A Passionate Girl (19 page)

“Quiet over there,” growled a redheaded sentry by the door. Colonel Roberts obeyed.

The session ended, leaving a half dozen people still waiting on line. The secretary stamped back into an inner office, and the losers trudged wearily away to return tomorrow. We were left alone for another fifteen minutes. Then the door opened, and the secretary appeared again, looking diminutive beside a tall, straight-backed man in a splendid blue uniform, with the stars of a major general on his shoulders.

“That's Stapleton of New Jersey,” Roberts whispered to me. “Old Steady, they called him.”

“He doesn't look very old,” I said.

“It's a way of speaking in the army. He had the toughest division in the Army of the Potomac.”

The general was not handsome, but he was formidable looking in a narrow-faced, frowning way. He looked as if he had not smiled in a decade. He spoke to Stanton in a solemn, intense voice. “I've tried to keep faith with the dead of both sides, Mr. Secretary,” he said.

“I understand,” Stanton said, pulling on his chin whiskers. “It's something we must all try to do, according to our lights.”

“This is the last day I'll wear this uniform,” Stapleton said.

“You can doff it with pride, General,” Stanton said. “Few have given as much to the cause as you.”

“Thank you,” Stapleton said.

General Stapleton passed us with long sweeping strides. For a split second our eyes met. Lacking an ability to foretell the future, neither of us found anything portentous in the brief encounter.

Secretary Stanton stood in the doorway of his office, studying us. “Is this the Irish Brigade, or the Army of the Tennessee?” he asked.

“A little of both, Mr. Secretary,” Colonel Roberts said, springing up. “You remember me, Roberts of the Commissary Department?”

“Yes, certainly,” Stanton said. “Come along. I can give you only ten minutes. That's scarcely time for an Irishman to get through his first sentence, but our rebel friends are keeping me as busy as they did when the bullets were flying.”

As he talked, he led us into a simply furnished office. He gestured to a pile of papers on his desk. “A single morning's telegrams. Officers telling me how the South is responding to the president's benevolence. In Alabama, they're plowing up the graves of Union soldiers. In Georgia, a mob burned the house of a loyal Georgia man who went home after fighting with Sherman. In North Carolina, a state judge dismissed a clear-cut case of assault on a Union officer in full uniform.”

Roberts glanced nervously at Dan, obviously wishing he had left him at the hotel with Mrs. O'Neil. He decided to take the plunge and identify him. “Maybe it's not all that bad, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “We've got two good men here, O'Neil and McCaffrey, who fought on opposite sides but are standing here with me as comrades in arms in the army of the Fenian Brotherhood.”

“I've had reports on them,” Stanton said. “No one registers at a hotel in Washington without my knowing a great deal about them within twenty-four hours. And this is our Fenian girl?”

“Miss Fitzmaurice,” Roberts said.

“Is she an actress, as the
Chronicle
claims?”

“Not a bit of it. She's exactly what she looks to be, a brave Irish girl who's risked her life for her country's sake.”

“She risked more than her life last night,” Stanton said, “when she spent four hours with Fernando Wood.”

My face was aflame. Roberts was too astonished to say a word. We were finding out one of the prime sources of Mr. Stanton's power. He controlled the National Detective Police, the army's secret service, which had agents throughout Washington.

“If you people want my cooperation—and the support of other honest men,” Stanton said, “you must convince us of your loyalty to the Union. The president says you have a scheme to conquer Canada, the way Sam Houston conquered Texas. I reminded him that the conquest of Texas led to the Mexican War and the conquest of Canada might lead to a war with England, which men like Fernando Wood and his friends in the South would welcome. It would be the perfect excuse to abandon all pretense of correcting once and for all the evils that created the rebellion. I'm not afraid of a war with England. Grant's army alone could take on the entire empire. But I am afraid of what sort of men are behind your combination. I dislike secret societies.”

“There's not a Fenian, so help me, Mr. Secretary, not a Fenian who doesn't have the greater good and glory of these United States at his heart's core,” Roberts said. “We believe that the conquest of Canada and the freedom of Ireland that must inevitably follow from it will signal the breakup of the British Empire, the destruction of our country's bitterest enemy.”

Stanton began nodding impatiently when Roberts was halfway through his oration. “I'm as eager to teach them a lesson as you. Without their encouragement the Confederacy might have collapsed two years ago. There are a hundred thousand Union graves from Arlington to Arkansas that can be blamed on England. But we're not going to risk losing the war we've just won. We must have proof—dramatic proof—of your loyalty to this government. And an end to playing games with people like Mr. Wood. He's a traitor. One of my chief regrets has been our failure to hang him.”

It was clear that Stanton was yielding, with extreme reluctance, to the president's wish to help us. It confirmed everything Fernando Wood had said about the relationship of Mr. Johnson to his cabinet.

“You will have proof, ample proof, of our loyalty,” Roberts said. “As for Congressman Wood, he forced himself on us and, I fear, misled this young girl into placing her confidence in him.”

And I still do, I thought, far more than in anything I hear from your wordy mouth.

“We have too many women like her in Washington,” Stanton said.

I watched Roberts weigh the advisability of defending my virtue once more and decide against it. He went back to promising Stanton that the Fenians would demonstrate their trustworthiness. The secretary of war nodded impatiently. “I'm glad we understand each other,” he said. “Just remember I have ways of learning things if you're tempted to be insincere.”

We found ourselves out on the street in the scorching sunlight. Gaily dressed women strolled past, twirling bright parasols. “I don't like that man,” I said.

“No one does, except perhaps Mrs. Stanton,” Colonel Roberts said. “But he's the most powerful man in the United States right now. We must study how to make him like us.”

I suspected that would never come to pass. But I said nothing. I was brooding over my designation as a scarlet woman. I did not realize how soon I was to believe it.

The next day, the
Star
and the
National Intelligencer
both printed my challenge to Colby, the reporter from the
Chronicle.
Before the end of the day, we heard that Fernando Wood had made a bet of five hundred dollars with Congressman Ashley, the president's chief critic in the House of Representatives, that I would worst the penpusher. Since the
Chronicle
was the creature of the Radical Republicans in Congress, Colby was forced to respond. He announced that he would meet me in the President's Park, south of the White House, at high noon the following day.

Colonel Roberts was in a sweat, intensified by Mrs. O'Neil, over Fernando's espousal of my cause. I sent my patron a note, assuring him that he would not be disapppointed in me as a markswoman. I then retired to the woods of Rock Creek with my pistol and a large supply of ammunition to spend the afternoon practicing. I prevailed upon Colonel O'Neil to join me as a mentor. He agreed despite his wife's frowns. He proved to be a good-natured and encouraging instructor. By the end of the afternoon I was striking a twelve-inch paper target eight times out of ten, at twenty paces.

“By God, I think I'll put some money down on you myself,” Colonel O'Neil said in his mild, easy way. “Don't mention that to Mrs. O'Neil,” he added.

That night in the huge bar of the Willard Hotel, betting for and against the Fenian girl became feverish. Dan McCaffrey emerged from the swirling blue smoke and told me Colby's backers were giving three-to-one odds. “Take them, and make some money for the cause,” I said. “Tell everyone who bets on me I expect twenty percent for the Irish Republic.”

“I wish I could believe you and O'Neil,” Dan said through gritted teeth. Colonel O'Neil had spent the dinner hour boasting about my marksmanship.

“Swallow your pride and bet,” I told him.

Swaggering to Dan's side was Robert Johnson, the president's son, not a little drunk. “M'fellow Tennessean says it's a waste of money to bet on you,” he said.

“Your fellow Tennessean entertains dark prejudices against me,” I said. “He's loath to believe in the possibility that a woman can do anything as well as a man, except cook.”

“N'me,” said Johnson. “I'm in favor of givin' you the vote. How's that for advanced ideas? Know why? Women are natural Democrats.”

“We must talk more of such things,” I said.

“Yeah. I was talkin' to my friend Fernando Wood. He said you were real good company.”

He was not very subtle. Dan strode back into the bar. I forced a smile and said I must retire early. Under no circumstances, said the forceful Mr. Johnson. Before I knew what was happening, I was dragged into the bar, a champagne glass was shoved into my hand, and a dozen arms thrust bottles at me. I smiled and drank more champagne than was recommended for a clear head and steady hand on the morrow. Still, I stayed well within my margin of sobriety and studied Robert Johnson as he presided over a circle of hard drinkers that included a glowering Dan McCaffrey and a smiling John O'Neil. Robert Johnson was obviously enjoying the role of presidential son. At least a dozen men drew him aside to murmur confidentially in his ear. Sometimes he shook his head; sometimes he assured them that all was well. I saw several slip envelopes into his pocket, to which he paid no attention.

I finally declared I must go. “A woman needs eight hours' sleep to avoid wrinkles,” I said.

“You're a long way from them,” Robert Johnson said.

Red Mike Hanrahan appeared with a fresh bottle in his hand to fill my glass and offer a final toast. “To the Irish Republic, whether we set it up in Canada, New York's Sixth Ward, or Timbuktu. I just wired Bill Tweed and got him to lay a thousand dollars of the public's money on you.”

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Down at Chamberlain's losing what I won last night.”

“If I have anything to say about it,” I declared, “there will be no faro banks in the Irish Republic.”

“And to think I almost proposed marriage to you last night,” Mike said.

Robert Johnson insisted on escorting me to the elevator. “When can I see you again?”

“I don't know,” I said. “We're waiting here, day and night, for an appointment with Mr. Seward. He appears to be elusive, or ill.”

“I'll take care of that,” he said. “Long as I know you'd like to see me again.”

“I do,” I said. “I'm partial to men with beards. From Tennessee. Who live in the White House.”

He laughed uproariously. “You'll hear from me,” he said. “Good shootin' tomorrow. I've got five hundred on you, just like Fernando.”

I went to bed early and was soon asleep. Some hours later, I awoke with strange sensations. I was bathed in sweat. A nauseous storm gathered in my stomach. I seized my robe, stumbled to the bathroom, and lost my supper. Instead of feeling better, I grew worse. I retched and could bring up nothing. I had a raging thirst. A whine rose in my ears. I staggered to Dan's door and woke him.

“I think I'm dying,” I said.

He listened to my symptoms and awoke Colonel Roberts. “It's the hotel disease,” Colonel Roberts said. “Someone's slipped it to her.”

We did not know what he was talking about. He explained rapidly. Shortly before the Civil War, scores of Democratic politicians had been stricken by these symptoms at the National Hotel. Many people believed it had been an attempt by the Republican Party to poison leading Democrats. The National Hotel had been forced to close for several months and almost went out of business.

Whether there was any truth to that story or whether anyone had slipped something poisonous in my food or drink that night, we were never certain, but our suspicions were heightened by a note slipped under my door in the early hours of the morning.
How are you feeling, Miss Fenian? By our calculations you should be a little
sick
with fear by now. A cold sweat should be springing out on your pale cheeks as you think about the truth of the old saying, she who lives by the sword (or pistol) frequently dies of it.

I remained horribly ill for the rest of the morning. Dan wanted to postpone the contest, but I refused. I knew that would give our enemies a chance to boast their brains out for days while they dodged another meeting. I dressed and asked Dan what was the best whiskey to steady nerves and stomach. He recommended bourbon, and I drank half a glassful before we set out for the President's Park.

“I heard this fellow Colby has been taking lessons from the best pistol shot in the army,” Colonel Roberts said as we rode. He had a talent for the lugubrious.

We arrived to be welcomed by a crowd of several hundred, at least half of whom were women. As I stepped down from the carriage in the blazing sun, a swirl of blackness sent my head spinning. I clutched Dan's arm and whispered, “Hold me up.”

He fastened one of his strong hands on my arm above the elbow and held me erect until the spell passed. We advanced to where Colby, with his weasel face, was waiting. He smirked and made an elaborate bow. Colonel O'Neil conferred with Colby's backers and returned to say that they insisted on three rounds of ten shots each. They were obviously hoping to wear me down.

Fernando Wood and Robert Johnson strolled over to me. “You look pale,” Fernando said. “Are you nervous?”

“The hotel disease,” Roberts said.

“You're dealing with a devious enemy,” Wood said.

“Is his name Secretary Stanton?” I asked. “He's certainly your enemy.”

Fernando glanced at Robert Johnson and smiled inscrutably. “Anything is possible,” Wood said. “Good shooting.”

I was asked how I wished to fire, first or second? I chose first, fearing collapse if I stayed too long in the sun. “In fact,” I said, “I would prefer to shoot my three targets in succession and let Mr. Colby better my score if he can.”

A target was tied to a tree by Dan and one of Colby's party, who examined it carefully and declared it satisfactory. Advancing to a strip of cloth laid on the grass, I peered through the shimmering heat and for a moment saw three or four targets. I waited for them to coalesce, and fired.

Steadily, calmly, following the instructions of my various coaches to release my breath, not to think, simply to aim and fire, I pressed off six shots, then handed the gun to Dan, who rapidly reloaded it and handed it to me. Four more shots and they examined the target. “Ten hits out of ten, three in the bull's-eye,” Dan stated.

I fired again, Dan loaded, and the next four shots completed the second ten. “Nine out of ten,” Dan said. “Two in the bull's-eye.”

The sun beat down. For a moment the swirling blackness gathered behind my eyes. I willed it away. A third time we repeated the performance. This time the count was ten out of ten, four in the bull's-eye.

My supporters cheered mightily. A four-man brass band, which I later learned had been hired by Fernando Wood, struck up “The Wearing of the Green.” I walked slowly back to the carriage, climbed in, and fell helplessly against the cushions. Another ten seconds and I would have collapsed on the grass. Robert Johnson sprang to my side, showing the most sincere solicitude. He ordered a black servant to race to the White House for some sal volatile as a restorative. “No,” I said. “Let us chat as if we were tête-à-tête, and pay no attention to Mr. Colby.”

“Good,” he said, liking the game.

“Tell me what's happening,” I said.

“Colby's grin has faded to a sick smirk,” he said. “He's usin' an army Colt, the best gun we make. I don't know how you hit anything with that popgun of yours. He's obviously taken lessons, from the way he stands at the mark. He begins.”

The crack, crack, crack of Colby's pistol sounded ten times.

“The tellers are consultin' the targets,” Robert Johnson continued. “The score is—six out of ten, none in the bull's-eye! You win. The skunk can't beat you even if he hit ten out of ten in each of his next two rounds.”

A cheering mob engulfed the carriage. They collected their money while the band played a reprise of “The Wearing of the Green.” Many imitated Fernando Wood's example and gave me all their winnings. I soon had a pile of greenbacks in my lap. A good twenty celebrators joined Robert Johnson in the carriage, and the rest trooped behind it or clung to the carriages of several of the ladies who followed us back to the Willard. The men carried me into the bar and toasted me with the inevitable champagne. It was the acme of my pride as a woman and as a Fenian.

I finally extricated myself and retreated to my room, where after a nap I awoke feeling weak but largely recovered from the hotel disease. It convinced me that some kind of poison had been administered to me.

Colonel Roberts knocked on the door. He was exultant and not a little drunk. “Seward says he'll see us in half an hour. He wants to meet you. Can you come?”

“Of course.”

We drove slowly through the inferno of the late afternoon. All the heat of the day seemed to gather itself and concentrate its force in the still air. The State Department was on 15th Street, next to the huge marble Treasury Department. It occupied a humble brick building, as unprepossessing as the War Department. Inside all was silent and calm. There was none of the bustle of the War Department office. Colonel Roberts and I comprised our party. Our Irish soldiers from Tennessee would make no impression on this diplomat from New York. Besides, Roberts said they were getting drunk in Willard's bar on my winnings.

There was no time spent waiting. We were ushered directly upstairs to the secretary of state's office. A small, smiling man rose from his desk to greet us. He was past middle age, with a balding head and a face that sloped downward from a broad brow past a prominent beaked nose to a diminished chin. His mouth had a play of humor about it, as if he had found the world a fairly amusing place. But the dominant impression made by his face was supplied by a raw ugly scar that ran from below his right eye in a curve down his cheek to join another equally awful scar on his neck. These were wounds inflicted by one of the group of assassins who had murdered President Lincoln and attempted to kill Mr. Seward and other members of the government.

To increase his woes, Mr. Seward had his jaw wired almost shut, the result of a fracture received in a fall from a carriage, some days before the assassination attempt. He had also broken his right arm, which dangled uselessly at his side. In spite of these injuries and the recent death of his wife, he was remarkably cheerful. He congratulated me on my triumph over the
Chronicle
's reporter. The paper had become overweeningly arrogant since the war had ended in victory, and Colby was one of the most offensive of its reporters. “The newspapers like to give the impression that without their help we never could have won the war,” he said. “Politicians fear them. They can ruin a man. So we've let them escape without contradiction. In actuality they're the greatest charlatans in the country.”

And you're looking at one of their creations, I thought. We were soon into the inevitable discourse from Colonel Roberts on the plans of the Fenians. Seward listened with none of Stanton's impatience. He was used to being bored. It was one of the requirements of a politician's profession.

“The president has told me a good deal about it,” Seward said when Roberts finished. “I told him that there was one overmastering consideration, if we are to support you. Can you deliver the Irish vote to the party we're attempting to form behind the president? It will be neither Republican nor Democrat. The National Union Party is what we called it in the last election, and that's what we shall probably call it in the difficult months to come.”

“If the Union Party takes a stand on Ireland's freedom, you'll have every Irish vote in America,” Roberts said.