually managed to escape via Spain. The entire journey had taken nearly six months, and now that they were finally free, relatively speaking, they were having difficulty securing jobs.

Jackie raised a thin eyebrow. “What would you have done, stayed in France? You know the Germans regarded us as nothing but foreigners.”

“We lived in France almost our whole lives. Britain feels more foreign to me.”

“Well,” Jackie bent down and picked up the letter. “If you want to go back and be subject to the will of the Nazis, then do it. I’m going to stay here and do what I can to fight the Germans.” She crumpled the paper. “If only they would let me.”

A few days later, Jackie received a note from a Captain Selwyn Jepson of the War Office asking for an interview.

“I told you my time would come,” Jackie told Didi.

Didi snatched the notice from her sister. “He says you ‘possess qualifications which may be of value in the war effort.’ What does that even mean?”

“Why, I suppose it could mean nothing at all,” Jackie replied loftily, clearly not believing her own proclamation.

Everything had always come easy to her beautiful older sister and Didi felt the need to take Jackie down a peg. “Especially if they find out you can’t drive during the blackout.”

The words hit their mark and Jackie’s smile drooped into a frown.

The pangs of guilt were too much for Didi. “On the other hand, maybe this Selwyn Jepson is an important man and needs you for a task no one else can do,” she added. “The return address is the War Office, after all.”

Jackie nodded. “I’m sure you’ll get a similar letter soon.”

But she didn’t, and, as the date for Jackie’s interview came closer, Didi grew even more anxious.

“Be sure to tell them about me,” Didi called after Jackie as she left for the War Office wearing her nicest dress, a smart blue one sprinkled with white polka-dots.

Jackie turned back and waved a gloved-hand. “I will.”

“And good luck!”

Jackie straightened her straw hat before continuing down the street.

Didi spent a few tense hours waiting for Jackie to return. She meant to clean the small room they shared in the boarding house, but found it hard to concentrate on any one task.

“Well?” Didi asked by way of greeting once her sister came home.

“Well what?”

“What did Captain Jepson want?”

“It was a job as a driver for FANY- the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.”

“A driver? Did you tell him you can speak fluent French?”

“Yes.”

Something about Jackie’s behavior wasn’t sitting right with Didi. “And the driving at night thing? He didn’t mind about that?”

“No.”

Now Didi knew Jackie was hiding something—it wasn’t like her sister to give one-word answers. “Why would they hire you for a job any English girl could do?”

Jackie cast her eyes around the empty room. “Okay, as it turns out, I’ll be working with a brand-new organization. The SOE.”

“What does that stand for?”

“Special Operations Executive.” The pride was obvious in Jackie’s voice. “The French section. They wanted me because I grew up in France and can speak the language fluently. The FANY driver thing is just a cover.”

“A cover for what? What work will you be doing?” Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “Are they sending you back to France to be a spy?”

“Listen,” Jackie put a hand on Didi’s arm. “I’ve already told you too much. I promised Captain Jepson I wouldn’t say anything about this to anyone.”

“What about me?” Didi asked. “Did you tell them you had a sister who also speaks French?”

“Of course,” Jackie replied distractedly. “Now I have to figure out what I’m going to wear to my first training session.”

Finally, a month after Jackie’s interview, Didi received her own meeting request from Captain Jepson. She too put on her best dress and, after placing her gas mask in her purse, set off for the address given in the letter, which turned out to be a sparse room in the Victoria Hotel.

With his beautifully-cut gray suit and groomed salt-and-pepper hair, Captain Jepson looked nothing like a military recruiter. After asking Didi to sit in the lone chair opposite his desk, he started by telling her his task was to recruit women for the SOE.

“Why women?” Didi asked.

“In my opinion, women are much more suited for this type of position than men. Women have a far greater capacity for a cool and lonely courage.”

It didn’t take Didi long to realize her suspicions about her sister working for an espionage unit had been correct. “I would like to be considered for the same sort of thing that Jackie is doing.”

His gaze traveled from her jaunty hat to her sensible-heeled shoes. “I think you might be a bit young to be an agent.”

“I’m nearly twenty-two, and only four years younger than Jackie.”

He nodded before picking up a paper. “Your full name is Eileen Mary. Where did Didi come from?”

She shrugged. “The family legend is that Jackie had a hard time saying ‘Eileen.’ Didi rolled off the tongue easier, so Didi I became.”

“And are there other Nearne children?”

“I have two brothers. My middle brother, Frederick, is in the Royal Air Force.”

“You are the baby of the family.” Jepson made a mark on the paper in front of him. “Your father is a doctor, so the family is obviously well-off, and you were educated in a Catholic school.”

The finality in his voice, as if he’d already rejected her, made Didi’s heart beat faster. “When the Nazis came, we were forced from our home. They told us we were ‘enemies of the state,’ even my mother, who was born in France, because she married an Englishman. They confiscated most of our possessions, so we are no longer considered, as you put it, ‘well-off.’ Jackie and I had to learn to chop firewood, cook, and clean.”

“Why do you want to go back to France now so soon after leaving?”

“Both Jackie and I want to do something to fight Germany. That’s why we came here to England in the first place.” Didi could tell she was losing the battle. She spread her arms out. “Look, I can keep my own company. Should the need arise, I can work all alone. I can do anything you ask. I just want to be able to do something for the war. Even a little thing.”

“Some little thing.” Jepson made another mark on the paper with his pen before settling his gaze back to her. “You seem to be a bright young woman, though you’ve also led a sheltered life. I’m not sure you are ready to be a field agent, but perhaps we can start you as a wireless operator or a decoder.”

She folded her arms across her chest. While she was disappointed that she wouldn’t be heading back to France as an SOE operative any time soon, Jepson hadn’t completely refused her. “I’d prefer to learn how to work a wireless.” She figured the training for that line of work would be the most beneficial when she finally convinced Jepson to put her in the field.

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