Chapter 27

APRIL 23, 1862

WASHINGTON, DC

Cassie kept careful step behind the guard escorting her through the somber office at 217 Pennsylvania Avenue. She nearly laughed at the irony of finally leaving the capital, only to find herself back once more. This time, the work would be markedly different.

They wove through a long hallway; then the guard ushered her into a room where four men turned at her approach.

“Private Thomas Turner, sir.” The guard’s words were clipped before he pivoted and left, abandoning Cassie to the group of staunch men, who eyed her curiously. She straightened to her full height and emptied her face of all expression.

A stocky man sporting a full dark beard, large ears, and thinning hair approached. His wide mouth quirked into a tight smile. “Allan Pinkerton, Private Turner.”

She grasped his thick hand and shook it. His deep-set eyes expressed a frankness that seemed a contradiction for someone who was a notorious spy. “An honor, sir.”

Pinkerton waved toward the man standing nearest the fireplace posed in a Napoleonic stance, his hand thrust behind the row of brass buttons lining the breast of his crisp uniform. An auburn mustache framed his mouth. “May I present your esteemed commander, General McClellan.”

Her mind scattered of all coherent thought. This grim, boyish-looking fellow was Little Mac? He was shorter than she’d imagined, having only ever seen him riding his horse during military parades. His broad chest was thrust forward, reminding her of a proud lion.

She saluted sharply and felt a thrill when he returned her salute with a glimmer of respect.

Pinkerton lifted a cigar from a silver case on the table. “I understand your Captain Johnston has apprised you of our current situation, as well as our need for intelligent, stout-hearted men.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, Turner.” Pinkerton lit the thick cigar with ease and perched it between his lips. “Why would you desire to engage in so perilous an undertaking?”

She straightened her shoulders, looking Pinkerton in the eye. “It is my sacred duty, sir.”

His brows rose. “Sacred, you say? In what way?”

“Slavery is morally repugnant and is against the freedom God has willed to every man.”

“You speak such convictions quickly, almost as if they were memorized.”

“No, sir, not memorized. A philosophy I was inundated with since my youth. Our community is filled with abolitionists and Quakers, you see. To be honest, it wasn’t until I enlisted and worked side by side with the contrabands that I truly began to comprehend the depth of their suffering.” She cleared her throat. “My initial motives for enlisting were not so pure, but I’ve grown to understand the tremendous call such a cause requires.”

Pinkerton pursed his lips. “So you believe Providence is opposed to slavery, yet you feel no hesitation to deceive? To play the part of someone you are not?”

Was this not the very argument Gabe had so strongly verbalized over and over again since he’d discovered her true identity? The time since he’d first given it voice had allowed her to ruminate often over the difficult question.

“Don’t the Scriptures tell us David himself acted insane to escape the wrath of Achish, king of Gath, so that he might later fight for the greater good? And what of Rahab, Joshua, and Caleb? King David employed the use of spies all through his reign, and wasn’t he called a man after God’s own heart?”

Suffocating silence descended. Perhaps she had overstepped. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine.

A smile tugged at Pinkerton’s mouth. “Well said.”

Cassie nearly sagged as she released the breath trapped in her lungs. Perhaps she was only rationalizing her own deceptive behavior.

Pinkerton turned to the other two men studying her from the corner of the room. “Forgive my manners. I need also introduce General Heintzelman and General Meagher.”

She saluted each of them in turn and waited.

General Meagher stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were a schoolmaster preparing to scold his student. His high cheekbones reminded her of a hawk, though a comical one, for despite his pomaded, meticulous hair, one long wild curl sprang forward on the right side of his head, making him appear unbalanced.

“You do understand you’ll be going undercover, do you not? You will not be wearing your uniform, a uniform that garners at least a modicum of respect in war. You’ll be wearing ordinary clothing. If you are caught, the Rebels will not treat you as a prisoner of war, but as a spy.” He turned his head, studying her from a different angle, causing his wayward curl to bounce. “Do you know what they do to spies, Turner?”

She met his gaze coolly. “They are executed.”

General Heintzelman probed, “And you are prepared to suffer the same if the worst were to happen?”

“My life is in God’s hands, General. I will do my utmost for the cause of freedom and our blessed Union. And if I perish, I perish.”

Passing the marksman test had been easy. But waiting in the room for the physician to give her a thorough medical exam was another matter.

Maybe it would be as inconsequential as the first exam she’d endured upon enlisting. Height, weight, and the doctor had sent her on her way.

Please, Lord, let it be of no concern.

Between her apprehension and the sharp sting of antiseptic, her stomach roiled and soured. The door opened, admitting a short, wiry man with white-gray hair that puffed out on either side of his head like clumps of cotton. He peered over the top of his spectacles. “Private Thomas Turner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Dr. Smalley. I must determine if you have the God-given abilities to execute your duties.”

“How is that accomplished, sir?”

He pushed the spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose, wrinkling it as he responded. “Primarily through phrenology.”

She gulped. What was that?

“The shape and size of your cranium will tell me much.” He plucked the spectacles from his nose and polished the lenses with a soft cloth he yanked from his pocket. “For instance, there is a marked difference in the shape of a male cranium versus a female cranium.”

Her heart hammered, keeping rhythm with the blood pounding in her ears.

“A female’s organs of procreation and her longing for harmony elongates the central posterior portion of the head.” He hooked his spectacles back over his ears, moving toward her with outstretched hands. She resisted the urge to lunge out of reach. “Let’s examine you, shall we?”

She nearly cringed when his bony fingers began massaging her scalp. Could he tell? Please, God, don’t let him find out . . .

He grunted several times as his probing fingers traveled the length of her head. The motion would have been soothing had her nerves not been close to fraying. Several times he paused over a bump, exploring and squinting his eyes as if deep in thought. He removed his fingers and scratched several notes on a journal of some sort. Cassie tasted bile.

He reached for a measuring tape and ran it from one ear to the other before scribbling another note in the journal with the stub of his pencil. He said nothing. Spots danced before Cassie’s eyes. Perspiration gathered under her shirt binding.

He pulled off his spectacles and pressed his lips tight. “Private Turner, I must say I discovered something I’ve rarely encountered in my profession.”

Her breath seized in her rib cage.

“Your brain is remarkably developed. In particular, the organs that promote combativeness and secretive behavior are quite pronounced.” His eyes glinted. “Truly a strong man’s cranium.”

Relief flooded her body even as she squelched the urge to laugh. Obviously the good doctor lacked much in medical knowledge—a trait that could only help her continue her work.

Forcing a solemn nod, she extended her hand. “Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Smalley snapped his journal shut. “All you need complete is a renewed oath of allegiance to the United States, and your work will begin.”

Three days. That was all she’d been given to smuggle her way into enemy territory. She had returned to her own regiment as they had approached the boundaries of Yorktown, waiting for General McClellan’s next orders. At least she wouldn’t have far to travel.

But what to do about her clothes? Cassie had mulled over the possibilities, none of them satisfactory. Anything she’d considered was likely to draw questions. The fewer people who knew of her activities, the better.

Standing outside her tent, she cast her gaze across the camp to the traveling darkroom perched under a canopy of trees.

Gabe.

He had clothes an Irish peddler would wear. But would he help?

She marched toward the Whatsit with renewed determination. The hard part would be convincing the stubborn photographer.