Kate nodded before putting a finger to her lips and gesturing at the strangers surrounding them in the train car.
As Kate shifted in her seat and then shut her eyes, Hattie stared at the passing landscape out the window. Trusting a man was a new experience for Hattie. Her father had been a cruel man and even her older brother Aaron ran away from home at sixteen, leaving Hattie to suffer her father’s wrath. She had no idea of her brother’s whereabouts, however, and as Aaron’s exploits eventually made national news, Hattie’s parents were determined to keep Hattie misinformed and away from the public eye. Although Hattie was only 18, they arranged for her betrothal to a family friend, Stewart Smith. He’d been born in Tennessee and was a former slave owner. After they’d married, Stewart took Hattie to Kansas, where he purchased a few slaves. He was brutal to both the slaves and Hattie. She knew he kept a mistress, a beautiful mulatto girl, who became pregnant. When Hattie had the gall to suggest that he free both the mother and his soon-to-be child, Stewart beat his wife until she was unconscious.
When Hattie had somewhat recovered from her injuries, she read that John Brown and his followers were in Kansas, stirring up riots with slave owners. She wrote to Aaron and told him that she needed his help in escaping from her husband. She didn’t have a plan, exactly, but knew she had to get away from Stewart before he killed her. Aaron’s strategy was simple: the night he arrived, Aaron slipped laudanum in Stewart’s whiskey, causing him to pass out. Aaron and Hattie took most of the Smith slaves with them, including Stewart’s concubine, who gave birth to the baby along the journey. Hattie never heard any information on what happened to the slaves, but she hoped they found emancipation in Canada.
Hattie adjusted her seat, secure in the fact that even if they hadn’t, the nation, under President Lincoln’s guidance, would soon see that all men were free. She closed her eyes, pleased in the fact that she would play at least a small part in ending the practice of human bondage forever.
Chapter 10
Mary Jane
August 1861
The Richmond Examiner caught wind of Miss Lizzie’s aid to the Federal prisoners, stating that she was using her “opulent means in aiding and giving comfort to the miscreants who have invaded our sacred soil, bent on raping and murder, the desolation of our homes and sacred places, and the ruin and dishonor of our families.”
“Humph,” Miss Lizzie tossed the paper aside. “What causes more dishonor than enslaving people?”
“The paper also warns that you could be exposed as an alien enemy and suffer the ensuing punishment,” Mary Jane warned.
“It doesn’t mention me by name, though. No one would dare imprison a woman as an alien enemy, not even that traitor Jeff Davis.” She caught herself and glanced over at Mary Jane. “If you don’t want to continue coming with me to the prisons, I understand.”
Mary Jane sighed. “I, more than anyone, want a favorable outcome to this war, I’m just not sure giving them food and clothing is enough of a contribution.”
“Indeed,” Miss Lizzie mused. “Perhaps we could be doing more.”
Miss Lizzie’s solution to avoid suspicion was to add to the already circulating rumors that she was a bit mad. She began dressing in well-worn dresses, covering them with a moth-eaten shawl and whispering to herself on the street. But all the Richmonders would have had to do was peer into Miss Lizzie’s deep blue eyes to see that her cunning was still intact, her intelligence unscathed.
The next day Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane paid yet another visit to Ligon’s Warehouse, this time bringing Lieutenant Todd an offering of gingerbread cookies.
“I’ve heard that the prisoners are in want of books to occupy their time,” Miss Lizzie informed Todd when they reached his office.
“Is that so?” he asked, his mouth full of cookies. “I have doubt those Yanks can read, but,” he finally swallowed, “I don’t take issue with it, so long as you’re not passing out abolitionist trash.”
Miss Lizzie held up a copy of Moby Dick. “No, sir. You won’t find me reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Mary Jane smiled to herself. Her mistress had given a copy of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s best-selling “fictional” account to everyone in her household, with the exception of her sister-in-law. Miss Lizzie’s own version was dog-eared and underlined in several parts.
Todd gestured toward the door without rising. “By all means.”
The prisoners were, as always, grateful to see the women and even more so when they presented the books, passing them out to eager hands until only Moby Dick remained.
Miss Lizzie asked a nearby captain if any of the men knew how to operate a telegraph machine.
The captain indicated a young man in civilian clothes.
“I think you’ll find this one quite interesting,” Miss Lizzie told the telegraph operator. “Particularly right here,” she said, opening to a specific page before handing it to him. Mary Jane had carefully stuck a pin through the margins near the front of the book, using Morse code to ask if they had any information regarding the Confederate troops.
The young man ran his fingers over the tiny holes and smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“And I also heard that you men are in desperate need of a needle and thread,” Miss Lizzie said in a loud tone.
“Now, wait a minute,” the guard started forward.
Miss Lizzie focused her stern gaze on him. “My servant and I can’t possibly keep darning these Fed’s socks. They will have to learn on their own.”
The guard smiled. “Just so long as you don’t tell that to my wife.” He nodded at the telegraph operator. “I expect to see all those holes in your uniform mended.”
“Yessir,” the man said, accepting the sewing supplies from Mary Jane.
The following day, the operator handed the book back to Miss Lizzie, telling her it was “very interesting, indeed.”
Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane distributed their latest supplies, both women eager to get home and see if the men were able to provide them any information.
The day had dawned cloudy, but it was even darker when the women left the warehouse, the clouds heavy with impending rain. Miss Lizzie wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. The novelty of the Yankee prisoners had gradually worn off and Miss Lizzie and Mary Jane no longer had to deal with angry crowds when going to and from the prison. But today Mary Jane could sense someone following them as they started for home. She quickened her pace, sensing as Miss Lizzie did the same without speaking that she too was aware of their pursuer. Unfortunately, they had to pause at Franklin Street for a passing carriage.
“You dare to show sympathy for those Yankee swine?” a gruff voice spoke behind them. “I would shoot them as I would blackbirds. We know what you and your darkey are up to, and there is something on foot against you now.”
Neither woman turned around. As soon as the carriage passed, they crossed the street. When they dared to look back, the man was nowhere in sight. The two took the long way home, walking down Franklin Street instead of Grace, Miss Lizzie glancing now and then to make sure no one else was behind them. Although Mary Jane figured they’d lost their pursuer, both women’s steps sped up anyway as they neared Shockoe Bottom, the area that Richmond’s slaves often referred to as “the Devil’s Half Acre.”
While it was true that the Yankee prisons were overcrowded and filthy, they were nothing compared to McDaniel’s Negro jail, located on the lowest point of the hill. It was part of a complex of several brick buildings known as Lumpkin’s Alley which included the slave-trader Robert Lumpkin’s apartments—where he lived with his former slave wife and their many children—and boarding houses where potential buyers from all over the South stayed before they ventured to the nearby auction blocks to take stock of their potential property. The jail served as both a holding pen for its human cargo before they were “sold down river” as well as a prison for misbehaving slaves. Mary Jane had been arrested for being the latter soon after she returned from Liberia—it was il
legal for a woman who had been educated up North to return to Virginia. Because Mary Jane was a free Negro that was caught without having a certificate of freedom, according to the Fugitive Slave Act, she could be sold back into slavery if her master did not claim her.
Mary Jane had blocked out most of the memories of her month of incarceration, but now the smell of rot and decay brought a million loathsome recollections back to the surface: the cries of the slaves being tortured in the whipping room, a girl younger than herself being stripped down so a potential buyer could examine every inch of her body, the meager diet of rancid meat and trickles of water. She and the other captives had been kept chained and their clothes grew tattered, their hair and skin fetid with sweat and vermin.
As they passed, Mary Jane sighted the gallows where slaves whose crimes reached beyond whipping, such as Gabriel Prosser, the leader of the slave rebellion, were hanged. He was probably buried somewhere in Lumpkin’s Alley, along with the thousands of others who didn’t survive the harsh conditions of the prison.
If Miss Lizzie noticed Mary Jane’s breathing had grown heavy, she did not comment and kept her eyes on the street in front of them. Miss Lizzie never talked about Mary Jane’s arrest—it was Old Mrs. Van Lew who had paid the fine of $10, telling the judge that Mary Jane was one of her most valuable servants, and if she wasn’t to be returned, then the courts would owe her money. When Mary Jane had at last returned home, Miss Lizzie pretended the whole thing had never happened. But the experience lived on in Mary Jane’s nightmares and served as one of the reasons she was so determined to help end the practice of slavery.
They finally crossed over to Grace Street and Mary Jane once again tried to put her past behind her, reminding herself that the best way to earn emancipation for all blacks would be for the Union to win the war.
“What does it say?” Miss Lizzie demanded when they were safely ensconced in her room, the door locked behind them.
Mary Jane, somewhat recovered from her earlier panic, flipped to the back of the book. “Let me see.” She traced her finger along the new holes. “Gen. T.J.S/ Wash. City.” She looked up at Miss Lizzie, her eyes wide. “I think he means Stonewall Jackson is planning an attack on Washington City.”
“It can’t be.” Miss Lizzie sat back.
“But it would make sense. The Confederates are still riding high on their victory at Bull Run. And the Capitol is not far from Manassas Junction.” Mary Jane set the book down. “The problem now is how to pass on this information to the Union authorities.”
Miss Lizzie nodded. “I will reach out to some of my contacts and see what I can do.”
The next day, Miss Lizzie called Mary Jane into the kitchen. Miss Lizzie’s brother John had taken his wife and daughters for a carriage ride in the country, and Miss Lizzie sent the rest of the servants out of the house on various errands. The house was empty save for Mary Jane, Miss Lizzie, and her visitor, whom she introduced as Thomas McNiven, the baker. “He specializes in tea cakes, scones, and running secret messages via the Richmond Underground,” Miss Lizzie told Mary Jane.
All three pairs of eyes peered around the kitchen, but they were alone. “I make deliveries in my truck,” McNiven said in a thick Scottish accent. “People refer to me as Quaker. I’m told you can read and write.”
“Yessuh,” Mary Jane affected her “slave” accent.
“You are going to want to code any intelligence you can glean. Take down this cipher. The alphabet will be assigned to numbers, but A will start with number 7, and then continue to 14, except 13. F will be 21, then back to 15. The second half of the alphabet will start with 77 and continue on, except 81 and 84, which will be 13 and 2… why aren’t you writing, girl?”
Mary Jane shut her eyes and repeated, “Number 7 to 14 except 13; number 21 back to 15, and then 77 except 81 and 84 will be 13 and 2.” She opened her eyes. “Ain’t no need to write it down for prying Rebel eyes to find, suh.”
McNiven raised his eyebrows as he glanced at Miss Lizzie. “I told you she was good,” Miss Lizzie stated.
“I can have one of my contacts stationed outside the Van Lew farm, but you are going to need to get the messages there on your own.”
Miss Lizzie turned to Mary Jane. “Isn’t it about time you visited your husband?”
Mary Jane narrowed her eyes. She had known that Miss Lizzie had an ulterior motive for her marrying Wilson Bowser, but this seemed almost underhanded, even for her. Had she known about McNiven’s underground network all along and was just waiting for the right time? That seemed too deceitful for even Miss Lizzie, but you never knew.
Mary Jane finished copying the information into a cipher on a tiny sheet of paper and then used the same needle she coded Moby Dick with to delicately empty an egg of its contents. She then carefully slid the message into the hollow shell via a small slit and then placed the fragile egg into a basket of unaltered eggs.
“Does my husband know about the Underground?” Mary Jane asked Miss Lizzie as she prepared to leave.
“Yes,” Miss Lizzie said simply. “But no one else at the farm. The fewer people who are acquainted with our work, the better.”
“Do you trust this McNiven? He knows I can read, now, in addition to this situation,” Mary Jane held up the basket. “Not to mention that man on the street the other day.”
“That man made idle threats. I haven’t thought about him again, and I suggest you don’t either. But McNiven is worthy of our trust—I’ve known his mother-in-law for years. Before the war he was a conductor for the Underground Railroad.”
Mary Jane nodded. “And Wilson?”
“He will still be your husband when the war’s over.” Miss Lizzie focused her shrewd eyes on Mary Jane. “A conciliatory gesture would go far in securing your relationship.”
Mary Jane wanted to retort that she needn’t take marital advice from a spinster, but she bit her tongue. Miss Lizzie carefully placed a bakery box of cookies on top of Mary Jane’s basket. “This was going to be a present to Mr. Bowser from me, but you can tell him it’s from you.”
The conveyance of the message was the easy part—a rider came to the farm just after Mary Jane had arrived. He tipped his hat, told her his ailing wife would appreciate the eggs, and then rode off.
The conciliation part was much harder. Wilson was understandably upset that his wife had chosen to live in other accommodations besides what he could provide.
“We’ve had this discussion before, Wilson. Old Mrs. Van Lew needs me at the house.”
“Why would Miss Lizzie consent to our marriage if she had plans for you to live there?”
“I don’t think she thought her mother would become so sickly.” Mrs. Van Lew, in fact, was no more sickly than ever, but Wilson did not know that.
“Well, can we at least be together as husband and wife while you are here?”
The last thing Mary Jane needed was a baby. “I’m sorry, Wilson, I can’t.” She hoped that he would assume she meant she was having her monthly course, which she wasn’t, but it sounded like a valid excuse.
Wilson must have understood because Mary Jane slept in Miss Lizzie’s vacant bedroom at the farmhouse while Wilson slept in his outbuilding. She still held no ill will toward Wilson—in fact, she almost wished that she could fall in love with him, if she was still capable of having such feelings. But she knew her mission was hard enough without a family. Perhaps when the war was over, they would be united in freedom like the millions of other families, white and black alike, who had been forced to endure separation because of the conflict.
When morning came, she bid her husband farewell and headed back to her duties at the Van Lew mansion.
Chapter 11
Belle
August 1861
“Miss Belle, you’d better come quick. A Yankee be lookin’ for you.”
Belle had been enjoying the silence of the peach orchard before Mauma Eliza had bustled from the house.
Belle sighed as she rose. She thought briefly of t
he letter she had asked Mauma Eliza to deliver the previous week. “You managed to get that letter to General Jackson’s camp, didn’t you, Mauma?”
“Yes’m I did, Miss Belle.”
Belle’s heart hammered as she went downstairs, hoping the Yankees hadn’t somehow gotten word of her underground activity.
The man standing in the doorway introduced himself as Captain James Gwyn, assistant to the provost marshal of the Union army.
“What do you want with me?” Belle asked.
“I was told to escort you to headquarters.” He offered her his arm, but Belle strode past him.
“Tell Mother I might be late for dinner,” Belle called over her shoulder to Mauma Eliza. Her confident tone belied her nervousness. Not only was Belle’s handwriting distinct, she had signed her name at the bottom of the letter in what she now realized was a foolish move.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she arrived at headquarters and met the colonel, who held that very letter in his hand. “Do you realize the punishment for aiding the enemies of the United States Government?”
“No, sir.” She refrained from adding that she didn’t care: that her goal was to incriminate pompous Yankees like him.
“I could have you jailed, or even hanged.”
Belle met his eyes, giving him her most pitiful look.
“But I won’t. Consider this a warning—you must not ever do this again. Do you understand?”
Belle curtsied, hiding a triumphant smile with a bowed head. She had gotten away with only a mere admonishment. The colonel either didn’t consider her a threat or else one of her neighbors had intervened on her behalf. “Yes, sir.” She let herself out of his office, vowing, not to quit, but next time to disguise her handwriting.
Though Belle’s mother was unaware of her daughter’s underground activities, she thought it would be safest to leave the occupied town of Martinsburg for her brother’s house—Belle’s uncle—in Front Royal, Virginia.
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