Alias Dragonfly (17 page)

I let go of his hand. There was an empty space where his fingers had clasped mine. I could feel myself going all soft and weak. I had to push him away. So I shouted at him.

“I can’t forget that you were smiling at Confederate officers after the battle. I saw you!”

“You mean at the reporters’ tent?”

“How should I know what it was?”

“For heaven’s sake, I told you before, all of us reporters were interviewing them, trying to get the real news out! Next time it won’t be so easy. They were flushed with victory and cheering at news of the Union dead. They were crowing! I hate their kind, you should know that.”

All the excitement and jangle of the past weeks flooded over me. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much. I sighed. My shoulders slumped.

“You look older, Madeline.”

“I am.”

He touched my face. “What has happened?”

Nothing much, just my whole life has changed
, I thought.

“Oh, the war and the strange new things about this city, worry for my father, for all the soldiers, the wounded . . .” My voice trailed off. “A lot different from New Hampshire, the heat, the . . .” I was rambling.

“My paper is sending me to Richmond, Madeline.”

I felt relief and sadness all at once. I knew I couldn’t keep doing well at my new trade easily with Jake in the city. And the spies I’d come to know wouldn’t let him be in the way. I wanted to say so much more.

“Godspeed, Pan,” I said. “Watch out for alligators.”

“They don’t have those reptiles in Richmond, at least not the kind with scaly skin and killing jaws. You’ll read about my time there.”

We stood very close together, not moving or speaking.

I closed my eyes, and for a moment imagined us safe and peaceful on the banks of the Piscataqua River, an autumn wind whistling through the reeds.

But then I heard the city: the distant rumbling of artillery practice, the screech of a night owl and the cries of the rag and bone seller as he dragged his cart past the parlor window. Washington City, the ruckus and hum of the place was calling to me. I belonged here.

When I opened my eyes, Jake was gone.

Very late that night, a devilishly dark night it was, I was jarred awake when I sensed a man’s form standing over me. I didn’t cry out, but turned slowly over on my side, reaching under my pillow where I kept my revolver. He grasped my arm. I drew my legs up under me, preparing to kick. Before I could, or struggle even, he reached under my pillow and drew out my weapon.

“You didn’t make a sound. Good.” He whispered, handing me the gun, his other hand close to my face.

Unless there were two men in this city with a most peculiar deformity, a crooked pinky finger, well—

“Good evening Mr. Webster,” I said softly, trying to breathe evenly to quiet my racing heart.

“Come with me, Miss Bradford. Now.”

I was wearing a heavy cotton sleeping gown, so I slipped out of bed and grabbed the first piece of clothing hanging in the wardrobe—my old black dress. Since it was so dark in the room, I abandoned modesty, dropped my gown to the floor and pulled on a pair of underdrawers, and slipped the dress over my head. I stepped into my boots, lacing them quickly. Was I in for another test even harder than the one I’d endured?

“I’ll have you back by morning,” was all he would say.

We tiptoed down the hall, past bedrooms, down the stairs, through the parlor and out the front door. Mr. Webster led me around the side of the house into the alley where a horse and rig waited. The driver, yes, he was really small, perched in his seat like a tiny bird. He tipped his hat to me.

“Hi kid,” he said. I glared up at him as Mr. Webster helped me into the rig. So Mike was in on this too.

I knew better than to ask where we were going. At least I was with people I knew and not being dragged off, blindfolded. I leaned back against the cushiony leather back of the carriage to catch my breath.

The city smells and sounds, the babble of drunkards, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones, and the stink of the canals, faded to the scent of dung, grass and fire smoke. We stopped. Mr. Webster got out and walked quickly away. Mike jumped down and held out his hand to help me down.

“You look like something a cat wouldn’t drag around.” He said, appraising my black garb, and my matted, uncombed hair.

“You don’t look so great yourself,” I snapped, pointing to his battered bowler hat and pants that barely reached the tops of his little boots. “You sounded just like my aunt,” I muttered. “I never look right to her.”

“Sorry. Truce?” He said sheepishly.

We both smiled. I really liked Mike.

I squinted to try to see where we were. Just then, I stumbled over a large, inert mound. It moved and mooed. I reached down to touch a warm, wet nose of a cow. Nearby I heard the snuffling and grunting of pigs.

A layer of fog hung low over moist, loamy grass. I could barely make out the outline of a large building up ahead.

As we came closer, I realized then we were in front of a barn.

Before I could ask what in heck was going on, a wooden door slid open. A tall Negro man I’d never seen before stood in front of us. He nodded to us.

Mike offered me his arm like he was a fine dandy escorting a lady to a fancy ball. I reached down, I mean I had to really reach down, and took his arm. I entered the building at a crouch, my arm in Mike’s.

Through flickering oil lamps positioned all around a cavernous space, men, and yes, women were lifting iron weights, jumping from wooden horses to piles of hay bales on the floor. An arrow sailed over my head and thudded into a target marked with a bull’s-eye. In another area of the barn I saw Mr. Riley, the flower seller, hitting a hanging leather bag over and over with his bare hands. He was moving with great agility, like he was dancing, in spite of his bulk. No one greeted me, or looked in the least surprised that I was there.

A small padded form, the face covered by some kind of leather mask, waddled over to me.

“Follow me, Miss Bradford,” a female voice said from beneath the head covering. She led me to a wooden rack hung with padded jackets, long skirts with no hoops or petticoats and trousers with leather caps over the knees.

“Put these on.” While I donned the strange, bulky garments, pulling the skirt over my dress and sliding my arms into the jacket, the tall Negro man shouted, “Behind you!” He picked up the smaller female figure and threw her to the floor. She landed hard but slid away with ease.

Before I could move, she leapt up and came toward me, raising her arm as if to strike me. Instinctively, I jumped to the side and grabbed her hand. She twisted my arm so hard I nearly fainted. I fell flat on my back, gasping.

“Get up!” she said. She repeated the move. This time I grabbed her arm with both hands. “Now, force my arm down, right above my elbow. Keep the pressure on and push me to the ground. Put your foot on my neck.” I hesitated.

“Don’t worry about hurting me.”

I did as she ordered. And she lay still.

“Release me,” she said. When I did, she got up and removed her head covering. A tumble of reddish hair and an even redder, sweaty face looked hard at me. It was Mrs. Smith.

“Not a bad opponent,” she said.

Before I could take in this praise, I saw Mr. Webster put on an overstuffed vest and attach more padding to his legs and a leather cover to his lower area.

As if on cue, Mrs. Smith wheeled around and walked quickly away. As I watched her, someone grabbed me from behind, his hand around my neck. I froze for an instant.

“Kick back hard at his leg!” Mrs. Smith called out. “Don’t try to disengage his hand from your neck. He is stronger than you are. Use your elbow in his stomach, then strike between his legs. “

I did, and Mr. Webster crumpled to the ground, groaning loudly.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He stood up, smiling, and brushed himself off. “Quite so. That’s why I wore protection. Or else you would have truly hurt me.” His smile faded.

“Defending your person is critical. You are well along. Mrs. Smith reported that when they tested you with the fake capture, you defended yourself.”

He waved his hand. In an instant the Negro man was at his side. “This is Mr. Oliver Washington, Miss Bradford, one of Mr. Pinkerton’s best. Likely you will work together at some point.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss,” Mr. Washington said, bowing slightly. He had a deep, melodious voice, brown coffee-colored skin and strong, well-muscled arms. One of them was badly scarred.

“Come this way, please.” He motioned to a far corner of the barn where a man and a woman were firing guns at a paper cutout of a man.

He handed me a pistol, and bullets.

“Load it. Fire at the head of the target.”

I aimed and fired. The bullet landed low and tore into the figure’s chest, leaving a black circle where the heart would have been.

“Just as good, yes.” Mr. Washington said.

“Give me the gun.” I started to hand it over.

“No. Never give up your weapon.”

“Sorry.”

“No apologies allowed here, kid.” Mike scuttled between Mr. Washington’s legs and grabbed away my gun.

“Again!” Mr. Washington ordered. “If he tries to take the weapon, kick him hard.”

“Sure, I can take it.” Mike said. I kicked at Mike. He rolled himself up like a dung beetle, righted himself, pulled a knife from his pant leg and came at me. “Gotcha,” he said, jumping in the air, thrusting it at my chest.

By now, the other agents had formed a silent circle around us. “That’s enough for tonight,” Mr. Webster said. “You are agile and learn fast, Miss Bradford.”

I didn’t feel so agile with all those eyes on me. Finally Mrs. Warn approached, her face drenched in perspiration. She reached for my hand, as if to shake it in congratulations. I didn’t take it, rather I stepped back until she could no longer reach me.

The group applauded.

“Take her back, now,” Mrs. Warn said, a flicker of an expression that was something like approval crossed her face.

“You are not among enemies here,” she said. “But you behaved as if you were. Imagine yourself as a panther or a tiger, with knives for claws. Fix images like that in your mind. That is where a lot of power comes from. The mind.”

She nodded curtly and walked away.

I think I was proud. Okay, I know I was. And what’s more, I didn’t want to go back to my aunt’s boardinghouse. I wanted a mission!

Except for two more training sessions that left me exhausted but knowing I did really well, the next days came and went. Long, chore-filled afternoons blended one into the other. Sometimes it felt like all I’d seen and heard in the past months were but another dream. In the privacy of my room, every morning and evening, I lifted my heavy washbasin over my head fifty times and pushed myself up and down over and over, leaning my weight on my arms. I was determined to make myself even stronger. When I finished, I sat very still and imagined myself a wild, strong animal. If I growled, it was into my pillow, so no one heard me.

Then, one night, when Nellie and I were serving dinner, a tasteless one of boiled turnips and mutton, Aunt Salome was nattering on about how both sides in the war were doing no fighting.

“The Yankees are stuck like hogs in the muck all around the city. Mr. Lincoln sure doesn’t know how to run a war.” Aunt Salome bustled off, muttering about quicksand.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically, not realizing she had gone. I was distracted and anxious. Was there a mission for me, and why did it seem to be taking so long?

Now I’ve learned to understand that spy missions do not materialize just because you want them to. The waiting can be endless and boring and—

Finally, as I was emptying the dirty washbasin water into the alley, I heard the tread of boots on the cobblestones. I grasped my gun. I’d been in the habit of taking it along whenever I ventured out.

Mr. Webster jumped off a horse and headed straight for me. He looked weary. His boots were mud stained. “A hard night’s ride lashed to the devil’s tail, I’ve had,” he said. “But it’s not time to rest. Not time.” He was speaking quickly and rubbing his eyes.

“Have you any news of Jake Whitestone?” I asked. “I think he’s gone to Richmond.”

“He arrived safely, that’s all I know,” Webster said, studying my worried, flushed face. “Don’t fix your heart to anyone, Madeline. It’s not the time or the place. We’ve a task for you. But first I must speak with your aunt.”