The Spymistress (17 page)

“Can you get a message to her?” Lizzie implored, laying her hand on Captain Warner’s sleeve. Postal service between the North and South had been severed earlier in the summer, but diplomatic channels still existed, as well as enterprising private couriers who had managed to talk their way into receiving passes from both sides. “If not a telegram, then a letter?”

“I will certainly try.”

Lizzie nodded, deflated. A few other wives had been permitted to come to Richmond from the North to care for their wounded husbands in prison hospitals, earning themselves grudging praise for their womanly devotion from the people and the press. But even if a message reached Mrs. Huson, and even if she were granted entry into the city, it seemed unlikely that she would arrive in time. “Mr. Ely is his devoted friend,” she said. “Could you arrange for him to call? Even a brief visit might raise Mr. Huson’s spirits and encourage him to rally once more.”

“I am sure I can do that much,” Captain Warner replied in a choked voice. “He is a gentleman and I wish him well, though we have chosen opposite sides in the war.”

Although he abruptly turned away and strode into the sickroom, Lizzie was certain she saw tears glistening in his eyes.

She did not sleep that night but dozed in a chair by Mr. Huson’s bedside. His breathing had become so labored that any moment she expected the rasping sounds to fall silent and be heard no more. She held his hand, dry and burning hot, and spoke to him gently of his home and family, echoing back all that he had told her mere days before. When dawn broke, unable to bear it any longer, she shook Private Clark awake so he could attend the ailing man and sent Peter to prepare the carriage. Before long they sped off to the prison complex, where Lizzie hurried to Captain Gibbs’s office and begged to speak with Mr. Ely at once.

She found him at breakfast. “Mr. Ely,” she began, “I—I regret that I have very bad news.”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Mr. Huson cannot be dead.”

“No, no, he is not.” Lizzie took a deep, shaky breath. “But I do not think it is possible for him to live much longer. Will you come to see him?”

“Of course. I will come at once, if I am permitted.”

Lizzie rushed home and dashed upstairs, where she found her mother at Mr. Huson’s bedside, holding his hand and murmuring prayers while Private Clark bathed his brow. Mother looked up and caught Lizzie’s eye, and slowly shook her head.

Her heart plummeting, Lizzie hurried over and took Mr. Huson’s other hand. “You will be pleased to know that Mr. Ely is on his way,” she said with gentle good cheer, uncertain whether he could even hear her. “He will owe you a favor for arranging this brief parole for him. I think you should ask for his seat in Congress.”

She wanted to believe she saw the faint curve of a smile upon his lips, but she knew it was only wishful thinking.

She sat beside him as the moments slipped away, listening for the sound of the front door, heralding Mr. Ely’s arrival. Mr. Huson’s breaths came in shallow gasps, fainter and further apart, until suddenly Lizzie realized that a full minute had passed in silence. Her throat constricting, she pressed her ear to Mr. Huson’s chest and listened for his heartbeat, motionless and silent, listening, straining her ears, waiting, until she felt Mother’s hands on her shoulders. “He’s gone,” Mother said, pulling her upright. “He suffers no more.”

Lizzie nodded and stepped away from the bedside to allow Private Clark to confirm what they all already knew to be true. Not twenty minutes had passed since she had left the prison.

Moments later, Mr. Ely arrived accompanied by Captain Gibbs, who held Lizzie back while Mother led Mr. Ely to the sickroom. “We would have been here earlier,” he said, agitated. “Mr. Ely was ready to go, but I had some business to attend to, and—the delay is my fault, is what I mean to say.”

With an effort, Lizzie forced an understanding smile and patted him on the arm. “There is no need to explain, captain. Truly, you need say no more.”

Mother invited the visitors to accompany her to the parlor, where Caroline soon appeared with coffee and sandwiches. Captain Gibbs had no appetite, and indeed, crumbs from his breakfast toast yet remained in his beard, but the hollow-eyed Mr. Ely ate and drank everything placed before him. Mother suggested that they summon a photographist to come and take a likeness of Mr. Huson to present to his family, but by the time the artist arrived, the body had become so changed that Mr. Ely decided it would be better not to attempt it in his present condition, as the image could afford no satisfaction to his family and friends.

The undertaker was summoned, and Mr. Ely took the lead in arranging the details of the funeral and burial, which they decided should take place at four o’clock the following afternoon. When Mr. Ely pressed him, Captain Gibbs agreed that the most prominent officers and close friends among the prisoners should be permitted to attend. The congressman also requested a metallic coffin in the event that Mr. Huson’s family might someday wish to exhume and rebury the remains in his native country, and again the captain consented, but queried, “Who will bear these expenses?”

Before Lizzie could declare that she would be honored to pay every bill, Mr. Ely said, “I will, of course. Did you think I would submit a bill to the prison? What a question. It is beneath you, sir.” Captain Gibbs glowered guiltily but said nothing.

The following day, the Reverend John F. Mines, a prisoner from Maine, presided at the funeral service held in the Van Lews’ parlor, with Lizzie, John, their mother, Mr. Ely, Eliza Carrington, Captain Warner, and the undertaker in attendance. Afterward, the hearse and four carriages headed out to the Church Hill Cemetery, where Mr. Huson was laid to rest.

“Patrick Henry is also interred here,” Lizzie told Mr. Ely when none of the Confederate officers could overhear, hoping to comfort him. “Thus even though Mr. Huson’s grave is far from home, in a hostile land, he is yet among patriots.”

. . .

Two days later, the sun rose upon a beautifully crisp autumn day. The loveliness of the morning lifted Lizzie’s spirits somewhat, and so after breakfast, she spent time in the garden, weeding and pruning, accepting the warmth of the sunshine like a benediction from above, lost in thought. When she knelt on the ground and felt the cool dewy grass through her skirt, she almost felt as if she were praying.

“You,” came a harsh shout from behind her. “Miss Van Lew!”

Startled, she craned her neck to discover a man in his middle years on the other side of the fence, glaring at her. Instinctively, she began to rise, but a cramp in her calf forced her to fall back upon her hip, holding herself up with her arm.

“I hardly know how to respond to such a summons,” she managed to say. “Are you accustomed to shouting at ladies over fences? Because I assure you, we are unused to such forms of address on Church Hill.”

“You Yankee filth should all be hanged,” he shouted, his face an ugly, red mask of antipathy. “You should be driven into the streets and slaughtered!”

Stunned, Lizzie could only stare at him as he yelled and shook his fist, white spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. After a while, she pushed herself to her feet, took up her basket and pruning shears, turned her back to him, and walked mechanically back to the house, his angry tirade a stream of nonsense syllables burning in her ears.

Chapter Nine

OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 1861

A
fter too many fearful, sleepless nights, Lizzie decided to seek protection from the one person every secessionist would surely obey—President Jefferson Davis himself. By all accounts he was a gentleman, Lizzie reasoned, and as a gentleman he would be compelled by the rules of honor and chivalry to respond if an unmarried lady and her widowed mother appealed to him to keep them safe from harm.

Informing only Eliza of her intentions, Lizzie set off. When she arrived at the president’s office, his private secretary, Mr. Josselyn, informed her that Mr. Davis could not see her.

“Oh, what a shame,” said Lizzie. “I trust he is not ill.”

“No more than the usual,” replied Mr. Josselyn, but then he caught himself. “The president is well, thank you. He is in a cabinet session.”

Smiling hopefully, Lizzie gestured to a nearby chair. “I would be content to wait.”

“They may not be finished until after midnight.”

Somewhat deflated, Lizzie nonetheless seated herself. “I’ll wait as long as I can, and with any luck, they’ll finish early.”

He seemed torn between wanting to ignore her and wanting to speed her on her way. Apparently the latter won out, because after a moment, he said hesitantly, “May I be of assistance instead?”

“Perhaps you can.” Earnestly, she explained how her acts of benevolence for the Union prisoners of war had turned the citizens of Richmond against her, and that she and mother suffered terrifying threats of violence, and that fear for their safety compelled them to appeal to President Davis for protection.

When she finished, Mr. Josselyn scratched his head, bemused, and folded his arms over his chest. “Could you not appease the people’s anger by dispensing your Christian charity to Confederate soldiers instead?”

“It would hardly be Christian charity if I dispensed it only to the popular and the deserving. Did not our Lord go among the lepers and tax collectors?”

“Yes, he did,” the secretary admitted, and heaved a sigh of resignation. “Very well. I’ll pass along your concerns and your request to the president.”

Relieved, Lizzie stood, and offered him her first genuine smile of the interview. “That would be most gallant of you.”

“I cannot promise that he will help,” Mr. Josselyn cautioned. “I think you would be better off appealing to the mayor in the meantime.”

Lizzie promised to follow his advice, and she did so promptly, with much the same result. Mayor Mayo was out, or so his secretary claimed, but he would be informed of her concerns.

Later that day, Eliza Carrington burst into the parlor, outrunning William in her haste. Lizzie broke off from explaining to her mother why they ought to give the servants a larger raise than usual at Christmas—prices for everything money could buy had been increasing steadily throughout Richmond ever since the war began—and regarded her friend with mild surprise. “My goodness, Eliza. Whatever is the matter?”

“I’m glad to see you,” she exclaimed, breathless. “I thought for certain I would next visit you in prison. Did you see the president?”

“What?” asked Mother. “You told me you were going to visit your brother at the store.”

“I may have ridden past and waved.” Lizzie beckoned Eliza to join her on the sofa. “I did not see the
president
. The president is Mr. Abraham Lincoln and he is, as far as I know, more than one hundred miles north of here, toiling away in the White House to bring a swift end to this dreadful war. I did, however, speak with
Mr. Davis
. Well, not with Mr. Davis but with his secretary, and with Mayor Mayo’s secretary after that.”

“And?”

“And I was assured of their sympathy.”

Eliza put her head to one side, skeptical. “Their sympathy is welcome, I’m sure, but are they going to do anything to protect you?”

“That remains to be seen.” Abruptly Lizzie rose and went to the narrow desk by the window, where she found paper and pen and ink. “I should write to Mr. Davis immediately.”

“Whatever would you say to him?” wondered Mother.

“Don’t tell him he isn’t the president,” Eliza begged.

“I concur,” said Mother. “He thinks he is, and he will not take it well if you deny it.”

“Listen to you two. You think I have no common sense at all.” Lizzie pretended not to notice the guilty look they exchanged. “I am going to thank him for his time,” she said as she wrote, “and for turning his attention to our plight. I am also going to wish him good luck in the upcoming election, and assure him that if I were permitted to vote, I would vote for him.”

Mother’s eyebrows rose. “Would you?”

“Of course. He is frail and sickly, and he does not relish the job, although no one could say that he is not utterly faithful to his duty. Mr. Stephens, on the other hand—though he is vice-president now, he was a reluctant secessionist. If one of Mr. Davis’s frequent illnesses should claim his life, or if a stray bullet should strike him down on one of his many excursions to cheer the soldiers—”

“Lizzie,” Mother exclaimed, and Eliza too looked shocked. “It is unbecoming of a lady to wish for a man’s death.”

“I don’t wish for it,” Lizzie protested. “Honestly, what do you think of me? But death comes to us all, and if it should come to Mr. Davis while he is in office, it would be a blessing for everyone, North and South alike, if a reluctant secessionist succeeds him.”

Mother and Eliza exchanged another look. “She makes a fair point,” Mother admitted, and after a moment to consider, Eliza nodded.

“And so I
do
wish for Mr. Davis’s reelection,” Lizzie declared, signing her name with a flourish. “But I cannot say I hope he completes his term.”

“The war will be over long before then,” Eliza said stoutly. “It cannot last six years more.”

This time, it was Lizzie and her mother who exchanged a look—one full of doubt, and worry, and wistful hope.

Lizzie was disappointed but not surprised when neither gentleman acknowledged her visit, or her letter, or her plight. Glares and accusations followed her wherever she went, and so she spent more and more time indoors, telling herself she was simply accommodating the change of seasons, but knowing the truth—she was anxious and afraid.

She resolved to find another way to convince the people of Richmond that the Van Lews were loyal to the rebel cause—and soon, she was inspired by a solution that would divert suspicion and raise their own downcast spirits.

With Mother’s blessing, she wrote to Cousin Jack’s commander with the Richmond Howitzers and invited them to a grand dinner and reception in their honor at the Church Hill mansion. When he gladly accepted, Lizzie sent out invitations in her mother’s name to the most prominent families of Church Hill, including the Lodges; the other ladies of Mary’s sewing circle, their husbands, and their daughters; Mary herself and John; and, for good measure, General Winder, Captain Gibbs, and Captain Warner, the prison commissary who had been so kind to Mr. Huson in his final days. A few neighbors coldly declined, but nonetheless, on the appointed evening the mansion was filled with happy guests, eager for a pleasant diversion and an opportunity to honor one of Richmond’s most respected regiments. Cousin Jack enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when he was not at the side of one charming young lady or another, he could almost always be found courteously attending Mother, his aunt and hostess. “My aunt has always been a friend to the Confederate soldier,” Lizzie overheard him proudly tell General Winder. She felt a pang of guilt for not correcting his misapprehension; the Van Lews’ love, concern, and affection for Cousin Jack did not extend to every Confederate soldier except in the broadest humanitarian sense.