Читать книгу Secret Service Operator 13 - Robert William Chambers - Страница 4
I
ОглавлениеThere came a gallop of hoofs; jingle of chain and spur and equipment.
From an upstairs bedroom window in Blanton’s house two young girls looked out and down; and giggled.
Three troopers with an officer of Colonel Dick Rush’s regiment of lancers had ridden up under the apple trees in front of Secret Service Headquarters.
The Pennsylvanians, carrying long lances garnished with scarlet pennons, were pleasing to the female eye. The two girls regarded them with interest.
But their stern young captain immediately dismounted and strode into the house, his saber banging at his heels; and the girls continued their interrupted occupation before a bedroom mirror, the faded and wavy glass of which distorted their faces and sent them into fits of laughter.
Under the apple trees one admiring lancer said to another: “That’s a elegant gal up there at the winder.”
“Yeah,” said the other, “and that’s a pretty little nigger with her. Pretty as a white gal.”
At Secret Service Headquarters, momentarily now at Blanton’s—and whence Marmaduke Blanton had fled in disgust at Yankee approach—were gathered in conference several solemn civilians and officers.
Their tobacco smoke drifted across the room, through open windows into breezy September sunshine.
Outside under deep-fruited apple trees lounged a dozen or fifteen shabby-looking men, some gaunt and bearded, others mere boys with smooth, weather-browned features.
In the eyes of all was the same indefinable look; around each sunburned neck was coiled, invisibly, the hangman’s rope.
For these men were spies, scouts and couriers of the Union Army, awaiting duty. And he who was called might return with information, or might remain in Dixie to dance the dreary gallows jig.
Some of these silent fellows, in their shirt sleeves, were playing cards and checkers; others lay on the grass with remote and speculative gaze fixed on the blue hills, whence, across hazy meadows and woodlands, came bugle music and beating of drums.
In the sunny smoke mist of the room in Blanton’s house there was no sound except an intermittent creak from Colonel Sharpe’s rocking chair, and the syncopated rattle of a military telegraph instrument in an adjoining “best parlor.” A Federal detective slowly paced the hallway, guarding the closed door of the tobacco-reeking room.
Then, abruptly, a man came out of the parlor where the telegraphing was going on, and entered the room.
He was a square-hewn, bearded man. Two small eyes glimmered in ambush behind high cheek bones.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said harshly.
Captain Cadwallader of the 6th Pennsylvania Lancers got up out of the rocking chair; the Chief of the Federal Secret Service sat down in it, crossed one knee over the other and took a dry suck at his curved pipe which had gone cold.
His narrow glance traveled from one man to the next; lingered a little maliciously on George Sharpe, Colonel of the 120th New York Infantry; squinted at Charles Cadwallader, the obliging captain of Pennsylvania lancers; at Dick Rivett, captain in his own corps of spies and guides; at Alexander McCloud—his cipher man; at George Waring, six feet three of handsome, ruddy youth in the fanciful hussar uniform of his 4th Michigan Cavalry.
It was September, 1862, and the Northern armies still remained beautiful in spots, and still very full of hussars, lancers, Zouaves, and voltigeurs.
“Just a moment more, gentlemen,” said Major Allen grimly. “They are enciphering my report for the President.”
Then the hallway door was flung open, and Stanton’s “shadow” entered, cloaked, slouch hatted, darkly handsome, and as gracefully sinister as an opera villain about to betray a simpering soprano.
His name was William Moore—like Captain Kidd’s gunner. The shadowy private secretary to the Secretary of War shook hands stealthily with those he knew, bowed to others, flung aside his cloak with a superb gesture.
“All right!” rasped Major Allen.
Silence in the smoky room; then Alan Pinkerton—known in the army as Major Allen—spoke again in a voice so dry it seemed to crackle:
“There’s dissatisfaction in Washington with my department, gentlemen. You all know it. Know this, too: I’m not apologizing for my department—or for myself”—He looked at Moore as though to say: “Tell that to Stanton and be damned to you both!”
“I’m no politician,” he snarled, “—whatever else I may be. Here’s the situation: my general, of course, has got to know what is going on out yonder behind the river and the rebel cavalry screen. Mr. Moore, you are here to tell Mr. Stanton what measures I am taking to find out”—
He was stuffing his crooked pipe with shag; he lighted it now:
“—All right, tell him that the rebels have just hanged the two spies I sent to watch Stuart. That makes three of my men gone.... That makes three of my best spies hanged this week! ... Well, I’m sending two more. My very best.”
He scowled at Moore, and his voice became so dry that it grew squeaky, like an ungreased axle: “My compliments to Mr. Stanton! Yes. Maybe you might respectfully remind the honorable Secretary of War that his Secret Service operators have done no better than mine.”
Mr. Moore folded his arms and nodded, slowly, dramatically.
Pinkerton rose. He said to Colonel Waring: “You see those men out there under the trees? They’re some of my scouts, spies, couriers and detectives. Captain Dick Rivett, here, of our service, will go out with you and pick out any man you want for General Asboth. Take him along with you. You may take one of my Virginia Indians, too, if you like.”
The handsome young cavalry colonel thanked him and nodded to Dick Rivett.
To Captain of Lancers Cadwallader, Pinkerton turned:
“General McClellan permits me to draft two men for my service from your lancers.”
Cadwallader handed him a list of men available and suited by temperament for Secret Service duty. On this list two were marked as fearless, intelligent, and fond of that peculiar kind of excitement arising from personal peril.
“Send them,” said Pinkerton briefly.
“I took the liberty of bringing them with me”—Cadwallader pointed through the open window to the orchard where three lancers sat their horses. Cadwallader’s horse, also, stood there.
“All right,” said Pinkerton, “send back their nags and their fancy lances to Colonel Dick Rush—who possibly knows what to do with such weapons.” He added sourly, “And that’s all.”
There ensued a brief, uncomfortable pause, then officers and civilians rose to take leave; Colonel Waring following Dick Rivett and Sandy McCloud; Cadwallader going out with Mr. Moore and his opera cloak. When they had gone, Pinkerton looked defiantly at Colonel Sharpe.
“George,” said he, “I’ll be honest with you. I know, if I quit this job, you’ll succeed me.”
“I don’t know that,” said Colonel Sharpe. He was in full uniform—tall, well built, full lipped, slightly heavy of features, and wore a cavalry mustache and short side-burns.
“Is it to be straight talk?” demanded Pinkerton harshly.
“Yes, straight, Major.”
“Then, if I resign, you’ll be head of the Bureau of Military Information, and Deputy Provost-Marshal-General.”
“Do you mean to resign, Major Allen?”
“Yes. My general is going to be superseded. I know it if you don’t. But I guess you do know it. When little Mac goes, I won’t remain. He’s not only my friend, but he’s the best general officer in the United States—whatever others think. And the army, God bless it, agrees with me.”
Sharpe remained politely silent.
“George,” rasped Pinkerton, “I’m no cur in the manger; I’ll make it as easy and agreeable for you as possible. That is why I asked you prematurely to come here. Something has got to be done about Jeb Stuart. I think I’ve a spy they can’t catch and hang, and who is going to find out for us what is happening over yonder. I want you to see her.”
“Her?”
“Yes, her,” retorted Pinkerton. “All women are not damn fools.”
“Is she here?”
“Upstairs.”
He stepped to the door and bade the Federal detective on guard to bring in Number Eleven.
“Alone!” he added, calling after the man. “Tell her I’ll see her little friend later.”
To Sharpe he continued, squinting hard at him through his pipe smoke:
“She’s Miss Cushman—to you and me. Ever heard of her?”
“You mean the popular actress, Pauline Cushman?”
“I do. She’s Number 11. She’s already been inside the rebel lines for me several times. I have no surer, cleverer spy. If they ever catch her—and they never can!—I’ll give ’em leave to hang her. That’s what I think of her.”
There came a rustle of fashionable silk skirts at the door. Alan Pinkerton rose and move forward.
“How are you, Miss Cushman?” he said drily. “You’re a bonnie picture now—you are, indeed, ma’am. Let me present to you my”—he coughed—“my intimate friend, Colonel George Sharpe. You and he may become closer friends than even than are he and I—”
Pauline Cushman looked at Sharpe and held out her hand with a winning smile. She said in her beautifully modulated voice:
“We all become devoted to one another in the Secret Service.”
Pinkerton offered the rocking chair, and she settled herself and her crinoline in it gracefully and looked at the two men.
She had fine eyes and typical footlight features, large enough and symmetrical enough for paint and wig to enhance.
Every movement and gesture and expression seemed to be unstudied, so natural was her manner. And her art.
“It’s Jeb Stuart—and suicide—isn’t it, Major Allen?” she asked Pinkerton with another smile.
“It’s Stuart, ma’am.”
“I guessed so.”
“I don’t order you to go,” croaked Pinkerton, “if you feel that way.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I’ll go to Martinsburg, Major.”
“I’ll not let you go, if you feel that it’s suicide,” returned the Chief of Secret Service, irritably. “Not that I’m inhuman, ma’am, but a hanged spy is no use to the United States.”
Miss Cushman laughed—a full, rich, throaty laugh, calculated to entrance any audience. “Oh, Major,” said she, “you’re too Scotch to take a jest. I’m not the least afraid.”
“Maybe I am Scotch and dull, ma’am; but I want no more corpses scaring the poor nags on Jeb Stuart’s picket lines.”
“Jeb Stuart isn’t going to catch me,” said Miss Cushman carelessly. “What scouts are you sending me for couriers?”
“Jack Babcock and Gus Littlefield. I give you my best, ma’am.”
She seemed pleased.
He sat squinting at her out of slanting eyes—pipe in hand, one knee crossed over the other, slumped deep in his chair—his characteristic attitude.
“Now, lassie,” said he, “what have you to tell me? There’s a question in your bonnie eyes.”
“I’d rather not go alone this time,” she said quietly.
“Well, then, you wish to take along your little friend upstairs? Is that it, ma’am?”
“Yes, I shall need her.”
“Possibly. But do I need her?” he growled.
“Shall I call her in?”
“Let us hear a word of her first,” said Pinkerton warily.
“She’s a very young actress in my stock company,” explained Pauline Cushman. “When she makes up as a Negro girl you’d never know she wasn’t one. She’s been a nurse for two years at base hospitals. She’s very anxious to do Secret Service work.”
“Maybe. But is she fitted?”
“The best fitted of any operator I know, man or woman, Major.”
“What may be her name, ma’am?”
“Her stage name is Lucille Lyndon; her real name is Loveless. Old man Loveless—you know, sir—was her father—”
“Simon Cameron’s horse broker—God rest his bones!—I forgot he’s dead, ma’am. Well, then, is this girl as shrewd as was old Sam Loveless?”
“Yes. Except for one thing. I’m sorry, but she has a demoralizing effect upon men.”
“What’s that you say, ma’am?”
“The child is born to trouble men. And hers is a tender heart. I scold her.”
“You mean the girl is light?” demanded Pinkerton sourly.
“No,” said Miss Cushman, “but she is one of those who—one of those women to whom all men are immediately attracted. There is such a kind of woman, you know, Major. And, as I say, she has a youthful heart—”
Pinkerton gave her a dour look:
“And you recommend her, ma’am, to me, ma’am?”
“I do, Major. She’s a gay young thing, full of laughter and of life; but gayety of heart is no sin, and I know of nothing to her discredit.... And she is a natural as well as an accomplished actress. She can seem to be anybody; deceive anybody; and the youngness of her and her lovely face would fool the devil himself.”
“Maybe, ma’am. But can I trust so giddy a lass?” demanded Pinkerton.
“I am placing my own life at her mercy,” remarked Miss Cushman. “She is wise, faithful, brave, and true. Try her.”
“You left her upstairs?” inquired Colonel Sharpe.
“Yes, Colonel. Shall I call her?”—she looked at Pinkerton.
He nodded.
Pauline Cushman sprang up in her silk and crinoline, opened the door, and lifted her celebrated silvery voice: “Gail! Come down!” Then she returned to her rocking chair.
A moment later a young mulatto girl stole noiselessly into the room. She wore a single cotton garment, gone ragged with much washing. Her little bare brown feet were shapely and delicately formed; so were the childish hands as she took her skirt between forefinger and thumb and curtsied.
“Mawnin’, marsters,” she said softly; “is yoh washin’ ready fo’ de laun’ress?”
Pinkerton, red with surprise and anger, was on the point of telling her to get out, but checked himself in the same moment; and his dour features relaxed into a sheepish grin.
Pauline Cushman laughed her delight.
“I thought,” she said to Colonel Sharpe, “that he’d understand better if he saw her in character. So she made up while we were waiting upstairs.”
The two men looked hard at the girl—at her close-clipped, tightly curled dark hair; at her velvet eyes full of youth’s light gayety; at the full, laughing lips; at the slim body fairly a-quiver with suppressed mischief.
“Sit you down, lassie,” grunted Alan Pinkerton.
Miss Loveless seated herself happily, confidently, unsubdued.
“Loveless is your name, ma’am, I’m informed?” he demanded.
“Gail Loveless.”
“Hae ye father or mither?” Alan Pinkerton was, sometimes, deliberately Scotch.
“None, sir.”
“A pity. And what age may you have, miss?”
“Twenty, sir.”
“A play actress, I’m told.”
“Characters and dancing—yes, sir.”
“You were a hospital nurse lately?”
“Two years.” She named several base hospitals. He coolly named another, and the girl nodded, surprised:
“You were nurse at Frederick Hospital, and Dwight Dudley was your orderly. Well, then,” continued Pinkerton with a reluctant and almost kindly smile, “I know all about you, Miss Loveless”—he fished out some papers and displayed them—“Here you are. I’ve had you looked up”—turning to Pauline Cushman—“ever since you first asked leave to bring the young lady here, ma’am. Well, we have to know! Washington, New York, and all the North are full of rebel female spies, agents, scouts, and what-nots.... So you want to be an agent of the Secret Service, do you, Miss Loveless?”
“Yes, very much.”
Pinkerton favored her with a hearty scowl.
“Hae ye courage, lassie?” he demanded, becoming Scotch again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Never afraid?”
“Oh, yes—sometimes.”
“And what do you do when you’re afraid? Run?”
“Oh, no, sir.... But I can’t help being afraid, sometimes. Still, there is something almost pleasant about being scared, you know,” she added shyly.
“What’s that you say, ma’am?”
“Well—there is a kind of charming thrill—”
“Nonsense!”
Pauline Cushman interrupted: “There really is, Major Allen. Every spy and scout feels it a little, even when badly scared.”
“Is—that—so?” growled Pinkerton, puffing his crooked pipe.
After a frowning silence he peered sideways at Colonel Sharpe: “It’s true, George. They all say so. All my spies experience a charm in personal danger.” And, to Miss Loveless:
“So you like to play peekaboo with that auld carlin, Sawny McDeath?”
“I don’t know, I never tried it,” said the girl.
“If you’re caught, they’ll hang you,” he said, brutally blunt.
“Yes, sir—if I’m caught.” She looked at the other girl and they almost giggled.
There was a silence. Miss Loveless still smiled; but there was no bravado in her smile—nothing more than gay self-confidence.
“Well, then,” said Alan Pinkerton, “listen, now, the two of you, to what I have to say.
“If you have a real aptitude for this work, you must possess, also, enough fearlessness and daring to overcome the sense of danger, and find a kind of strange pleasure in situations involving great peril.... From what you tell me, ma’am, I guess you have that aptitude.
“But, to be successful, and keep your neck out of the noose, you must also be clever, quick-witted, observant. You should not be foolhardy; you should know fear; and you must feel enough afraid to realize the consequence of detection. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because, lassie, what good is a swinging corpse to me—or a dangling dead girl to your distracted country?”
“No good, sir,” admitted the girl, a little breathlessly.
After a pause: “You still desire to go?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
Pinkerton turned to Miss Cushman: “She’ll take poor Madden’s number, thirteen—” He wrote it down under her name: “S. S. Operator No. 13, passes as Lucille Lyndon, nigger laundress.”
His small, brilliant eyes seemed to bore clean through them. Then he rose and the girls stood up.
“There are four, in the Rebel Secret Service, ye’ll beware of,” he said coldly. “There’s Rose O’Neil, Beauregard’s chief scout; there’s Belle Boyd—eighteen years old—and Jeb Stuart is God, to her.
“There’s Vespasian Chancellor, Stuart’s chief scout; and there’s Jack Gailliard, a bad young man with a laugh, who does devil’s work for Jeb Stuart.”
He offered a dry hand to Miss Cushman, and then to Miss Loveless.
“You go to-night. In two days I send you John Babcock.”
“Good-by,” said Miss Cushman brightly to Colonel Sharpe who bowed in silence.
Miss Loveless nodded to him mischievously, and, seeing him redden a little, kissed her finger tips to him, enchanted with her visible conquest.
She whispered to Pauline Cushman as they went out: “He’s only a great big boy, that Colonel. Did you see his silly blush?”
