In Freedom's Shadow, page 4
“Mr. Scobell, I believe you are such a man. In fact, the letter you carried to my associate Mr. Broughton today detailed my beliefs to that effect and stated my proposal to make you an operative of our secret service. The fact that you carried out that errand quickly and correctly further confirmed my assessment of your potential.”
Scobell was stunned at Pinkerton’s comments. After considering the correct reply for a moment, he asked, “What was Mr. Broughton’s response?”
Pinkerton picked up the letter and read aloud, “Enacting this proposal would be a mistake. Using a Negro in this manner would be ruinous to our effort.”
“He doesn’t believe a Negro can be a spy,” said Scobell flatly.
Pinkerton responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I prefer the term ‘operative.’ Besides, Mr. Scobell, should you choose to accept the offer that I am about to present, you will have larger concerns than the opinion of an administrative wage-earner who would no more know what makes a successful operative than what makes a robin sing.”
“I have operated a successful detective agency in Chicago for over ten years, using a variety of men – and even women – in my employ. Trust me when I tell you it is the heart, mind, and spirit that makes someone a reliable operative, not their size or class or color.”
Scobell said nothing, so Pinkerton continued. “Should you choose to operate in the employ of our secret service, you will receive training in our methods over the next few weeks. We will teach you how to pump informants for information, how to shadow another person while remaining undetected, and the proper way to assume a disguised role to protect your own identity.”
“What exactly would I be asked to do?” said Scobell.
“As an operative of the secret service,” said Pinkerton, “We will ask you to travel behind Confederate lines and infiltrate their ranks to make observations. We expect you to relay those observations secretly back to me, through methods that we will reveal only if you choose to join us.”
The Scotsman paused, and his tone became graver. “I have in my employ several people who have served in this capacity. Each of them risks imprisonment and trial with the possibility of being hanged as a spy should their efforts on behalf of the Union be discovered. The consequences are quite serious.”
Scobell blew out a breath. “Mr.…Pinkerton?” he began.
The man across the desk nodded. “Mr. Pinkerton, I’m sure your operatives are quite brave and are serving the Union cause well. However, the consequences you mentioned are not the ones that I would face in the same situation.”
“How so?” asked Pinkerton.
“Because I am a Negro,” Scobell said. “There would be no trial if they captured me. No long incarceration, no offers of a prisoner swap.”
“They will kill me,” he continued. “Immediately, and under the most excruciating forms of torture you can envision. I know this because I’ve already seen it happen to other Negroes who went against the Southern system.”
Scobell paused, letting his words sink in. “Arrest by the Confederates, on even the slightest suspicion of espionage, would be a death sentence – a slow, painful death – for me.”
“I can see how that might be the case,” Pinkerton replied. “Still, I believe a man of your talents would be useful to the Union cause – and to the cause of your people.”
Scobell’s attitude hardened at the detective’s blatant change in tactics. “You clearly know nothing of my people. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me to do this.”
Pinkerton stared at him, the steel-gray eyes boring into Scobell’s own soft, brown ones. “Mr. Scobell,” he snapped, “You told me earlier today that your master had set you free.”
“That’s correct,” Scobell asserted, curious at another sudden switch in direction.
“However,” Pinkerton went on, “you have no proof of this. I have nothing but your own word that this is true.”
Suspicion creeping into his mind, Scobell simply answered, “Yes.” It didn’t come out as authoritatively as he’d intended.
His clipped Scottish burr picking up speed again, Pinkerton continued. “Being an abolitionist myself, allow me to add a condition to my proposal. Agree to join the secret service and successfully complete the mission I assign you. Upon your return, I will personally sign an oath attesting to your emancipation, which you can use to secure your free papers.”
The carrot, Scobell thought.
“Should you choose to decline my offer, you will remain a contraband. Mr. Bangs will see that you’re moved to Fort Monroe with the other escaped slaves. There you can earn your eight-dollar monthly wage, tend fields, and make yourself useful as you see fit.”
And the stick.
“If our army wins this war,” Pinkerton went on, “they may set you free. Of course, who can say how long that might take? Months? A year? More than that?”
Scobell’s jaw clenched and the cords in his neck throbbed as he tried to contain his rage.
Pinkerton, seemingly oblivious to this reaction, continued. “And in the tragic event that the South should maintain their secession…well, who knows what might happen to the contrabands? A return to enslavement, perhaps. A return to something much worse, in retribution for their attempted escape?”
He stopped and let the question hang in the air. Scobell remained silent, shifting his gaze away from the spy chief’s face and staring out the window behind him instead.
“Before you respond to my offer,” Pinkerton said, “I should like you to take this evening to sleep on it. Reflect carefully on my proposition, considering both the opportunity to serve your country and your people in their efforts for freedom. And, of course, the consequences should you decline. Meet me here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning and let me know your answer.”
Scobell sat quietly for a moment. “Mr. Pinkerton,” he said at last, “I appreciate your assessment of my abilities and the offer of employment. I will let you know my answer in the morning.”
As Scobell walked out of the office, he heard papers rustling on Pinkerton’s desk behind him. Apparently, the spy chief had already moved on to other business.
CHAPTER 5
That night Scobell slept only fitfully. When slumber finally came, he didn’t dream of green fields and yellow flowers. Instead, he clawed through the black, frigid waters of the Potomac once again, this time with no floating log for support.
He flailed wildly to stay afloat, but no amount of thrashing could keep his head above water. When his head went below the surface, he saw dozens of skeletons gliding through the river’s inky waters.
Each one wore the blue uniform of a Union soldier.
Their eyes were empty sockets, as black as the water that flowed through them. Their teeth protruded from their bony jaws in frozen, hideous grins.
Horrified as he was at the soldiers’ appearance, he was even more terrified when those closest to him reached out to pull him down. Their gaunt fingers clawed at his limbs, dragging him downward with irresistible strength.
Scobell punched and kicked at the swirling ghouls, but it was futile. He was slipping deeper, his arms and legs moving as though they were in molasses instead of water.
Suddenly, a skeleton came face to face with him. Grasping his shoulders, the corpse shoved Scobell downward to the bottom of the river. He screamed, but no sound came forth.
Scobell bounced awake. Peering through the darkness, he realized he was alive, warm and dry, in bed.
His heart hammered, and several minutes passed before his panting breath returned to normal. Another two hours passed before sleep finally came again.
Promptly at eight the following morning, Bangs ushered Scobell again into Pinkerton’s cluttered office. The Scotsman, once again without looking up, stabbed an open hand toward the unoccupied chair in front of the desk.
Scobell resumed his position from the previous day. He sat in silence, waiting for the Union spy chief to finish.
Signing a sheet of paper with a flourish and setting it to the side of his desk, Pinkerton looked up to acknowledge him at last. “Mr. Scobell,” he said without preamble. “Have you reached a decision?”
“Yes. Although, I’m not sure you left me much of a choice.”
Pinkerton looked pleased with himself. “That was my intent.”
“I’m sure,” said Scobell drily.
“I’ve risked my life several times to gain my freedom,” he continued. “You’re asking me to do that yet again.”
He stopped, the words sticking in his throat. With an effort, he forced them out. “I will accept your offer and become an operative of your secret service. As long as you swear you’ll guarantee my full emancipation when my mission is complete.”
“You have my oath on it,” Pinkerton responded immediately.
Not waiting to be dismissed, Scobell stood and headed toward the door. As his hand reached for the knob, he turned back toward the man behind the desk.
“You’ve threatened my liberty, Mr. Pinkerton, the very thing I value most. If I don’t survive your mission and never get to live free, that will lie on your head. Forever.”
The two men locked eyes once again. This time, though, it was Scobell’s stare that pierced more deeply.
Pinkerton blinked, then gave a slight nod. “I understand.”
I doubt that, Scobell thought as he turned and left the room.
◆◆◆
For the next two weeks, Scobell underwent intensive training with the operatives in Washington, many of whom arrived from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago. The agency’s motto was “We Never Sleep.” To Scobell, it certainly felt that way. He shifted rapidly from one training session to another for up to 16 hours each day and night.
Pryce Lewis conducted Scobell’s initial session. Like Scobell, Lewis was in his late twenties. That’s where any similarities ended.
A Welshman by birth, Lewis had been working for Pinkerton’s agency for just a few months when the war broke out. He had dark, curly hair and enormously bushy sideburns that crowded down toward his moustache and bare chin. About two inches taller than Scobell, Lewis was thin and his ever-present stovepipe hat made him appear even lankier.
Lewis schooled Scobell on assuming a role, Pinkerton’s terminology for spying in disguise. “The key is not just to assume the role, but maintain it long enough to gather useful information,” said Lewis. “You have to act as your character would act at all times. If pressed or questioned, respond as your character would respond, never as you’d wish to respond yourself.”
Scobell hadn’t the heart to tell Lewis that he’d spent most of his life doing exactly that. Slaves couldn’t afford the luxury of responding as they wished.
“When you go behind Rebel lines, we’ll naturally have you assume the role of a slave,” said Lewis. “Since you’ve been a slave most of your life, I assume this is a part you can play with ease?”
“The easiest thing for a black man to be in this country is a slave,” said Scobell. “The hard part is being something else.”
Lewis looked uncomfortable for a moment, searching for a response. After letting him dangle a moment, Scobell let him off the hook.
“Of course, I can assume the role of a slave. Why, I be the best slave in these heah parts, Massa,” Scobell said, a toothy grin suddenly appearing on his face. “Ain’t nobody ever work harder or better’n me pickin’ cotton, that’s fo’ sho’.”
Lewis forgot the awkward moment and laughed out loud at the sudden shift in character. “Yes, Mr. Scobell,” he said through his chuckle, “I do believe you’ll be a natural at assuming a role.”
Using Pinkerton’s wartime alias, Lewis continued, “Major Allen believes this will let you move freely without arising suspicion. Do you agree?”
“No doubt,” said Scobell, a dark undertone in his voice. “They don’t look at a black man down south as a person. The Secesh look at him like you’d look at a dog or a horse, meaning they ignore him unless they need him to do some job they wouldn’t.”
“Secesh?” asked Lewis.
“Secessionists, the Rebels,” explained Scobell. “Your Major Allen is right on that point. I doubt they’d think a Negro was smart enough to do them any harm.”
“Use that to your advantage then,” said Lewis. “The more they think you a fool, the deeper you’ll be able to penetrate their inner circles and the more you’ll be able to learn.”
“Have you done this yourself?” Scobell asked.
Welcoming the invitation, Lewis launched into the tale of his own first adventure in assuming a role. In the summer of 1861, he and another Pinkerton agent named Sam Bridgeman traveled to the Kanawha Valley of Virginia. Their assignment was to scout the area and determine the plans of the Rebel troops who were active there.
“So I put on airs and played the part of an English nobleman,” Lewis said, replacing his own Welsh accent with an exaggerated aristocratic British one. “Bridgeman was my trusty manservant,” he added with a chuckle.
“It went perfectly at first,” said Lewis. “Confederate soldiers intercepted us near the James River, just as we planned. They took us to their commander, a quite genial chap named Colonel George Patton.”
Scobell noticed Lewis was continuing to tell the tale in his British nobleman accent. He wondered if that was deliberate or unconscious.
“As I said, you must respond as your character would respond,” Lewis said. “When we got to their camp, I started complaining to the good colonel about how poorly they’d treated us and asking why an Englishman should be so roguishly handled.”
It took some gall to complain about poor treatment after deliberately being captured, Scobell thought. He said, “What did this Colonel Patton say to all that?”
Grinning broadly, Lewis said. “He started apologizing. Then he ordered us a couple of cigars and some wine, and we had a first-class dinner.”
“Did you get any useful information out of him?” asked Scobell, impressed at Lewis’s brazenness.
“Oh my, yes,” said Lewis. “He gave me the exact location of his camp, the exact number of soldiers he had available, and the precise area his commander had ordered him to defend.”
Lewis paused. With a wink, he added, “As I recall, most of that information came out about halfway through the third bottle of wine.”
“So how were you able to get the word back to the North?” asked Scobell. “Were they able to use it?”
“It proved quite valuable to General McClellan in his western Virginia campaign,” announced Lewis proudly. “Patton released us in the morning and we made our way into Kentucky, with a pass signed by him in my pocket. From there, we rode back north to Cincinnati, where Major Allen was based then.”
“McClellan was just moving into that part of Virginia, so the major immediately sent me to the general’s field quarters to relay the intelligence.”
Scobell noted that Bridgeman had disappeared from the narrative. Lewis had become a team of one, at least in his recollection of events.
“Using the information I gave him on the Rebels’ location and condition,” Lewis said, “our troops moved around to the southeast and attacked the Confederates from the rear.”
“A complete victory,” he continued. “The Rebels retreated, leaving Charleston and the Kanawha River in the control of our army. They even mentioned it in the New York Times!”
His tone turned wistful. “Of course, there was no mention of where McClellan got his information or why he decided on such a brilliant strategic move.” Lewis looked Scobell in the eye. “It must always be so, of course. It’s for your safety and the integrity of the secret service…and the Union. Being an operative is both a blessing and a curse. In this role, you accept that you’ll never receive credit for your best work.”
“I can see that,” replied Scobell. He was already quite familiar with the concept.
◆◆◆
Scobell moved from one agent-tutor to another, with the busy streets of Washington often serving as the classroom. A short, soft-spoken Pennsylvanian named William Ascot taught him the technique of shadowing a target by following them at a safe distance so as not to raise suspicion. Augustus Littlefield, a hawk-nosed man with a beard and mustache so bushy they nearly obscured his face, showed Scobell how to estimate troop numbers. They practiced daily by watching the troops marching around the capitol, with occasional simulated reconnaissance trips to the Union camps outside the city.
Timothy Webster, an Englishman by birth who’d worked as a Pinkerton operative for nearly five years prior to the war, coached Scobell on the art of “pumping.” This was Pinkerton’s term for interrogating using indirect questions in a conversational tone. Again, Scobell practiced on the streets of the city, striking up conversations with everyone from soldiers to newspaper boys, to see what information he could glean. It surprised him how easily people opened up, especially when he held onto the guise of an ignorant slave.
Toward the end of the first week, Scobell climbed into a wagon with a Pinkerton operative named John Scully and rode northeast from the I Street office to Fort Bunker Hill just outside the city. Scully, a genial Irishman, chatted ceaselessly with Scobell as they rode along. He pointed out interesting locations along the way and regaled Scobell with tales of earlier missions, both before and during the war.
When they got to the fort, Scully hopped down from the wagon and walked around to the back. As Scobell joined him, the Irishman said, “The others have been teaching you how to do your job and how not to get caught. That’s good. Those are things you need to know.”
“Today,” he continued, “I’m going to teach you what to do when things go wrong. You may be great at this spy game, but at some point, everything will turn to shite, you understand? That’s when you’ll need to know how to defend yourself.”
Scobell nodded soberly.
“Ever shot a gun before?” Scully asked.
“No,” said Scobell. “A black man with a gun isn’t too popular where I come from.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Scully. “Well, today we’re going to make up for lost time.”
