“That’s for you and me to decide.”
As terrible as the news was and as unsure as I was that we could actually save a man who half the nation seemed eager to kill, I felt a bolt of energy zing through me. Of all his operatives, the boss had chosen me as fellow mastermind. It was the most important challenge of my life so far.
Time was of the essence. I stayed that night in the office, still smeared with coal dust but intent on every word. We talked all night long to determine the plan. No more than five operatives, we decided, all of us based in Baltimore itself. Naturally, the two of us had to go. Without hesitation, I named Hattie Lawton, who would be more than able to adapt herself to any female persona we needed. It was also natural for me to suggest Graham DeForest. More reluctantly, I had to admit that Tim Bellamy was the best among the remaining men, and he would be the natural choice to round out our team.
We needed a married couple and decided that should be Pinkerton and Hattie. In some recess of my mind, I still felt the sting of Joan Pinkerton’s jealousy and still heard operatives jokingly calling me, never to my face, the other Mrs. Pinkerton. I would direct everyone’s activities, which would necessitate running around at all hours. Bellamy would have the flexibility of a single traveler. DeForest would take a position as a porter at the train station and learn all there was to know about the workings therein. Our intelligence indicated there was an abandoned cabin on the western approach to the city both close enough to reach and remote enough to escape close watch; it would make a fine place to exchange secret communications.
The plan finally determined, Pinkerton dismissed me to rest. I went to Mrs. Borowski’s boardinghouse, where she welcomed me warmly and gave me a single room, and after shucking my dress and corset onto the floor without ceremony, I fell onto the bed in my underclothes and slept the sleep of the dead.
The next day, I was on my way to Baltimore. Hattie and Pinkerton would travel together, as befitted their supposedly married state. DeForest and Bellamy would come after, on separate trains. I was the first to go, and I felt it keenly. There would be no one to catch me if I fell.
Upon arrival, I took up residence in the Barnum Hotel, which our intelligence had told us was the most Southern outpost in the city. I laid on a thick Charleston accent and named myself Mrs. Harrington, in honor of the dead woman I had impersonated years before. I still turned when I heard the name and never forgot its associations, so it was perfect for my needs. Sarah Harrington might not have been pleased with the behavior I used in her name—I flirted shamelessly and became known as a bit of a social butterfly—but I thought at least she might be pleased to live on in some way, even such a small one as this.
The Barnum Hotel was a lovely place. Not quite as grand as the Spotswood in Richmond or Willard’s Hotel in Washington, it made up for it in cozy charm. The bannisters were polished to a shine, and there was a neatly arrayed stack of logs in every fireplace, always standing ready to be lit. We had fine sherry in the evenings, not too sweet. The front parlor was papered in large magnolia blossoms, making it the perfect place for Southern ladies and gentlemen to repose in comfort. All the women sported a fanned rose of black-and-white ribbons on their hats, called the cockade, to signal their sympathies. My cockade was the same size and style as all the rest. I would spend a great deal of time at the Barnum.
I quickly got to know the other guests. The silver-tongued Sheffields were the life of the party, always lifting a glass to the health of friends, day or night, rain or shine. Captain Danvers was a sinister-looking fellow with a deep groove in his forehead and brows as thick as my thumbs, but a few days’ acquaintance revealed him to be a kind, courtly gentleman, lonely for his family back in Norfolk. Two middle-aged sisters, Peggy and Patty Gilchrist, strode about fanning themselves as if someone were paying them to do so and refused to talk politics out of politeness, even if provoked. I kept my ears open and my eyes attuned. I did not have to elicit opinions or tease out personalities. People simply revealed themselves to me by being who they were.
Of all the people in the hotel, the barber in the basement, Ferrandini, was among the most talkative. He had a great deal to say about a great many things. He would not talk to me, a mere woman, of all of them. But from things I overheard, I knew there was a local militia forming, and he was urging every young man he met to join up. So, through coded messages dropped off and picked up without seeing each other face-to-face, I let Tim Bellamy know it was time for a haircut.
The next day, we arranged to sit at neighboring tables at a nearby restaurant. We had a quiet, broken conversation with our backs to each other.
“So there is a militia,” I whispered down at my teacup.
“In Perrymansville.”
“Called?”
“The National Volunteers.”
“Dangerous?”
“Absolutely.” Then a minute later, “I need to join.”
“Let me ask the boss first.”
“No.”
“I will ask the boss first,” I said more firmly.
There was a longer pause and then, “All right.”