Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Read Free Book Online

I watched the little girl part the curtains and prop the doll in the window. It looked to be the same one I’d seen, but in place of the blue checked petticoat was one of yellow.
    “Who lives in that house?” I blurted my question to one of the soldiers standing close by. I was testing my lowest man-like voice.
    “Say what?” he said. “Speak up!”
    I lowered my voice even more. “Who lives there?”
    “Ain’t you a curious hayfoot! That’s that infernal Rebel Rose Greenhow’s place.” He nudged me in the ribs. “She’s the worst kind of traitor. She gives her favors to both sides, and manages to get out Rebel messages right under the noses of the detectives tasked to keep her under watch.” He gave me another nudge with his elbow, laughing lewdly. “Maybe she’ll take a shine to you.”
    I quickly nudged him back and gave a knowing chuckle that sounded more like a gargle.
    “She’ll pay for her ways, surely, I’ll warrant,” the other soldier said. “All those traitors will pay.” He spit a stream of tobacco into the street. “See, that Bible toter there might be one of her watchers,” he said, motioning to the clergyman I’d just seen.
    I must have looked really puzzled. “Watcher?” I asked.
    “A detective—a Pinkerton man, dunderhead. They keep an eye on her in plain sight so they can catch her at her treason. Didn’t I already say that? Or are you some Rebel snitch?” He pushed me. “Move on now, vagrant, or we’ll ship you off to the calaboose.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. Before I left, I took another look at the clergyman. There was something about him. What was it? Sure, he wore a cleric’s collar and was gripping the Bible, with . . . Yes! That was it. One crooked pinky finger rested on an open page. I squinted hard to see his face. I couldn’t, but I saw a gray-streaked beard, and then it came to me. I knew just who he was! It was our boarder Timothy Webster, I was sure of it!
    Could he be a Pinkerton detective, like the soldier said? Mr. Webster told us he was a Rebel cotton trader when he came to the boardinghouse.
    But I’d dallied too long. No time to ponder all I’d seen, though I knew I’d remember every detail. I had to get to my father—in one piece.
    I ran fast along New York Avenue until it met North Capitol Street. Remember, I told myself; there was a shortcut, a pathway. Yes! There it was. I stumbled through a clump of willow trees toward a vine-covered footbridge leading to a towpath along the Potomac River. The water was brackish, a black sheen smeared like petroleum oil atop it. The river smelled of decay, and no wonder, as a horse’s corpse floated by, its belly bloated and the ears half eaten off by many a passing fish.
    I trekked farther, so tired now I was almost fainting. I’d walked at least three miles. I kept going along to a narrow walkway overhung with moss-covered trees. I knew this would lead straight to the grounds of the Eckington Hospital and my father’s camp.
    I’d been walking a good while longer when at last I spied rows of whitewashed wooden buildings nested on a sprawling lawn of bright, green grass. Just beyond them were brown tents, cook fires, and crowds of soldiers as far as I could see. Like water beetles they scurried about, piling mules with packs, dragging cannons, their voices muted. I knew my father’s fine regiment would be armed with breech loading Sharps rifles, stick-like, but holding a mighty power.
    “Halt! Not another step.” Three armed soldiers flanked me, moving me forward in a ragged two-step, finally stopping at a new, wooden gate.
    “Pass?” One of the soldiers demanded, his voice hard.
    “What?” I winced.
    “Pass! Or you can’t go any further.”
    “State your name and business, uh . . .”—one of them scanned me from head to toe—“sir.”
    I had to think fast. Who was I?
    “Looks like he’s got up in something passing strange,” another soldier said. “Smells like the dickens,