The Spymistress Read online

  A block away from the Capitol, newsboys hawked extra editions of the Examiner, the Dispatch, and the Enquirer, and as eager customers flocked around them, Lizzie hesitated before joining the queue for the Examiner. She was reluctant to give a single penny to any of them, the Dispatch and the Enquirer least of all because of their annoying habit of referring to President Lincoln as a baboon or “the Illinois Ape.” Just as she was taking a coin from her pocket, a bright-­eyed, beaming girl of about fourteen dashed their way, her long, brown locks slipping free from a pink ribbon. “Maria, oh, Maria,” she cried out to someone behind them, waving her hand. “The New York Seventh Regiment is all cut to pieces!”

  Something in her accent reminded Lizzie of her Philadelphia relations, and without thinking, she spun away from the newsboy and caught the girl by the elbow. “Little girl, where were you born?”

  “In the North,” she replied, surprised, “but I can’t help that.” She wrenched herself free and ran off.

  “Cut to pieces,” Eliza echoed faintly. “She said they were cut to pieces.”

  Quickly Lizzie bought a paper, nearly tearing it in her haste to unfold it. With Eliza reading over her shoulder, she went as cold and rigid as stone as she learned that federal troops traveling from Northern states to Washington City had been attacked as they passed through Baltimore. The first train cars carrying several companies of the Sixth Massachusetts had been towed through the city without incident, but word of the soldiers’ presence had spread quickly, and soon a hostile crowd had massed in the streets, shouting insults and threats. They had torn up the train tracks, forcing the last four companies of the Sixth to abandon their railcars and march through the city. Almost immediately, several thousand men and boys had swarmed them, hurling bricks and paving stones and bottles. The companies had pushed onward at quick time, but when the furious mob blocked the streets ahead, the soldiers opened fire. The crowd had fallen back and the soldiers had managed to fight their way to the Camden Street station, and after other sabotaged tracks were repaired, the train and its battered and bloodied passengers sped off to Washington. Four soldiers and at least nine civilians had been killed and scores more injured in the melee, railway lines had been destroyed, bridges burned, and telegraph lines severed. Worst of all, Washington City had been cut off from the North.

  Beside her, Eliza muffled a low moan and began to tremble uncontrollably. As word swiftly spread through the crowd, exultant cheers rang out, pistols were fired into the air, and bands scrambled together and struck up the merry notes of “Dixie.” Numbly, Lizzie folded the paper and held it out to the newsboy, who stared up at her uncomprehendingly and made no move to take it. A man whooped and snatched it from her hand; relieved of her burden, she tucked her arm through Eliza’s again and they resumed their tour of the block. Certain voices cut through the din and the fog of Lizzie’s thoughts: A shriveled, silver-­haired gentleman brandished his cane and declared that any single Southern man could whip five Yankees single-­handedly. “One Southern man could whip five hundred Yankees,” a portly fellow with flushed cheeks joined in, raising a silver flask into the air, “a race whose extermination, even of women and children, would be a blessing.” The crowd roared its approval with such vehemence that it left Lizzie breathless and light-­headed.

  “I feel ill,” said Eliza, swaying in her tracks. “I need to sit down.”

  “Not here,” said Lizzie, looking about her for a sheltered nook and finding none. “We’ll go to the hardware store and wait there with my brother until the crowd disperses.”

  Eliza nodded, gulped air, and resumed walking.

  “I am neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet,” a man Lizzie recognized as a member of the Virginia legislature shouted from the high portico of the Capitol as they passed. “Yet I predict that in less than sixty days, the flag of the Confederacy will be waving over the White House!”

  “In less than thirty days,” someone shouted back, and the crowd broke into raucous cheers. The pale, solemn men Lizzie had glimpsed before had vanished, and the air fairly crackled with the electricity of celebration.

  “Let’s go home,” Eliza begged. “This is getting quite out of hand.”

  Lizzie agreed. They hardly spoke as they fled the downtown for Church Hill, but although the commotion diminished behind them, Lizzie suspected it would not be long before their peaceful serenity was disrupted as news of the bloodshed in Baltimore swept through the city.

  After parting with Eliza at her doorstep, Lizzie hurried home, where she found her mother and sister-­in-­law sewing in the parlor. When she told them all she had learned, Mother sat in grave silence, but Mary beamed and laughed aloud. “This is all for the best. You will see,” she proclaimed. “Oh, it’s regrettable that people were hurt, of course, but their noble sacrifice will drive Virginia into the welcoming arms of the Confederacy, and that is for the greater good.”

  “I strongly disagree,” said Lizzie flatly.

  “That’s only because you’re stubborn,” Mary replied lightly, too cheerful to take offense. “Mr. Lincoln will let the South go willingly now that he’s seen we’ll put up a fight if he tries to prevent it. He’s no general, just a country lawyer turned politician. He doesn’t want a war.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Mother, with a warning look for Lizzie, “but I fear that you are terribly, terribly wrong.”

  Mary, habitually reluctant to contradict her gentle mother-­in-­law, offered a little shrug and thrust out her lower lip as if she were willing to consider that possibility, but she soon resumed sewing with a new liveliness and a secret smile toying with the corners of her mouth. Lizzie held back a sharp rebuke and stiffly announced that she meant to find her nieces and distract herself with a bit of play and a fairy tale. She managed not to add that when it came to fanciful stories, she preferred Hans Christian Andersen’s to Mary Carter West Van Lew’s.

  But escaping the Confederate jubilation was not as easy as that. The celebration that had begun at the Capitol grew as the hours passed, grew and spread, so that by dusk it had invaded even the sanctuary of Church Hill. Tin-­pan music and flickering lights drew Lizzie and John outdoors and to the foot of the garden, where they watched in apprehensive silence as a torchlit parade marched by with the joyful fierceness of a surging, swelling revolution. Men’s faces, reddened and shadowed by the fiery torches, turned monstrous and ugly as they shouted traitorous slogans. Women, hand in hand, marched and sang and threw flower petals into the air.

  “My country,” Lizzie murmured, her eyes filling with bitter, blinding tears. “Oh, my country!”

  She felt her brother’s hand on her shoulder, but she took no comfort from his steadfast presence. All around her, the people of Richmond were rushing headlong and heedless into the gaping maw of war. Did they not understand that only carnage would meet them? Had they forgotten their fathers’ harrowing tales of the Mexican War, their grandfathers’ of the War of 1812?

  The procession seemed endless, the flags of rebellion without number, the painted slogans on their banners increasingly shocking and defiant. Lizzie thought of France, and of the bloodshed on the streets of Paris, and suddenly felt herself staggered by the nearly tangible power of the thousands of people united in anger. She dropped to her knees in the soft earth beneath the magnolia tree, clasped her hands in prayer, and called out, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

  Several heads turned her way, a few men scowled darkly, a little boy pointed and jeered. Mostly the mob ignored her and marched on by, but one man paused long enough to shake a fist at her and shout, “Hold your tongue, Madam! That fine house of yours can burn!”

  John seized her by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. Heartsick, Lizzie prayed on silently until the last spectral figure disappeared down the street and around the corner. As the harsh torchlight and dizzying cacophony faded into the distance, she clung to her brother’s arm
, gathered her long skirts in one hand, and unsteadily climbed the path through the garden terraces back to the house, the only sanctuary that remained.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  APRIL 1861

  L

  izzie slept restlessly the night of the torchlight parade, but she woke in the morning preternaturally calm and resolute.

  “It is strange to think that Virginia is a sovereign state, separate from both Union and Confederacy,” she mused to her mother as they played with the girls in the garden after breakfast.

  “Only for the moment,” said Mother, plucking an errant dandelion and tickling Annie beneath the chin with the butter-­yellow blossom. “Virginia will join the Confederacy, and Richmond will become its capital. I foresee no other course for us now.”

  Lizzie folded her thin arms over her chest and shivered, chilled by her mother’s quiet fatalism. “I still cannot believe it, though I’ve seen it with my own eyes—­our city, our friends and neighbors, hurtling themselves gladly, unrestrainedly, eagerly, into a bloody civil war.”

  Mother sighed and regarded her with fond compassion, but before she could speak, they caught sight of William descending the back stairs of the grand piazza and crossing the dew-­damp lawn toward them. For the first time in the many years Lizzie had known him, his straight back and proud carriage struck her as an almost military bearing. “Ma’am,” he said to Mother when he reached them, “you have a visitor.”

  Mother picked up Eliza and made her way back to the house. “I wasn’t expecting any callers today.”

  “The lady gave her name as Mrs. Matthew Lodge.” William fell in step beside Mother and Lizzie followed along behind. “She said she knows you through the Bible Society, so I showed her to the parlor.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Mrs. Lodge.” When Mother passed Mary dozing in her chair on the piazza, she placed Eliza on her lap, startling her awake. “Take Eliza, dear. I have a caller.”

  “A caller?” Eager for distraction, Mary scrambled to her feet, but she sighed and acquiesced when Eliza held up her arms and asked to be carried. Perhaps sensing that she might be left behind, Annie seized Lizzie’s hand, so it was a curious quintet of three generations of Van Lews who met the unexpected visitor in the parlor.

  Mrs. Lodge sat in the best chair near the window, gazing outside at a pair of robins twittering in the low branches of an olive tree. Her dress was of sprigged lavender calico, her face mousy and pinched, her brown hair thinning along the center part and pulled back tightly into a broad bun at the nape of her neck. She seemed both plain and fussy, and, muffling a sigh, Lizzie promptly abandoned all hope of interesting conversation.

  “Why, Mrs. Lodge,” Mother greeted her pleasantly. “What an unexpected pleasure. Would you care for some tea?”

  “That’s very kind, but no, thank you.” Mrs. Lodge’s voice was sweet but her gaze was sharp. “I have to visit all the ladies on both sides of the street before luncheon.”

  “Whatever for?” Lizzie inquired, spreading her skirts and seating herself on the sofa. “Are you taking a political poll?”

  Mother smiled, but Mrs. Lodge looked affronted. “Certainly not,” she said crisply. “I do not aspire to dabble in politics like some mannish, giddy bluestocking.”

  “Of course not,” said Lizzie brightly, happily revising her original opinion. Perhaps the visit was about to take a more interesting turn. “Why dabble when one can fling oneself into something wholeheartedly? Don’t you agree?”

  “Well—­I suppose, in proper circumstances, but that’s not quite what I—­” Mrs. Lodge frowned quizzically at Lizzie before turning her attention to Mother. “I’ve come in the spirit of patriotism to ask for your help with a very important cause.”

  “Certainly,” said Mother. “I confess I’ve allowed my membership in the Bible Society to lapse, but I’m always willing to lend a hand—­”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Van Lew, this isn’t for the Bible Society,” Mrs. Lodge interrupted. “Although my cause is equally worthy. With so many young men of Richmond enlisting, several ladies of Church Hill have decided to form a sewing circle to make shirts for our valiant soldiers. We would be glad to have you join us.”

  Incredulous, Lizzie said, “You’re asking us to make uniforms for Confederate soldiers?”

  Mrs. Lodge nodded. “We all must do our part for our noble cause.”

  Lizzie imagined herself sewing buttons on a gray wool jacket some neighbor’s son would wear as he aimed his rifle at a Northern boy, and she recoiled. “Indeed we must.”

  “Then may I tell my friends that you will join us?”

  “Indeed you may not.”

  Mrs. Lodge’s smile faltered as she gazed at Lizzie, uncomprehending. “Do you mean you would prefer to meet here? I suppose that could be arranged, and in fact it would be a pleasure. You have such a lovely home.”

  “What my daughter means,” Mother broke in before Lizzie could reply, “is that sadly, we cannot join your sewing circle. It’s very kind of you to think of us, but it is quite impossible.” She gestured vaguely around the room, as if her reasons were known to all and yet too delicate to be spoken aloud.

  “It’s not impossible for me,” protested Mary. “I’d be delighted to help. It would be my great honor to sew shirts for our brave defenders. If only I were not so busy caring for my daughters...”

  “I’m sure between the two of them, Lizzie and Hannah could manage to look after the girls in your absence,” said Mother. Lizzie shot her a look of utter astonishment, which she ignored. Beaming, Mary promised Mrs. Lodge to attend every meeting faithfully, and after exchanging all the details of where and when, they sent Mrs. Lodge on her way, thoroughly satisfied with the result of her visit.

  As Mary hurried off to make certain her sewing basket was well supplied with thread and needles, Lizzie whirled upon her mother. “You would have her help the rebel cause?”

  “Better her than you or I,” Mother replied serenely, “and one of us must. Don’t you see? We must make an outward show of support, despite how we feel in our hearts.”

  “I’m not ashamed of my loyalty to the Union.”

  “Of course not, my dear, and neither am I.” Mother held her by the shoulders and fixed her with an imploring gaze. “But you must not let anyone outside this home know it. Let Mary be our decoy. Let her make a hundred rebel uniforms if she must. It will keep her busy, and it will divert suspicion from the rest of us.”

  Later that afternoon, John returned home from Van Lew & Taylor to report, ruefully, that secession was proving to be very good for the hardware business. Knives, axes, hatchets, rope, pocket cutlery, and other tools were fairly flying off the shelves, and he was racing to reorder ample stock before all ties with the North were severed. “Be forewarned,” he said. “When next you visit the store, you’ll find Confederate banners and bunting in the window.”

  “Of course,” said Lizzie, though she felt a pang of disappointment. “It’s a necessary pretense. Better to don a disguise than sweep up glass after some fool hurls a brick through the window.”

  “For some members of our family, such accoutrements are no disguise.” John grimaced as if he hated the news he was obliged to deliver. “Cousin Jack has joined the Richmond Howitzers.”

  “What?” Lizzie exclaimed.

  Mother blanched. “Good heavens.”

  “It was either choose now or be drafted later, Jack told me, and he didn’t want to miss his chance for glory and be stuck peeling potatoes or driving wagons at the rear while other fellows marched off to battle.”

  Mother shook her head, her lips pursed in a tight, worried line.

  “Jack’s regiment may be assigned to guard the city,” Lizzie said, taking Mother’s hand. “Someone surely will be. Why not the Richmond Howitzers?”

  Mother patted her hand to thank her for the kindness, but her sad smile r
evealed that she would not be soothed into a false sense of reassurance. “He’s made his choice,” she said. “Now all we can do is pray for his safety.”

  Two days later, on a bright, balmy Sunday morning, Lizzie sat in the family pew at Saint John’s and prayed fervently for her cousin, for her misguided neighbors, and for her fractured nation, but eventually her thoughts began to wander and she sank into a brood. The Scripture for the service had come from the second chapter of Joel: “Then will the Lord be jealous for his land, and pity his people. Yea, the Lord will answer, and say unto his people, Behold, I will send you corn, and wine, and oil, and ye shall be satisfied therewith; and I will no more make you a reproach among the heathen. But I will remove far off from you the Northern army, and will drive him into a land barren and desolate...” From the nods and stirrings of the congregation, Lizzie knew that many of her fellow worshipers heard in the verses a prophecy for their own age, and their self-­righteousness left a bitter taste in her mouth. The Lord of justice and mercy could not be on the side of the slaveholder. Her bitterness sharpened with outrage when the minister made his own opinions known by omitting the customary prayer for the president of the United States. A faint murmur followed the omission, but Lizzie thought, despairingly, that it indicated surprise rather than protest.