path through the heart of the continent. Already, she could feel the weight of so many memories, some beautiful, some ugly and terrifying. She might come to regret her naïveté, but at the moment she was less worried about the risk of being caught by the Confederates and hung as a spy, and more frightened of being hoisted in the noose of her own past.
Against those fears was personal glory, a chance to test herself, to prove her value. And yes, she possessed a gambling streak that may or may not run in her blood. She thought about the Colonel before shoving aside those memories.
“You’ll have everything you need,” Lincoln prodded. “These two gentlemen will arrange transport to New Orleans, and will make sure you have the resources to support yourself in enemy territory.”
She made her decision.
“I’ll do it.” Josephine eyed Gray, who still had her banknotes, coins, photographs, and letters spread on the table in front of him. “But if your men will return what they’ve stolen, I won’t need your resources, because I’ll have everything I need.”
G iven that Josephine had abandoned her plan of searching for employment in New York in order to work for the government, it was ironic that the first thing she did after leaving the White House was take a night coach to Baltimore, followed by a train ride to the heart of Manhattan, where she disembarked at a depot on Twenty-Seventh Street. She hired a hansom cab to carry her downtown, where she checked into the dingy Luxor Hotel, only a few blocks from Newspaper Row.
But instead of marching triumphantly into the Herald , the Times , or the Tribune flourishing clips from her most triumphant articles, she skulked about the hotel for several days, waiting for Pinkerton to send instructions. Pinkerton had seemed worried that she would be recognized in Washington, which was why he’d sent her north from Washington to await transport.
Josephine took one of the horsecars that ran on rails up to Central Park, where she munched on a bratwurst bought from a German with a cart and watched a group of sweating Irish laborers dig a pond with pick and shovel. She bought all the newspapers and read them front to back. When an article seemed particularly well written, she tore it out and tucked it into her satchel to study later. Meanwhile, she caught up on events following the disaster at Bull Run.
Lincoln had demoted McDowell and brought in General George McClellan to lead the Army of the Potomac. A dashing young West Pointer, McClellan was said to be quickly whipping the troops into shape, and had succeeded in stemming the panic that Washington would soon be overrun. It remained to be seen how he would fare against the Confederates.
As for her humiliation, there were a few small articles, mostly in the Tribune, about the unmasking of “Joseph” Breaux, and speculation on whether or not she was a secessionist spy. The jaded New York press said no. The Tribune slyly suggested it might offer her a job if she were to resurface. Her heart ached at this, but now that she’d committed to President Lincoln and his spies, she wouldn’t renege.
On the fourth morning, Josephine got a telegram from the cryptically named E. J. Allen, which instructed her to collect her bags and proceed to Brooklyn, where her passage was booked on a clipper named The Flying Siam , destination Havana. She hired a cab, which joined a press of horses, carts, and foot traffic to the East River, then took the ferry across. Once in Brooklyn, she boarded the clipper and took the small stateroom that had been designated for her use.
Josephine had no sooner tossed her bags onto her bunk than the bell clanged, and the whistles blasted on the docks. She hurried out to join the other passengers and crew on the deck. The ship flew a Canadian flag, but she heard German, Irish brogues, Spanish, and broad Canadian French among the crew. The passengers were largely Americans and Europeans, with a handful of
Against those fears was personal glory, a chance to test herself, to prove her value. And yes, she possessed a gambling streak that may or may not run in her blood. She thought about the Colonel before shoving aside those memories.
“You’ll have everything you need,” Lincoln prodded. “These two gentlemen will arrange transport to New Orleans, and will make sure you have the resources to support yourself in enemy territory.”
She made her decision.
“I’ll do it.” Josephine eyed Gray, who still had her banknotes, coins, photographs, and letters spread on the table in front of him. “But if your men will return what they’ve stolen, I won’t need your resources, because I’ll have everything I need.”
G iven that Josephine had abandoned her plan of searching for employment in New York in order to work for the government, it was ironic that the first thing she did after leaving the White House was take a night coach to Baltimore, followed by a train ride to the heart of Manhattan, where she disembarked at a depot on Twenty-Seventh Street. She hired a hansom cab to carry her downtown, where she checked into the dingy Luxor Hotel, only a few blocks from Newspaper Row.
But instead of marching triumphantly into the Herald , the Times , or the Tribune flourishing clips from her most triumphant articles, she skulked about the hotel for several days, waiting for Pinkerton to send instructions. Pinkerton had seemed worried that she would be recognized in Washington, which was why he’d sent her north from Washington to await transport.
Josephine took one of the horsecars that ran on rails up to Central Park, where she munched on a bratwurst bought from a German with a cart and watched a group of sweating Irish laborers dig a pond with pick and shovel. She bought all the newspapers and read them front to back. When an article seemed particularly well written, she tore it out and tucked it into her satchel to study later. Meanwhile, she caught up on events following the disaster at Bull Run.
Lincoln had demoted McDowell and brought in General George McClellan to lead the Army of the Potomac. A dashing young West Pointer, McClellan was said to be quickly whipping the troops into shape, and had succeeded in stemming the panic that Washington would soon be overrun. It remained to be seen how he would fare against the Confederates.
As for her humiliation, there were a few small articles, mostly in the Tribune, about the unmasking of “Joseph” Breaux, and speculation on whether or not she was a secessionist spy. The jaded New York press said no. The Tribune slyly suggested it might offer her a job if she were to resurface. Her heart ached at this, but now that she’d committed to President Lincoln and his spies, she wouldn’t renege.
On the fourth morning, Josephine got a telegram from the cryptically named E. J. Allen, which instructed her to collect her bags and proceed to Brooklyn, where her passage was booked on a clipper named The Flying Siam , destination Havana. She hired a cab, which joined a press of horses, carts, and foot traffic to the East River, then took the ferry across. Once in Brooklyn, she boarded the clipper and took the small stateroom that had been designated for her use.
Josephine had no sooner tossed her bags onto her bunk than the bell clanged, and the whistles blasted on the docks. She hurried out to join the other passengers and crew on the deck. The ship flew a Canadian flag, but she heard German, Irish brogues, Spanish, and broad Canadian French among the crew. The passengers were largely Americans and Europeans, with a handful of
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