CHAPTER 19 SECOND-STORY MAN "Plums arrived with Nuts this morning." That coded message was Allan Pinkerton's single most significant mistakea trifle, he told himself often but it had made him look the fool. No man who was persuaded that his destiny was to found a United States Secret Service could afford to let himself be thought a fool. He sat under his round hat, behind his dead cigar, outside the War Depart- ment office of George Brinton McClellan. The general had been appointed a month before to defend the nation's capital from the expected attack by Beauregard, victor of Bull Run. McClellan was making him wait. Pinkerton accepted the delay without question because he'd held the "Young Napoleon" in profound respect ever since he had first worked for him at the Illinois Central Railroad. McClellan had been the line's brisk and efficient treasurer and general manager, Pinker- ton his chief of railroad detectives. The senior executive fairly exuded success: Pinkerton knew he had been offered, and turned down, ten thousand dollars a year to run a competing railroad. The detective did not consider his former boss a perfect executive, however. Mistakenly, out of friendship's sake, Mc- Clellan had hired and kept on as his company treasurer Ambrose Bumside, a dependent comrade who tinkered with inventions and paid little attention to the railroad's finances. "Railroading is the best place for a military man in peacetime," Pinkerton remembered the civilian McClellan saying. The detective nodded vigorously at the recollection of the commanding voice of his longtime boss, now the leader of the army defending the capital. McClellan was only thirty-five, but age was no bar to high commandNapoleon himself won his greatest battles in his twenties. The detective was proud of McClellan's record: his renowned horsemanship, his business success, his proven concern for the welfare of his troopsall combined with a command presence that made him a born leader of troops. Railroading had been the perfect interim career. Logistics was at its core, communications was its key, and the training and organization of troops of workers was McClellan's favorite way of biding his time until the right war would call for his military talents. "Plums arrived with Nuts this morning." Pinkerton reached behind his head and tipped his bowler farther down over his forehead. What had pos- sessed him to come up with that code? The detective credited himself with a brilliant performance on his first assignment for the government, just six months ago. That feat of intelligence and protection not only impressed Mc- Clellan, but called the detective's good judgment to the attention of Abraham Lincolnwhose life Pinkerton was convinced he had savedand to Thomas Scott, another former railroad man, whom Lincoln had appointed Undersec- retary of War to manage the department while the Secretary, Simon Cam- eron, pulled political wires. Pinkerton had been hired to ensure the safety of the trip of the President- elect from Springfield to Philadelphia to Baltimore to Washington. The detec- tive's operatives in Baltimore had unearthed a plot by secessionists to assassi- nate Lincoln before the newly elected President could take the oath of office. Despite Lincoln's complaint that he did not want to appear to be "sneaking into the capital like a thief in the night," Pinkerton had prevailed upon Scott to reroute the train. After changing the President-elect's schedule clandestinely, Pinkerton had cut the telegraph wires from Harrisburg to Washington so that the plotters could not be informed of the change. When the President-to-be arrived safely and silently in Washington, Pin- kerton had wired the Lincoln supporters in Illinois and Pennsylvania a coded reassurance. Unfortunately, the detective brooded, waiting outside McClel- lan's door, when the message came to the attention of some sensationalist newspaper reporters, "Plums arrived with Nuts this morning" was taken to mean that Pinkerton had code-named Lincoln "Nuts"he had given no thought to a double meaningand this minor slip was the cause of much gleeful press derision. The President-elect, a fellow Pinkerton had learned put great store by presidential dignity, had not been amused, since he was so abashed at having to slip into Washington in disguise anyway. A fine piece of undercover work and bodyguarding was thus spoiled by a mere oversight in nomenclature. Pinkerton glumly shifted his cigar and silently cursed the unpatriotic press. McClellan greeted him from behind the desk with the words the detective wanted urgently to hear: "Pinkerton, I need you." "I prefer you to use my code name, sirE. J. Alien." He preferred any code name; "Pinkerton" always sounded effeminate to him, which was why he liked to substitute his first name for his last, with the spelling slightly changed to throw off suspicion. "My men and I are at your disposal. Women operatives too," he added. "How do you feel about slavery, Pinkerton?" That was a tricky question, the detective thought; what did slavery have to do with military intelligence? More to the point, what answer did McClellan want to hear? He knew the general had been a Douglas Democrat in the last election, so the detective stuck to popular sovereignty: "That's for local peo- ple to decide, sir." "You're not an abolitionist, then." "No, sir." Pinkerton sensed that was not enough. "I'm for the Union as it was, the Constitution as it is." That slogan, familiar to the followers of Ste- phen Douglas, came out foursquare against change, and it seemed to please the general. Pinkerton hoped the general did not know and would not learn of certain activities the detective had participated in a few years before in behalf of his good friend John Brown, before that abolitionist was hanged. McClellan rose. The general was built stockily, giving the impression of being short without being small. "This war is not being fought about slavery, Pinkerton. On the contrary, it will be fought to keep the Union as it is, with each section free to make its own decisions. Abolitionism is no part of what we are fighting for. Are we quite clear about that?" "Absolutely, sir. Union as it is. Be better if you called me 'Alien,' Gen- eral." "That would sound as if I were using your first name," said McClellan, obviously not a first-name man. "Might as well give you a code rank as well. How about colonel?" "That sounds too important. Captain?" "Nobody pays attention to captains," McClellan observed. "Make it major, then. Look at this, Major Alien." He pointed to a map on his desk of the fortifications around Washington. "Forty strong points, twenty of them oper- ational right now. There were nonenot oneonly two weeks ago, when the remnants of McDowell's force were wandering drunkenly around this city. You will note how the most likely routes of attack can be swept by our cross fire. The remainder of the fortification will be accomplished in five days." Pinkerton made the appropriate marveling noises, then frowned: "Who else has this map, sir?" "President Lincoln has one; he knows nothing about warfare, but he keeps poking around with questions and having this map seemed to make him feel more secure. General Scott has another, because I am obliged to keep the old gentleman informed" "for the time being." Pinkerton knew that although Winfield Scott had acquiesced in the choice of McClellan for the defense of Washington, the old soldier had been recommending another generalHenry Halleck, the mili- tary theoretician and writer called "Old Brains"as a potential replacement of himself as General-in-Chief. That, in Pinkerton's estimation, would not do; the top job, when the wheezing Scott finally stepped down, should go to McClellan. Certainly "Little Mac" had been earning it: in less than a month, the energetic and forceful McClellan had rejuvenated the Union army in Wash- ington, turning the scared stragglers into cohesive regiments, organizing work parties to build battlements. Pinkerton knew that McClellan had also made it his business to seek out and cultivate some of the leading Republican radicals, especially Wade in the Senate and Chase in the Lincoln administration. The detective assumed that the general had withheld from them his private thoughts against abolition. "Wonderful old man," McClellan was saying about Winfield Scott. "I served under him in Mexico, where he eclipsed the exploits of Cortes. But this is not his war. And the only other copy of this mapother than the one you see hereis in the hands of the Senate Military Committee. It's important to cultivate them, Pinkerton, that's how we'll raise the necessary troops." "Major Alien, sir." The correction was automatic: Pinkerton was more concerned about the map in the hands of the Senate. He had been told of the Confederate knowledge of Union movements at Bull Run. Two of his men, along with one woman operative, were watching Rose O'Neal Greenhow's house at that moment. Some dramatic spy-catching coup would make his job easier: by reflecting well on McClellan's intelligence choice, it would please Lincoln and erase the memory of that unfortunate code message. More funds for operatives would follow, then the creation of a secret service worthy of the name, not only to find out troop strength facing McClellanthe most imme- diate purpose of military intelligencebut to send spies into Richmond to discover the secret plans of the rebel leaders. "What's your assessment of Lincoln, Major Alien?" That seemed to Pin- kerton a legitimate question for a military commander to his intelligence chief. The commander in the field had to know what sort of support he would get from the head man in the capital. "I've only spent a few hours with him, sir, on that trip to Washington where we saved his life." "I remember. 'Plums, Nuts'" "And my impression," the detective hurried on, "is that he's a bit weak. I happen to know that Edwin Stanton, the former Attorney General who did some legal business with him years ago, calls him an imbecile, though that strikes me as unduly harsh." "An abolitionist, you think? That ever come up in conversation?" Pinkerton thought that over, replying slowly. "Deep down, I think not. He keeps worrying about Kentucky and Missouri, losing them because of the radicals." McClellan nodded, his head at an angle, not wholly satisfied. "But he appointed General Fremont in Missouri. Dangerous man. Fanatic abolition- ist, and a sort who thinks he's the Messiah. Beware of politicians who think that pinning stars on their epaulets turn them into real generals, Major Al- ien." "But not the other way around." The detective thought it was not im- proper to hint at all the talk about appointing a dictator if the military situa- tion worsened. McClellan caught his allusion. "I have no such aspiration," the general said seriously. "Mind you, a dictatorship would solve a lot of problems, but it is not what I have in mind. With Lincoln's help, I can do the job this way. Do you know what the men in my army call me?" Pinkerton had heard everything from "Little Mac" to "McNapoleon," but did not know which the general preferred. He decided to treat the question as rhetorical and said nothing. " 'Our George,' " McClellan answered himself with pride. "I am going to take good care of these men, for I believe they love me from the bottom of their hearts. I can see it in their faces when I pass among them." The general fingered his mustache. "I find myself in a new and strange position here: President, Cabinet, General Scott, and all deferring to me." A boyish wonder- ment entered his voice: "By some strange operation of magic, I seem to have become the power of the land." Pinkerton felt the conspiratorial thrill that made his chosen calling as un- dercover man so right for him. General McClellan was a leader, perhaps the ultimate leader that the country needed at this hour. Pinkerton was proud to be in his confidence. When McClellan nodded dismissal, the detective took his leave without even working out the financial details of his employment. That was no cause for concern; the general had been a generous boss at the railroad, and Under- secretary Tom Scott would be the man to see about money. He put on his hat and hurried out of the War Department, cutting across the lawn of the President's house across the street, making a mental note to suggest a fence around the grounds. He took his bearings on the steeple of St. John's and walked quickly toward the corner of Sixteenth and I streets. The gray sky was darkening. He did not want to get caught in the rain, which tended to come down in torrents in Washington on late afternoons in August. Two of his men stood talking directly across from Rose Greenhow's ele- gant brick mansion, which was precisely the wrong place for them to be. "Told you fellows to stay apart," Pinkerton gruffed, "and to stay out of sight." It was hard to find conscientious operatives; his best were in Virginia, trying to glean information on Confederate troop strength. Pinkerton had been confident that McClellan would want a secret service. "Nobody's gone in all day," one of the men said. "I wouldn't go in either, if I was a rebel spy and saw you two big goons loitering outside." "Man came by in a carriage," reported one operative, "then speeded up after he looked up at the second-story window." Pinkerton studied the house, a two-story edifice with basement, and a cen- tral stairs leading to a porch and entrance. On the second story, in the corner, was the window from which Rose probably flashed the all-clear signal; he noted that the blind was down at the moment, he assumed to discourage callers. Would Senator Breckinridge, who passed by the other day, have gone in if the blind had been up? He knew Breckinridge to be a Southern sympa- thizerthat was apparent from his public speechesbut doubted the senator was a spy, since he was no longer entrusted with military information. Still, the Kentuckian might be worth making the target of a "shadow man." In the dusk, its darkness hurried by the heavy clouds, the Greenhow house showed no lights. Pinkerton, who had been keeping this place under close observation for nine long days and nights, determined to get a look at the layout inside. To the side of the front steps, some large boxwood bushes shadowed an area; above that was a window that looked in at the parlor on the first floor. He looked up and down Thirteenth Street. No pedestrians were in sight; only the woman on the bench, knitting, who worked for him. He motioned his two men to follow, ducked across the street, positioned them in the boxwood, and made ready to stand on their shoulders to get a look inside the house. Large, plopping raindrops signaled an impending downpour. Pinkerton hesitated, the first drops bouncing off his hat. He hated getting wet in general, and he hated getting his derby hat soaked in particular; it was his favorite hat and was already on the tight side. The detective sighed and squared himself to the task: he removed his damp shoes and hoisted himself up on the shoulders of his operatives. The wooden shutter was closed; Pinkerton twisted the slats to see inside, but before he could look, he could feel his foot being pulled in alarm. He scrambled down and the three men hid under the porch until a group of people ran past in the rain. The downpour, in its usual August force, filled his empty shoes with water, annoying him, but he was satisfied that the rain provided a distraction that prevented them from being observed. He climbed back up, his stockinged feet slipping on the shoulders of his men, and looked through the shutters again. He saw a large parlor, expen- sively appointed, with a light in one corner where two people were seated on adjacent sides of a lace-covered table. Rose Greenhow, in a black dress, was one; the other was a man, sturdily built, well dressed, with a face that Pinker- ton thought should be familiar to him. He could not quite place the man, but Rose's visitor was obviously a person of authority. He was leaning on the table, one knee on a chair, going over a large sheet of paper, talking animat- ediy to his hostess. A shoulder supporting Pinkerton's foot suddenly shifted and the detective slipped, arms flailing, hands groping wildly for support, but too latehe landed in the mud. His men picked him up, tried to wipe him off, backed away at his hissed imprecations, and after letting some other passersby run past, hoisted him aloft again. By this time, the bulky visitor"He's a Con- gressman," Pinkerton muttered to himselfwas folding the large paper, ap- parently a map. Rose received it from him when the folding was finished, took his hand, and led him to the central hall of the house. They passed beyond the detective's line of vision and were possibly headed toward the front door. "He's coming out," Pinkerton told the men below. "Run for it." They raced across the street and around the corner. His chest heaving, the detective cursed his haste: he had left his shoes under the boxwood. They watched the house from a distance, waiting for the Congressman to emerge. He did not. Upstairs, a light came on in Rose's bedroom. The detective did not hesitate; his job was to learn what was going on up there. "Need a ladder," said Pinkerton. He dispatched his men, on horses, to the construction site of the Washington Monument up Fourteenth Street, to steal a ladder high enough to get him a look inside that bedroom. Little danger of discovery while looking in, as long as the pelting rain continued. In twenty minutes, Pinkerton, clenching his sodden cigar in his teeth and using his hat to keep the water out of his eyes, was able to look into the second-story window of Rose's house. This was far from his first Peeping- Tom activity, but the scene that came before his eyes made his jaw drop and he lost the cigar. Rose Greenhow was naked, except for high-heeled shoes, black stockings, and a lace-trimmed garter belt. Her back was to the window, long black hair falling to her waist, her buttocks deliciously muscled. In her right hand was a riding crop. The Congressman was totally unclothed, on his hands and knees in front of her, trembling like an animal in fear. Pinkerton had read about such perversions in some novels published in England. He knew that flagellation was practiced in the expensive brothels across the Potomac in Great Falls but had never seen any such illicit activity in the flesh. He hung on to the ladder and stared, oblivious to the rain and no longer fearful of falling. No wonder she was known as the most exciting woman in Washington: her legs were long and perfectly shaped, her ass firm, her way of carrying herself at once imperious and sensuous. Pinkerton could not yet see her breasts, but assumed her front to be as lush as her rear. The detective winced as the riding crop sliced through the air and caught the Congressman on the side of his leg. Crawling forward, the man in thrall embraced her legs and buried his face between them. After a moment, Rose smacked him again, ordered him onto the bed on his back, and straddled him. Her breasts came into view, fuller than Pinkerton had imagined, the nipples erect and small and dark. He concluded those were the most impressive woman's breasts he had ever seen. The look on her face was a mixture of eagerness and contempt; the detective could not tell how much was sexual and how much political. As Rose twisted her body in the direction of the window, Pinkerton ducked. He had seen enough and did not want to risk discovery. The aware- ness of the rain and the slippery ladder returned, and he climbed down with care. He estimated that it would take at least ten minutes for Rose to com- plete her fornication, and five minutes more to dress; that would leave him time for a daring counterespionage maneuver. If it worked, nobody in the Lincoln administration could doubt the need for a secret service. "You sure look like you got an eyeful," said one of his operatives. "She's occupied," Pinkerton snapped, "and she left the map downstairs on the desk." He knew exactly what he had to do. Making an arrest would be a mistake. The immediate thing was to prevent the map from being sent from Rose to the rebels. Next was to shadow the Congressman. Then the house could be used as a magnet for other Confederate spies, letting them be drawn in, arresting them as they came out. "Force this window," he told his men. When the first-floor parlor window was sprung, he boosted himself on their shoulders again, and climbed into the parlor, dripping on the carpet but unconcerned about his wet footprints. He wiped his hands dry on the antimacassar covering the sofa and picked up the map and several documents on the desk. A copy of the National Intelligencer was nearby; he wrapped his gatherings in that newspaper to keep the incrimi- nating documents dry, stuffed the package in his breast, and climbed back out the window. "I'll shadow the traitor when he comes out," Pinkerton told them, grimac- ing as the water hit his hat. "You two let anybody in, but arrest them when they come out. We want as much of the ring as we can catch." The downpour abated into a steady rain. Pinkerton and his two operatives waited, soaking. When the Congressman emerged from the front door, Pin- kerton trailed him for one block to the church nearby. There the Congressman waited about twenty minutes. The rain stopped; it was dark but not yet night. Two other men, one a clubfoot, joined the man who came out of the Greenhow house and the three walked down Sixteenth Street toward the Executive Mansion. To the detective's dismay, the unidentified Congressman went directly into the President's house with the others. Pinkerton could not go init would hardly do to make a scene trying to apprehend a suspected spy in the diplomatic reception room of the Mansionbut he had to find a way to identify his man. He snapped his fingers, which, still moist, failed to make a satisfactory snapping sound. "Brady," he said aloud. Every politician in Washington had a photographic calling card to hand to constituents. Somewhere in the files of Mathew Brady's gallery would be the carte de visite with a picture of his man. First, Pinkerton stopped by the War Department on Seventeenth Street to organize a raiding party of a half dozen of his men to pull in the spies who left Rose Oreenhow's house, and to deposit the incriminating documents, which he worried might be getting soggy, in his safe. Without stopping to change clothesno time for that, and it was a warm night, he would not catch a coldthe detective hurried to the photog- rapher's studio.