I became for a day or two subsequently a most regular attendant at the Department Telegraph Office.
I learned by my telegraph facilities that this Pinkerton spy had reported to his chief that "Wells has not yet returned," that "the party was still absent," and later that he had "escaped South." Luckily for me he did not learn of the short and interesting return visit the Captain made, and, in consequence, he had no occasion to immediately investigate the Captain's taking off, so that several days elapsed before he found it out. The Captain did not go South to join the Rebels, but, instead, went North, visiting during his exile a married daughter living in Baltimore, and subsequently published a little family history, in which he gives "a friend" the credit for the warning and also for supplying a pass over the railroad to Aquia Creek.
I found that I had made my way clear in thus "breaking the ice" when I should want to ask for Geno's hand. I had killed two or three birds at one shot that day. I had thwarted Assistant Secretary of War Watson and his Pinkerton crowd in their attempt at arresting Captain Wells on mere rumors. I had established myself in the good graces of Geno's entire family. I had prevented her father from being imprisoned. In addition to all this, I succeeded in getting myself into Old Capitol Prison, by order of Secretary of War E. M. Stanton, and became a companion of Belle Boyd and numerous other Rebel spies. But I'll have to tell some other things that occurred at Fredericksburg before this unfortunate episode came to pass.
I need not say that, after this episode, I felt that the fate of the entire Wells family was in my hands. From that day on I was what may be slangily termed "solid" with that happy family. I believe I have mentioned the fact previously that Geno was a strikingly beautiful young girl of sixteen, and that I was twenty. I may be permitted to even say, parenthetically, that there has been nothing in my adventurous life nearly so fascinating as were the summer days in which I was "isolated" in company with the little girl who lived, as it were, between the two armies, at Fredericksburg.
To be sure the soldiers were there, or thereabout, in force.
The crack of the picket's rifle—almost the distant boom of McClellan's battles around Richmond—indeed, the smoke of war was in the air at the time, and no one knew what a day would bring forth. This was not exactly a period well adapted to sincere love-making. But no one who has known of Geno could be made to believe that she could be insincere, or that anyone could insincerely make love to her.
We were together nearly all the time, but I do not think we were sentimental in our talk.
There was this difference to me between Geno and all my other girls. In her presence it did not seem to be at all necessary to do any sentimental talking. I was always impressed by her soul-piercing eyes with the feeling that she knew it all anyhow, and it was no use in talking—I had almost written lying. I believe I told Geno more of my life than I ever intended anybody to know. I simply couldn't help it. But I shall never do this subject justice until I write out the "Romance of this Secret Love and Secret Service." This is only a narrative of facts.
I believe I have said somewhere in this story that Geno was a pretty little girl, but, at the risk of repetition, I will say that her beauty was of a kind that may not be easily described or portrayed. It was her eyes—her beautiful dark-brown eyes—that were in themselves a soul.
In every man's life there is one moment, or one single memory, that is more cherished than all others. I shall have to tell of this one moment of my life, which occurred the day before I left.