Entire blocks were being raised by means of jackscrews, and there was no better entertainment on a Sunday afternoon than watching people scurry into and out of a shop—open for business, of course—whose door was rising an inch at a time, dozens of men panting away at its foundation. No other city was like Chicago, and a fierce affection for it rose in my chest as I watched it rearrange itself, piece by piece, to make a better place. As we always had, we were taking something raw and refining it, making it more polished, more finished, for the world.
Unfortunately, while we saw our successful operation in Baltimore as a triumph, it was depicted otherwise in the newspapers of the day. Our role wasn’t known, but it quickly became public knowledge that Lincoln had been spirited into Washington under cover of night, and that was enough. Cartoons showed Lincoln in a nightshirt, or even his wife’s dress, sneaking through the city. I wanted to personally throttle every single reporter, cartoonist, or editor who depicted Lincoln in anything less than a flattering light. We had enough enemies on the other side; we didn’t need more among us. And because we needed secrecy above all else, we could not bring the conspirators to justice. We simply had to leave them be. And so even the barber, Ferrandini, was let alone.
Were we merely spitting into the ocean? Would even this great triumph be too little to stave off the coming tide?
On April 12, the Confederates fired on Fort Sumter, and the last thoughts of peace evaporated like summer’s morning dew.
I was not there, but it was easy to picture. I had seen Fort Sumter enough times off the coast of Charleston. In my youth, I had found it reassuring. Now, it would always mean something else.
My first action upon hearing the news, of course, was to run to the office on Clark Street. Similarly, other operatives had appeared and were milling about aimlessly. We all knew it was a day of great import. We simply didn’t know where the action would take us.
While we gathered in small groups, muttering to ourselves and one another, a telegram arrived for Pinkerton. He opened it in full view of all of us. He fingered the paper and lowered it to the desk slowly, as if it weighed more than paper possibly could.
“What is it?” I asked.
He answered grimly, “It’s war.”
We’d known it, but at the same time, we couldn’t believe it. As terrible as things had gotten, it always seemed something would happen to pull us back from the brink. Nothing had. We were over the brink now and falling.
Pinkerton looked up at the assembled crowd. “And we’re needed.”
We nodded our heads as one. I had promised myself I would do what was necessary to save the country. The opportunity had arrived much sooner than I’d hoped, but there was no shrinking from it now.
? ? ?
That night, an old friend brought other news, as bad in its way as the news of war had been. I went to visit Mrs. Borowski, desperate for someone familiar to talk to, someone reassuring. There was gray in her blond braids now, and her face was a little less round, but she was still the woman whose words could bring me the most comfort. She offered me fresh warm bread and mint tea, and after we’d eaten and made small talk, she said, “Kate, I must tell you something.”
“Oh, I hope it’s good news,” I said, knowing it wasn’t. No one ever prefaced good news with such words.
“I must leave your employ.”
First, I put my arms around her wordlessly. Perhaps to comfort her, but mostly to comfort myself. The world was already coming undone. Losing someone I valued so much, someone I relied on, was just one more bit of evidence that things would never be the same again.
“Why? Because of the war?”
“Somewhat.”
“You’re not”—I searched for the right words—“going to the South?”
“No. West.”
“You have a place?”
“To run a boardinghouse in the Dakotas. Near a gold camp. The prospectors, they need somewhere to stay.”
“And somewhere to spend their gold. It’s a smart choice. Where in the Dakotas?”
“Not far from Yankton.” She grinned as she added, “The place is called Bright Hope.”
“I wish that for you.”
“Kate, you know I will miss you.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss you.”
“Don’t put a bet on it,” she said, and I saw the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes. All selfish, I’d only thought of how hard it was for me, but of course, we’d known each other so long now. I knew she didn’t have children—we had that in common, despite our many other differences—and perhaps she thought of me as a kind of daughter. The mere thought brought tears to my eyes to match hers.
We hugged again, but I didn’t try to keep her from going. I knew it was pointless. And perhaps she would be safe there, in the Dakota Territory, away from the war. There were other threats—disease, Indians—but at least she would never see her home ground become a battlefield.
I could run from it too, I realized. I was determined to run toward it instead.
The next day, I said as much to the boss.
Despite his serious look, I could see that Pinkerton was also preening, and I knew he had something important to say. “I’ve offered, and President Lincoln has accepted, help in the form of intelligence gathering and security.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“An intelligence service. Our operatives, ensuring the safety of the nation.”
“As soldiers?”
“No.”
“Then in what capacity?”
“Gathering information.”
I was in no mood for coyness. “That tells me nothing. I’ve been gathering information for you for nigh on five years now and have never been any part of any intelligence service, nor anything by that name.”
“You want me to put the plainest word on it? Fine, then. I need spies.”
This, I saw, was my chance. “Send me,” I said immediately.
“Warne…”
“Where do you need help most? You know I’ve been everywhere in the South.”
His self-important air had evaporated, and he looked ill at ease. I could see him searching for the best way to refuse me, and I couldn’t stand the thought.
I leaned forward in my chair, intent on making myself heard. “Send me to Montgomery. Little Rock. Atlanta. Wherever you say, I’ll go.”
He said at last, “Here. Chicago.”
“No.”