Washington, DC: 1862

    Near noon, word arrived Mr. Pinkerton desired to see me. I’d no desire to see him. With a disgusted shudder, I pictured his cramped, ill-lit office atop Healy Livery opposite the Navy Yard. I pretended the shock-headed messenger boy didn’t haunt the Red Dog Saloon’s alcove. Jabbing a finger, he beckoned me. Maybe, if ignored, he’d disappear. Big Swede, the proprietor, nudged me in the short ribs.

    "Your shadow is back." His balding head tipped to behind us. "See what he wants. My missus dislikes lads in the tavern."

    "Aw, another beer first."

    "Ya, ya." Big Swede ran a rag over the mahogany bartop. "No more tanglefoot until you get shed of him."

    "You’re an ornery cuss," I griped. "Ornery."

    "You heard me," Big Swede growled over his shoulder. "Send him away. Now."

    Trudging to the door, my mood matched the sour green sawdust under my boot heels. It wasn’t Jimmy’s fault. Fact was, I didn’t hanker to hear his message. Pinkerton gave me a skull-splitting megrim.

    Jimmy’s skinny hand whipped out to yank my vest hem. "Didn’t you see me? You’re Hoary Chambers, ain’t you?" Like an out-of-tune cricket fiddled, his adolescent voice modulated.

    My slits for eyes hardening, I shook off his grasp. "I am. Leastwise until I change my Christian name."

    "Gimme my nickel; I’ll tell you why Mr. Pinkerton sent me."

    "If I slip you two bits, Jimmy, will you sprint back, deliver my reply?"

    "Which is?" Jimmy asked, by now familiar with our repartee.

    "Inform Mr. Pinkerton he can kiss my freckled Irish arse."

    Jimmy’s mouth wormed into a leer. "You’re to hoof it to his office. An urgent matter. Those were his exact words. An urgent matter."

    I put a nickel in his grimy palm. "You done good. Now make tracks."

    Choices. Swig beer or go mollify Pinkerton? That wasn’t a thorny dilemma. Still and all, I could ill-afford to pass up professional work. My tab at the Red Dog was growing as long as the early April shadows crowding the Washington, DC streets. Big Swede, bless him, expected prompt, earnest payment. Watching his sledgehammers for hands gather up the empties, I grimaced. He had a persuasive knack for encouraging his debtors to square accounts.

    "Be watching you, Hoary!" he shouted over the general hubbub.

    I didn’t bother to acknowledge him. Emerging from the alley, a cymbal-bright sun jumped into my eyes. A pecky odor off the Potomac River riding southerly breezes rankled my nose. I traversed the muck-choked street tiptoeing between carriage ruts. Halfway across, a mule-conveyed ambulance clattered by. Groans. Manhood mangled by war channeled through our city gates. From a mercantile store porch, a brindled cur bayed. My gut impulse was to throw an anvil and brain him.

    "Hoary!" The Arab, a thumb marking his place in the leather bound ledger, wandered out to the boardwalk. "You best do a spry get along. Mr. Pinkerton isn’t a patient man."

    Scraping loam off my boots, I said, "Does the whole town know my business?"

    The Arab dealt me a small wink. "Tsk-tsk. Don’t keep his Lordship tarrying."

    I hiked three blocks away from the wharves, eastward over four, and finally a dogleg right up a rickety flight of stairs. Whew. The stable’s effluvium was extra ripe. Neighing and whickers below me spawned a fantasy. I’d put spur to a bold black stead and canter out of this city to hear the Swiss bell ringers. At the stairhead, my fingers swallowed the ivory doorknob, pushed inward. The outspill of filthy light meant one thing: Pinkerton was in. My heart swooned through my ribs.

    "Hoary!" The gruff voice throbbed. "Hoary Chambers, my grandest detective. Here at long last. Well, I say good afternoon, sir."

    At the room’s center, we met to shake hands with feigned pleasure. Pinkerton’s arrow-like hand motioned to a slat-back chair. "Take a load off," he said.

    Flipping up my overcoat, hitching my corduroys, I parked myself in the cane-bottomed seat. He darted around the desk, collapsed in a chair. After stretching over, he snatched a copper skillet, to bang on the potbellied stove. That got the fire roiling except my teeth still chattered. Pinkerton sighed. Something vexed him.

    "You called and I came." I eyed him aslant. "So, to skip amenities and save time, I’ll ask what bedevils you?"

    "Oh Hoary, Hoary, Hoary." Lean jaw twitching, he tented his fingers to rest his chin. "First, my condolences on your eldest brother’s death. Pittsburgh Landing was a ghoulish fray."

    My instant shrug was noncommittal. "Pierre was his own force, lived and died by his own passions and convictions. By the way, his side dubbed it Shiloh. That’s how I prefer to remember it, too."

    "Shiloh it shall be then!" Pinkerton fussed and patted at his vest and coat pockets. A stump of a cigar materialized. He extracted a tong from the white-hot coals, lay heat to the tobacco. He sucked to enliven orange embers, spewed a plume at my scowl.

    "Again, why did you fetch me here?" I asked.

    "This peevishness between us must cease," said Pinkerton. "Meantime, I’ve had a most unusual client approach me with a most unusual quandary. Results are expected overnight. What else is new, huh? Except this client is affluent enough to compel me to drop everything and accommodate his whims."

    Disgust stung my tongue. "If it’s you he sought, what’s my role?"

    A smarmy smile seamed Pinkerton’s face. "For the near term, I’m swamped providing military intelligence to the War Department. On the other hand, I knew you were available, no?"

    "Depends. Spell out the particulars."

    "Fair enough. The client is Mr. Jewett, the steamship magnate. Also, a friend of Mr. Lincoln. Um, his pelf exceeds King Tut’s. Did I say that already? Anyway, his youngest daughter, Rachel, is astray. Three months. A high-spirited, headstrong sixteen-year-old lass, Mr. Jewett figured she’d go let off some steam, then return begging for his forgiveness. Alas, that didn’t happen. Now, he’s worried sick and engaged me to fetch her home."

    Stalking a spoiled rich diva around raw, wet New England didn’t endear my heart. "Any girl of considerable means as Rachel will do fine," I reassured him.

    Pinkerton pasted on a prim, pinched smile. "Aye, Hoary, that’s where the rub is. She didn’t have one red cent on her, believe it or not. Oh, did I mention Mr. Jewett is offering an embraceable reward? That can be yours, free and clear."

    Somewhat more intrigued, I reasoned aloud. "How does Rachel sustain herself? She lacks guile for thievery. A prostitute? Not unless in more than dire straits. Seamstress? She couldn’t thread the eye of a needle. Governess? Too impetuous. What livelihood remains?"

    "It’s my conjecture Rachel poses as a nurse," Pinkerton said. "Close your mouth, Hoary. You heard me correct. What better niche to hide out? Here, her father lent me Rachel’s portrait. Memorize it."

    Unfolding the drawing, I regarded a delicate-featured girl with long hair curled at the shoulders. Her slightly narrow eyes hinted at an Oriental lineage. Cheekbones brimmed firm and high. Her nose, I think, was called aquiline. A coy smirk barbed the corners of her lips.

    Physical traits were tabulated below in Pinkerton’s cursive scrawl. "Brown eyes & hair. Gads of freckles. Fair complexion. Half-moon scar under her left earlobe. Speaks in lilting tone. Described as having a vivacious mien, an irrepressible wit. Speaks six foreign languages! Age: 16 years. Height: 5’2". Weight: 105 lbs."

    "I’ve arranged your commission as Dr. Chambers, an Army surgeon. Your orders are hospital inspections. Begin your quest this afternoon. And remember, Hoary, our motto is . . ."

    ". . . we never sleep," I finished his sentence. Shaking my head, I tromped down the stairs, that sinking sensation deep in the pit of my stomach.

***

    Without further complaint, I reported to the tailor on Q Street behind the tannery to be fitted for a uniform. The wizened German made the alterations while I waited. When he broke out whistling "Green Sleeves," I struck up a conversation.

    "The spring campaign is underway," I said.

    "That is right, Dr. Chambers. As soon as the spring rains slack and the roads dry out enough to move caissons, gun-carriages, and artillery. Soldiers love to break winter camp."

    My eyebrow arched over the counterfeit spectacles. "You strike me as well versed in military life."

    Despite the needle pinched between his lips, Hans emitted a snort. "I served with valor at Balls Bluff. A Rebby musket ball shattered my shin. I’m a gimp clothier granted a government contract to clad officers such as yourself."

    "Your surgeon, I hope, was one of our competent ones."

    After tying off the thread, Hans limped over to an oak bench. "The gentleman who sawed me off was an ex-butcher," he replied. "That worked in my favor. His hand was deft, his eye sure. That I liked. The pain I cannot find adequate words to describe. No chloroform. Aye, but I lived through it to tell you today."

    My chuckle was forced. "You’re a better man than me."

    Hans shot me a queer glance. "Surely you’ve ripped saw into marrow by lantern flickers in a hospital tent? Surely you’ve rued the unearthly howl of a soldier’s agony. Surely you’ve seen heaps of amputated limbs . . ."

    "Yes, yes. More than I care to remember," I interrupted him. "It’s a hellish duty not for the weak-kneed, I assure you. In spite of that, I dispatch my duty with sobriety if not excessive sympathy."

    Hans wasn’t fooled. He wobbled up, dangled the tunic for me to slip on. "Just keep a strong stomach about you," he said.

***

    Early the next morning, I went south across the Potomac River to Arlington Heights. A hospital had been established there for the convalescence of wounded Union infantrymen. From conversations at the War Department, I’d learned that a raft of women nurses donated their services there. Medical staff roles didn’t list a Rachel Jewett. That came as no surprise. She may have well adopted an alias.

    At a hitching post, I dismounted. The red sun was splintering through low clouds. Despite the wintry chill, a nervous sweat lay against my spine. Pausing, I husbanded my grit to enter the hospital when my gaze landed on a shot-torn saddle. Did the cavalry trooper survive his battle scars?

    A light touch grazed my forearm. I turned to a stout matron, her hair yellow as ripe squash. She wore a simple brown skirt but no hoops or cameos. Her shoddy brogans were Army issue. "Doctor Chambers?" she inquired.

    I tipped my slouch felt hat. "Yes, I arrived a while ago."

    "I’m Matilda Buckhorn. One of our orderlies will tend to your horse," she said. "Come inside. Many tasks awaits us."

    We passed through a heavy plank door. I put into action how I imagined the walk of a medical surgeon -- confident, efficient, and dedicated. Conqueror of disease. Binder of wounds. Mender of limbs. I hosted none of these grand emotions. It occurred to me my cover was ill conceived. That infernal Pinkerton. Decayed mortal flesh and whiskey rushed up to penetrate my nostrils. A sudden onslaught of nerves put me rigid as a ramrod.

    Matilda went ahead of me. She relished showing off her modern hospital. Her muscular arms swept aside a wool curtain, bade me to enter. I ducked through into a long, angular chamber.

    "Before the war, this was a tobacco barn," she said. "Now it is our oasis of mercy." Joyous tears leaked from her dun-flecked eyes.

    "I can see that much."

    "We’ve learned the latest advancements in battlefield medicine from as far away as Florence Nightingale in Great Britain," she added.

    A row of iron camp beds flanked me on each side. These wounded men weren’t parlor soldiers who wore no chicken guts on their shoulders. Thunder pots could benefit from a vigorous scouring. Vacant, shell-shocked glares fell on me. Their gaunt man-shapes were absent various limbs, too often in grotesque combinations. A cripple hobbled on makeshift crutches along the center aisle.

    Tapping my elbow, Matilda made a noise. "Doctor Chambers," she whispered. "No need to gawk, sir. We often leaves visitors in awe."

    "It’s just that you’re so modern," I muttered off the top of my head.

    "Indeed, sir." Matilda steered us to a different wing. We were now thankfully beyond the human anguish. "Perhaps you’ll see the Superintendent of Female Nurses."

    "Is she expecting me?" My stomach tied into new knots. The crusty reputation of "Dragon Dix" was legendary, and frankly, I harbored no wish to tangle with her.

    Matilda beamed at me. "Since your telegraph arrived yesterday."

    Rapping knuckles on a door, Matilda jangled the square doorknob. "Step right in. Announce yourself," she said. "I must go now."

    All alone, I invaded the dim berth. Behind a large desk sat an unassuming twig of a lady sheathed in funeral black. She’d been poring over a dispatch, perhaps one from the Richmond front. Her hair, tugged taut into a witch’s knot, was white. Though no expert, I judged her age past sixty, yet not much more than eighty.

    "I am Superintendent Dix." She jerked upright, whipped over to me. My heart flew up to hammer between my ears. A callused clasp pumped my hand twice. "Dr. Chambers. I’ve heard much about you."

    How that could be, I failed to grasp since Dr. Chambers was a charlatan. "Thank you, but I’m not worthy of such tribute."

    She looked me up and down. "Tell me, Doctor, where did you do your medical training?"

    Caught unawares, I blurted out the first folly to fly into my mind. "Why, um, West Point."

    Superintendent Dix smoothed her dress front while I fiddled with my braided silver watch chain. The seconds crawled into days. At last, she drilled those jet black eyes into my own. "West Point has no medicine. Speak truth," she said. "You’re no more a medical doctor than I am? Are you Secretary of War Stanton’s spy?"

    A flush of blood heated my cheeks. "No Madam Dix, but I’ve a vital mission," I told her.

    "State your business," she snapped. "I don’t suffer fools gladly."

    I dredged up the portrait of Rachel Jewett. "This girl is missing. Her father, Mr. Jewett, retained my employer, Mr. Pinkerton, to find her."

    Superintendent Dix studied the sketch for a half-second. "The girl is known to me. She applied to become one of my nurses. Only I turned her down flat. With those looks, she’d have every soldier in here fawning over her."

    "You have any clue where she went?" I asked.

    "After my rejection, she burst into tears. I’d but one recourse to salvage her pride. Rachel left to enlist in a company as a drummerboy. Theirs died here. She could pass herself off without difficulty as a boy."

***

    My trip on horseback into Tidewater Virginia to reach the Union Army had been bone-jarring and tiring. At present, I slouched on a nail keg under the tent awning of Captain Henry Rathbone, 22nd Massachusetts Regiment, Brigade A. Superintendent Dix had dispatched Rachel Jewett here also. I shivered inside my blue tunic. An icy rain pattered overhead. Why any girl in her right mind would choose a life out in such harsh elements was beyond my comprehension.

    It was Good Friday in calendar name only. Captain Rathbone had just stepped out. Our congenial conversation had been interrupted by a courier from his immediate superior that required his prompt attention.

    From the muffled undertones outside of the tent, I knew the two men were still conversing. Stiff-kneed, I stood upright, moved in deeper. My eyes cut back and forth, cataloging personal belongings: a straight razor, an opened Bible, suspenders, sealskin boots, steel scissors. A trunk at the short end of the cot was parted. Rumpled men’s cotton shirts spilled over. On the strength of a hunch, I poked through the apparel.

    The murmuring ceased, footfall crunched over twigs. Captain Rathbone called out, "Dr. Chambers, please pardon the intrusion. Life in the Army is a beehive of activity."

    One final scoop to the trunk’s bottom before discovery rewarded me. I held up a lady’s small pink chemise and a fringed shawl. Niceties a military man might procure for his wife back home. Except Rathbone was a bachelor. My mind raced. He’d bought them for a sweetheart?

    Rathbone, a compact but dangerous man by my standards, strode into the tent, his voice thick with rage. "Huh? What are you doing? Why are you ransacking my duffel? By damn, I’ll summon the Provost to arrest you."

    "You’ll do nothing of the sort, Captain. You’ve been blackmailing a young lady," I said, hoping my pure bluff was correct. "Your new drummerboy who is Rachel Jewett. You demanded sex in return for keeping her gender a secret."

    Rathbone sputtered for an adequate reply. "T-t-that, sir, is a goddamn lie."

    "Fine, then summon your drummerboy," I said. "My mission is to bring her home. Satisfy my curiosity she’s not here and I’ll be on my way."

    "A while back, I enrolled a young man to drum for Company B. Unfortunately, he was mortally wounded. By a sharpshooter. Along Savage Creek."

    "That, sir, is a goddamn lie," I parroted back to him.

    His red beard twitching, Rathbone’s lips tightened into a gash. "Your wild-eyed accusations offend me, Dr. Chambers. Or whoever you might be. I buried her myself..." He bit his tongue which had slipped badly. One three-letter feminine pronoun was an admission of guilt.

    "I can’t root up half of Virginia looking for Rachel’s remains," I said, "but I can report back to her family. Small comfort."

    "Naturally, I’ll deny the whole affair," said Rathbone. His smile grew so smug and superior. "You have no hold over me. Get out of my camp."

    A double-edged knife rode up to Rathbone’s nose. His enlarging eyes curved down to a line of blood. "Henceforth, you’ll do without a drummerboy. Or I’ll be back to kill you -- and bury you in a forgotten grave."