The Crescent Spy Read Free Page B

battle would be seen in the weeks to come. By then, this article would make her famous. She was certain of it.
    The article was not just accurate; it was cleverly written. She reread her favorite part with more than a little satisfaction.
     
    But nobody told Johnny Reb he was licked, and Jackson’s men held firm on the hill. Sooner than spit, a fat column of Confederate reinforcements came slithering up the road as eager and venomous as a hungry rattler. Our boys took one look and turned tail like an army of frightened rabbits.
    No, it wasn’t Shakespeare, or even Walt Whitman, but the words had a certain lurid poetry to them. Wait until the New York press read her story. The offers would come rolling in.
    Ah, so that’s why Barnhart was glum. He was afraid he’d lose her to New York.
    “A shame I couldn’t publish this under my real name,” she said. “It robs the moment of its glory.”
    “Yes.”
    “Move aside, Horace Greeley, Joseph Breaux will be the best known writer in the land. If only they knew his true identity, they’d be astonished.”
    She gave Barnhart a smile that let him know she was not serious. But surely he wouldn’t deny her a moment of triumph and yes, even boastfulness.
    “Oh, they’ll know soon enough. They’ll all know.”
    “No,” she sighed. “I can’t have that. It will wreck my ability to move behind the lines. No, Josephine must remain a typesetter, and Joseph the man who gets the good stories. She’ll get her due later, yes. But not yet.”
    Barnhart unclenched the newspaper he’d kept rolled tightly in his hands. He unfolded it and spread it over the top of her own.
    It wasn’t the Morning Clarion ; it was the Washington Standard , their chief rival. She looked down at the headline. It was also about the battle. The opening lines of the story were vague and filled with more alarm than substance. She skimmed to the end of the column. Error and pointless speculation all jumbled into an unholy mess.
    “So what?” she said. “It’s rubbish.”
    “That’s not the problem.”
    “Don’t tell me you’re unhappy. The Clarion is galloping out the door today. The boys are back for more copies to sell, the presses are still running. They may as well be printing banknotes today, so cheer up. And I have half composed a smashing follow-up. Give me two hours to write it up.”
    “Will you stop being so self-absorbed? Look.” Barnhart tapped an ink-stained finger on the second article in the paper.
    And there she saw this chilling headline:
     
    “ JOSEPH ” BREAUX UNMASKED AS WOMAN
    SHE CONSORTS WITH TRAITORS AND SLAVES
     
    Heart pounding, she read the story, penned under the nom de plume “George Patriot, a Concerned Citizen.” But the writing was too sharp, too cunningly gleeful to be anything but one of the best reporters on the staff of the Washington Standard .
     
    In a discovery that beggars the imagination, even as it shocks with its scandal and lack of dignity, this citizen has uncovered a monstrous deception at the heart of the Morning Clarion. As brazen as a strumpet of the night plying her trade, a New Orleans native and Secess sympathizer by the name of Josephine Breaux has been traveling between Union and Rebel lines under false pretenses.
    This citizen would not suggest that Miss Breaux is responsible for our debacle, but she was spied in the company of that traitor, a fellow Louisianan, General Beauregard, moments before our inglorious flight from the battlefield. Yesterday afternoon, in the darkest moment of our defeat, she was spotted skulking into Washington hiding amongst our injured boys, wearing nothing but her bloomers.
    Propriety blushes, unable to speculate how she found herself in this immodest condition. However, one suggestion, which this author hesitates to repeat, has it that . . .
     
    Josephine couldn’t read another word. She turned over the paper and stared out the window. Men peered through from the street. The ones she’d spotted