On Secret Service by John Jakes Read Free Book Online

the city’s only protection. Fred had used the name Frederick Danner, and his credentials as a Virginian, to join and drill with the Rifles.
    â€œWhat’s your assessment of the militia commander?” Stone asked.
    â€œCaptain Schaeffer’s hard to read, sir. He’s careful to say nothing partisan or controversial. On the other hand, the men he’s recruited constitute evidence against him. He must have picked every one of them for their secesh sympathies. The unit is well armed. Sabers, revolvers, two mountain howitzers.”
    â€œGood God.”
    Fred delivered the coup de grâce. “Everything’s straight from the Army arsenal, I confirmed that.”
    â€œFine work, Lieutenant. The weapons will be confiscated but we must keep watching. I suggest we meet again—”
    â€œSir.”
    â€œâ€”Friday. We might manage someplace warmer.”
    â€œSir, I can’t make arrangements for Friday.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDo I have permission to speak candidly?”
    â€œYou do,” Stone said, his tone less comradely than before.
    â€œI don’t care for this kind of work, sir. Skulking. Telling lies about my identity.”
    â€œLieutenant, this city is ringed by enemies who could rise up and attack at any time. Part of my duty is to ferret out weaknesses in our defense force. The work’s necessary, and I have no one else to do it.”
    Fred felt an enormous, buoyant relief even before he spoke the words he’d rehearsed. “It’s nothing personal, Colonel, and I am sorry to abandon you—”
    â€œChrist in heaven. Not you too.”
    â€œYes, sir. I will hand in my resignation from the Army effective today.”
    â€œThen damn you, sir. God damn you for a traitor.”
    Hurt and angry, Fred didn’t know what to say. He had no animosity toward his commander. They shared a moment of helpless silence in the fog. Finally Stone said, “Where are you going, then?”
    â€œSouth,” Fred Dasher said. “Wherever they will have me.”

5
January 1861
    â€œAs a young girl I lived for a time at the Old Capitol,” Rose said to her captive, a pop-eyed young man new to the salon. Those nearby listened politely, though most had heard the story many times. Margaret had.
    â€œIt’s a pity they’ve turned it into a jail, it has such a distinguished history. Congress met in the building after the British burned Washington in 1814. When Congress moved out, it became a fashionable boardinghouse. Mrs. H.V. Hill, the proprietor, was my aunt. Living there was an education for a young woman. I met Henry Clay, and Daniel Webster. I heard Chief Justice Marshall discourse on the law in the Supreme Court’s room in the basement. Great men. Statesmen. Not the weasels infesting the town today. The greatest of them was John C. Calhoun. He loved my aunt’s hospitality. I was privileged to sit at his bedside during his last days. Offer him sips of water or a cool cloth for his head. He had a profound influence on my thinking. Before he died, he predicted a fatal conflict with the North.”
    Rose O’Neal Greenhow was a strikingly attractive woman, with dark eyes like Margaret’s, and a complexion of a deeper olive hue. No one knew her exact age. Somewhere in the forties, Margaret guessed. Her raven-black hair, center parted, showed only a few hints of gray. Her attire was somber: a short jacket of black wool grenadine over a black silk dress, and a rope of pearls on her lush bosom.
    A dozen guests were gathered in the parlor of her manse at No. 398 Sixteenth Street, left to her by her late husband, Dr. Greenhow. It was the last Monday of the month. Rose received on Mondays, Fridays, and Sunday afternoons.
    â€œAh, but here’s the person you must meet,” she exclaimed to the pop-eyed visitor. Senator Seward, slender and rather stooped, entered arm in arm with the chairman of the Military Affairs