The Spymistress (47 page)

When she reached the War Department, she expected to encounter resistance, but there were no guards, no scrambling clerks, no Union soldiers seeking stray Confederate officials to arrest. The offices were in a state of disarray that spoke of fear and haste—lamps broken, desk drawers open, papers scattered, chairs overturned as if their last occupants had fled in alarm. Ankle deep in documents, Lizzie gathered her skirts in one hand and began sorting through the pages, discarding most but placing a few pieces of particular interest into her basket.

She had been rummaging through the detritus of the fallen government for nearly an hour when she heard the quick strike of boot heels in the hall outside, the sound of several men approaching at a quick, deliberate pace. Her heart jumped, but she kept at her work, not even glancing up when the footsteps fell silent just outside the open doorway.

“Pardon me, Miss?” a baritone voice spoke.

She looked up and discovered a Union major with a blond Vandyke and flowing mustaches watching her expectantly, flanked by two lieutenants. “Yes?” she replied, straightening.

“Are you Miss Elizabeth Van Lew?”

“Why, yes,” she replied, surprised. “I am Miss Van Lew.”

The major smiled. “General Grant sends his compliments and his sincere thanks.”

The military guard had looked for her at home first, but Mother had told them where she had gone, and after leaving two of their party to guard the residence, they had hurried off to find her. Although General Grant had not entered the city, he had been so concerned for her safety that he had sent an aide with a guard detachment to protect her, her family, and her property. They were under strict orders to make certain that she wanted for nothing.

When Lizzie finished searching the abandoned files in the War Department, the officers escorted her home, where she found an armed guard posted around the mansion. By two o’clock, the valiant Union soldiers and civilian volunteers had subdued the fire, although the ruins still smoldered and patrols remained alert for new outbreaks.

The destruction was staggering—more than fifty-five blocks of homes and businesses. Gone were all the banks; the Columbian and the American hotels; the offices of the
Dispatch
, the
Enquirer
, and the
Examiner
; the Henrico County Court House, the General Court of Virginia, and the irreplaceable records they had contained; the arsenal and the laboratory; the Gallego and Shockoe mills, once the largest flour mills in the world and the pride of Richmond; bridges and depots; pharmacies and groceries; shops and warehouses and countless saloons. More than nine hundred in all had burned, and the count rose while the rubble smoked and flames flared up amid the stark brick shells of what once had been. Wreckage clogged the streets, and when she toured the scorched downtown later, Lizzie became disoriented, unable to distinguish one block from another without familiar landmarks to guide her. But the fire had destroyed something else, something intangible and far more precious to the Confederacy—the goodwill of the people. Everywhere Lizzie heard dark mutterings and curses for Mr. Davis and his government, who had fled and left his loyal citizens to the mercy of the Yankee invaders and had nearly brought down the entire city upon them. General Lee was as admired, respected, and fervently prayed for as ever, but not so for the fugitive president.

The acrid, smoky stench of the conflagration still hung heavily in the air the next morning when Lizzie woke to discover new guards at their posts around her home. Lizzie asked Caroline to send out breakfast to them, and although their larder was nearly empty, they set out the best of what remained for their guests, four erstwhile prisoners and one nervous prison guard. Miss Pitt and Lieutenant Ross had emerged from their chambers, and everyone was in good spirits, recovering their strength and making eager plans for their first days of liberty.

All that morning and into the afternoon, prominent Union officers called at the Church Hill mansion to thank Lizzie for her loyalty and service. She had toiled so long under suspicion and animosity that it was strange to hear her labors praised, and unsettling to discover that her name was known to important men unknown to herself. “Will General Grant enter the city soon?” she inquired of each visitor, but all replied that they did not know but thought it unlikely. The war had ended for Richmond, but General Grant was still pursuing General Lee, and it was General Godfrey Weitzel who commanded the occupying forces. Several of the officers gallantly offered to introduce her to General Weitzel, but she politely demurred, making the excuse that she wouldn’t dream of imposing upon him when he was busy subduing the rebels. In truth, she wanted to meet General Grant, and nothing and no one else would do.

Her conviction lasted until early afternoon, when William came to her in the foyer where she was graciously bidding farewell to a captain. As soon as the door closed behind the departing visitor, William blurted, “The president is in Richmond.”

“He came back?” Lizzie exclaimed. “Is he mad? He’d better be careful. Mr. Davis is not so popular with the people as he once was, and General Weitzel has turned his home into his headquarters.”

“Not Mr. Davis,” said William excitedly, his usual reserve falling away. “President Lincoln.”

For a moment Lizzie could only stare at him. “President Lincoln is in Richmond?”

William nodded eagerly. “Peter saw him step off a barge at Rocketts Wharf.”

“It cannot be true,” she said, but nevertheless, she snatched up her shawl and pulled open the door. “Mother, I’m going to see the president,” she shouted over her shoulder in a very unladylike fashion. As she stepped out onto the portico, she turned back to William. “Well? Aren’t you coming?”

He nodded and begged a moment to fetch his brother and whoever else might want to accompany them. A few moments later, Lizzie, William, Peter, Louisa, and Caroline were hurrying off toward the Capitol, where they were certain Mr. Lincoln would go. The sounds of cheering drew them toward Cary Street, where they managed to intercept the president’s procession at Twenty-Third Street. The tall, gaunt man in the stovepipe hat could not be mistaken for anyone but President Abraham Lincoln, not only because he stood head and shoulders above his escorts, but because the humility, kindness, and wisdom in a face marked by hard toil and care set him apart from other men. At his side was a proud boy of about twelve years of age who surely was his young son, Tad.

All around them, elated men and women of color, and a good number of whites too, cheered and wept for joy and flung their hats in the air. As she and her companions hurried closer, Lizzie heard shouts of “Thank you, Jesus,” and “God bless you, Mr. President!” from the rapidly swelling throng. Suddenly she felt a surge of uneasiness as she glimpsed a few white faces in the crowd that were glaring and twisted and ugly with hatred, but her fear was forgotten a moment later when an elderly colored man standing quietly on the sidewalk doffed his hat to the president and solemnly bowed. Mr. Lincoln paused and silently returned the gesture—and the crowd roared its approval. As the impromptu procession moved on, a young girl, her hair in two black braids, darted from the crowd, kissed his hand and said, “God bless you, only friend of the South!” Looking quite overcome, the president smiled and thanked her kindly, and watched after her as she hurried back to her mother, beaming.

He strode onward, surrounded by his anxious and wary escort of Union sailors who tried to prevent the jubilant people from crowding too close. They had almost reached Fifteenth Street when a group of colored workmen digging with spades in the wreckage shouted, “Glory, hallelujah!” at his approach and fell to their knees to kiss his feet.

“Please don’t kneel to me,” President Lincoln urged them, looking pained and embarrassed, and his face seemed to bear all the grief of the nation. “You must kneel only to God and thank Him for your freedom.”

The crowd cheered and pressed forward, but at that moment, a cavalry squad galloped up, encircled the president and his entourage, and escorted them the rest of the way to the Executive Mansion.

Following along behind, Lizzie and her companions joined their voices to the rest of the crowd, cheering and singing and laughing for joy. She glimpsed some pale faces glaring sullenly down upon the scene from their windows, and other pale hands yanking curtains shut rather than glimpse a single joyful former slave welcoming the Great Emancipator to Richmond. Even so, Lizzie was certain that other rebels whose ardor had cooled after the Confederates had set fire to the city were observing Mr. Lincoln, hearing his words of benevolence and reconciliation, and thinking that this man could not possibly be the Yankee villain who had been represented to them as a monster for so many years.

When the slow procession reached the former residence of the Confederate president, tears flowed freely down Lizzie’s cheeks as she watched President Lincoln remove his hat, bow respectfully to the people as if to acknowledge his debt to the loyal Unionists of Richmond, and disappear within the Gray House.

She should have preferred to see the president of the United States entering the subjugated capital of rebeldom with an escort and fanfare more befitting his high station—but no, for that was the way of a conqueror who had come to exult over a brave but fallen enemy. It was far better that he had come instead as a peacemaker, his hand extended in kindness and brotherhood to all who desired to take it.

Chapter Twenty-three

APRIL 1875

TEN YEARS have passed since the evacuation of Richmond, and in that decade what mighty changes have taken place in this city! Look around you, citizens of Richmond, and contemplate the results of your own energy and industry, and then consider what your city will be, if you continue to push it ahead at the same rapid rate, in ten years more. If you will reflect upon it, this brief text is as good as a sermon.

“How typically self-congratulatory and unhelpful,” said Lizzie, sighing as she folded the
Enquirer
and slid it across the breakfast table to her nineteen-year-old niece, Annie. “Not a word of honest reflection about the problems confronting this city—this entire nation, for that matter—and the vast amount of work remaining until true justice is achieved for all men and women of all races.”

“Talking to the newspaper again, dear?” Mother inquired, sipping her coffee.

Lizzie smiled, but she felt a pang of worry and a sense of impending loss. Mother’s health and vigor had declined precipitously in recent months, but thankfully, her sense of humor was as deft as ever. “No, indeed. I was addressing you and Annie and little Eliza. The newspaper never replies.”

“I’ll always be ‘little Eliza’ at home,” lamented the seventeen-year-old.

“Probably,” agreed Mother, “unless someday you have a daughter of your own and name
her
Eliza.”

“They mention the fall of Richmond here too,” said Annie, touching a page of the newspaper. “In the ‘Briefs’ section. ‘Yesterday was the anniversary of the evacuation of Richmond by the Confederate troops.’”

“Aptly named,” remarked Mother. “That was brief indeed. I wonder, do two short mentions of the occasion equal one lengthy, thoughtful discussion?”

“Absolutely not,” said Lizzie. “The papers do us all a disservice. Tell me, Eliza, what do you remember of that day?”

Eliza smiled. “I remember watching the flames from the rooftop until you scolded us and sent us inside, and I remember that Annie and I begged you to take us out to meet the Yankees, and that you refused.”

“The city was on fire and we were still at war,” protested Lizzie. “What responsible auntie would have dragged two young children out into the streets in such circumstances? Anyway, you met plenty of Union soldiers in the days that followed.”

Laughing, Eliza agreed that she had, that indeed, they all had.

The passing of the years had not faded Lizzie’s vivid recollections of that tumultuous era. The burning of Richmond, the arrival of Union troops, the astonishing visit by Mr. Lincoln while the ruins yet smoldered—and then, not five days later, General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and his quiet, weary, subdued return to his residence at 707 East Franklin Street. The stunned and demoralized populace had welcomed him respectfully, as did many men in Union blue who counted themselves among his admirers although they had been mortal enemies only days before.

The surrender at Appomattox had fallen on Palm Sunday. On Good Friday, John Wilkes Booth, once a favorite performer on the Richmond stage, had crept into the State Box at Ford’s Theatre in Washington City, where President Abraham Lincoln was enjoying a performance of
Our American Cousin
with his wife and a younger couple, and shot him in the head behind his left ear. While Mrs. Lincoln screamed, Mr. Booth leapt over the railing of the box to the stage below, raised the bloody knife above his head, and shouted, “
Sic semper tyrannis!
” Thus always to tyrants—the motto of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

That night, Union regiments rushed from the city’s outskirts into Richmond, doubling patrols and street guards. In the morning, Lizzie did not have long to wonder why: The front page of the
Whig
, bordered in black, announced the terrible news that Mr. Lincoln had been assassinated.

In the erstwhile Confederate capital, Union troops, who had revered President Lincoln, lashed out in grief and wrath upon every former rebel soldier they could find, pouncing upon them with the ferocity of wild beasts, beating them, driving them from the streets. They were certain the assassination was the work of a vast conspiracy and that a rebel uprising was at hand. General Grant too suspected a wider conspiracy, and from Washington City he ordered the arrests of Mayor Mayo, the entire Richmond City Council, every paroled Confederate officer in the city, and several other officials. In Richmond, Union general Ord was reluctant to obey, pointing out to his commander that if the revered General Lee were thrown into Libby Prison, the rebellion might erupt anew. General Grant relented, and before long the anguished Union soldiers’ violent outburst too subsided. But the grief of the fragile nation newly plunged into mourning had only just begun.