The Spy on the Tennessee Walker

by Linda Lee Peterson

  “Hold still one more minute,” I said as I wrapped the last bandage and tucked the ends inside. He looked in amazement at the clean white strips obscuring his wound. “You’re done?”

  I nodded. He struggled up to a sitting posture, and I tucked a coarse pillow behind his back. “Finish telling me about the Angel,” I said, “and then I have to see who else needs help.”

  He grabbed my hand. “You won’t believe this. Sergeant Kirkland just couldn’t listen to those Union boys crying out anymore. He marched right up to General Kershaw and asked if he could offer them some comfort. At first, I heard that Kershaw said no. But Kirkland just kept asking, and I guess because they come from the same county, General Kershaw finally gave in and told him he could go over the wall and see what he could do.”

  I perched on the edge of young Ezra’s cot and took his hand. His face was white with exertion, trying to tell his story and do his fellow soldier justice. “Kershaw told him he might be shot, but I guess Kirkland said he would take his chances. So he filled up a bunch of canteens with water and stepped out onto the battlefield. He went from man to man with water, and then he came back to our line and took some clothing and blankets.” Ezra shook his head. “For a long time, he went back and forth, back and forth.”

  “And no one fired a shot?” I asked.

  “Not a one.”

  “How old is Sergeant Kirkland?”

  “Year older than me. Nineteen.”

  That night, when I finally fell into bed, too tired to remove anything but my boots, I could not stop thinking about the “slaughterhouse” imagery young Ezra had conjured. I thought of my long days and nights, cleaning, bandaging, coaxing dying men to have a little lukewarm broth, cleaning up from one amputation after another. That night I made my decision. Nursing alone was like being on a waterwheel. We just kept coming back to the same wretched place, a place of dying men, ruined families, sometimes brother against brother, and the wheel would turn and we would start all over again.

  I fell asleep and dreamed of Courage. In my dream, the Angel of Marye’s Heights was riding my horse. Horse and rider cantered up to the split-rail fence outside the hospital where Courage was usually tied up. The Angel dismounted and held out his hand to me. I reached out to take his hand and he began to fade away, a little bit at a time. But I heard him say, “You and Courage, you should be getting yourselves into some trouble, my friend. It is time.”

  CHAPTER 25

  VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1862

  She is a fearsome and fearless teacher, Mrs. Greenhow. On each visit after Eli’s introduction, ostensibly paying her a call out of compassion and concern for her young daughter, I learn something new.

  I would bring ribbons with me to braid in Little Rose’s hair. She would stand at my side, and I would brush the tangles out of her tresses, and then Mrs. Greenhow and I would visit, trading tales, as women do, about our families, our favorite foods, no longer available in time of war, and even our thoughts on women’s fashion.

  Hairstyles were of particular interest. The guard who was always standing nearby, barely listening to our highly unexciting female chatter, found our conversations mystifying.

  “I don’t know how you ladies can find so much to discuss about hairdressing,” he would say. We would turn our blank countenances to him, smile distractedly, and return to our work.

  Of course, it was work indeed, disguised by our seemingly empty-headed trading of local gossip and fashion. Rose’s access to paper and pen was very limited, since the guards felt sure she was writing coded secrets and looking for ways to smuggle what they considered traitorous information out of the Old Capitol Prison. Indeed she was, as her many conquests in the Union government worshipped at her altar. So skillfully did Rose share information she’d gleaned that Union security became as leaky as a sieve. One day Rose asked the pink-faced young guard if she could try a new hairdo on me. He narrowed his eyes at her, swept his gaze to me, then back to Rose. She tilted her head, whisked her fan once or twice, and said, “Oh, Sergeant, it is so sultry out here in the yard. I think that Miss Cardworthy would be so much more comfortable if we could get her beautiful hair rolled right up on top of her head.”

  The young sergeant stammered another objection or two. Rose beckoned him closer. “Now, Sergeant, you know that the Bible says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. All I want to do is take very good care of Miss Cardworthy’s crowning glory. And you,” she said, with a conspiratorial tap of her fan on his hand, “will have first look at the beautiful nape of her neck that will be revealed.” She leaned closer to Sergeant Pink Cheeks and whispered, “You know, she is renowned for the beauty of her neck. She is a…” She hesitated, seemingly searching for the right word, and then she lit up. “She has a neck like a swan, and I think you are going to enjoy that sight like no other today.” She turned to me. “Miss Cardworthy, if Sergeant Ames allows us the privilege of carrying out my vision for your elegant hairstyle, will you allow him to admire your neck?”

  I pretended to think the matter over. “I believe I will. But no touching.”

  He blushed. “You ladies talk circles around me, Mrs. Greenhow.”

  She laughed. “Now Sergeant, will you be kind enough to bring me my scissors? I am going to show Miss Cardworthy a wonderful trick with some ribbons, but I need to make a few snips here and there.”

  Poor Sergeant Ames. He was lost before the battle had begun.

  And after delivering the scissors, with what was surely meant to be a stern admonishment that he would be collecting them as soon as Mrs. Greenhow was done, he settled himself on a bench to watch the proceedings.

  For the next hour, Mrs. Greenhow gave me a brisk lesson in concealing notes in the carefully rolled and twisted coils of hair. As we sat in plain view of poor, addled Sergeant Ames, she used ribbons as stand-ins for notes and showed me how to conceal anything — a note, a map — in my hair.

  Ames, however, was not quite as dim as he appeared. “Mrs. Greenhow,” he called out, when asked to admire my completed coiffure, “I don’t understand. You can’t see the ribbons at all, they’re completely hidden. What’s the point of ribbons no one can see?”

  But of course, Rose had an answer. “Oh, dear Sergeant, that is the mystery and the pleasure of this hairstyle. The only one who sees Miss Cardworthy’s…ribbons will be her lover. He will unfurl each coil, gently, gently, and find the gift of a ribbon in each one. A secret gift — just for him. Along, of course, with any other…surprises Miss Cardworthy chooses to share.”

  Ames’s pink cheeks turned scarlet. “Oh…oh,” he stammered. “Of course.” He looked down at the ground, anywhere not to meet our eyes.

  Rose stood and laid her hand on his cheek. “Dear Sergeant, I fear you might have a fever. Your face is burning hot.”

  “I’m fine, just fine, ma’am. But perhaps I will fetch a jug of cold water for us all.”

  “Oh, that is a marvelous idea,” said Rose. “You want to be cool and refreshed while you admire Miss Cardworthy’s beautiful swan neck.”

  And off he went, leaving just enough time for Rose to pluck a knitting needle from her sewing bag and scratch the beginning of her cipher key in the dirt.

  “Next month,” she whispered, “my sources tell me the commander wants to send me away. You must come again each week so that we can finish the cipher before I am gone.”

  CHAPTER 26

  MAGGIE

  OXFORD

  When Beau and I returned from our walk, Michael and Phoebe were still dawdling over breakfast. The day’s papers — the Memphis Commercial Appeal, The Wall Street Journal, and The New York Times — had been dismantled and distributed. Michael had possession of all the sports news, and Phoebe was completing the crossword puzzle in ink, as is the tradition in our family. Michael always points out that it’s not because we get everything right, it’s just because we’re an arrogant bunch.

  “What news from town?” asked Phoebe.

  “Not much,” said Beau. �
�Oh, I’d say that Missy Weaver’s trip to Memphis was cosmetic in nature.”

  Phoebe raised her eyebrows, “Really? I thought she had given all that up after the case of the misaligned ears during her last disappearing act to Memphis.”

  I was puzzled. “Beau, did I miss something? I don’t remember speaking to anyone named Missy Weaver this morning.”

  Beau shook his head. “It’s all the art of observation, honey. You’re not the only detective in the family.”

  “Merciful God,” said Michael. “I cannot deal with another sleuth.”

  “I’ve got it!” I said. “Tall, skinny blonde in leopard leggings? Sunglasses and a big hat.”

  “That’s Missy,” said Phoebe tartly. “I think she’s spending every last penny of her late husband’s estate on foolishness and vanity.”

  “Easy for you to sound so superior, Mrs. Cardworthy,” said Beau. “You were beautiful the day I met you, and you’re even more beautiful today.”

  “Foolishness,” said Phoebe. “We are all as God made us and that should be the end of it.” She considered for a moment. “Well, except for finding an extremely skilled colorist, of course. The Bible says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory.” I reached for the orange juice pitcher. Where had I just heard that expression? And then I remembered…Victoria’s journal.

  Michael put down the local sports page and made a frowny face. “I’ve always thought we could live in your town, Beau. But there’s not enough sports coverage in any of these papers. How do you live with that kind of deprivation?”

  “Good thing there’s twenty-four-seven ESPN,” I retorted. “I’m sure there’s some compelling track and field event in Perth or East Jesus, Texas, and I’m sure ESPN is covering it.” I saw Michael ready to protest and segue into his longstanding, ever-expanding soliloquy on why all news should be sports news; when last I heard that particular speech it had something to do with stock market movement, the consumer price index, hemlines, and tattoos. Or wait, was it waistlines and wigs and the perennial favorite, wardrobe malfunctions? I decided to cut him off before a stem-winder took wing.

  “Beau, I have one big question. Now, we know that Victoria was a spy, but here’s what I don’t understand. Was it for the Confederacy? Or for the Union? I’m still not sure. I know Rose Greenhow taught her all those spycraft skills, and Rose was an unrepentant Confederate booster. But somehow it seems that Victoria must have worked for the Union side, given her relationship with Gabriel. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Well, Gabriel was a free man by the time the war got under way, so aside from fellow feeling for those of his people who were enslaved — and I’m sure he felt that — you have to remember, he didn’t have a personal dog in that fight. But what you ask is an interesting question. The reality was that many of the medical staff members — whether they were in a Confederate or Union hospital — treated whatever soldiers came their way. I don’t know what created that culture — maybe the Hippocratic Oath or just the decency of people who were willing to care for others. From the staff lists I’ve been able to locate from the hospitals, Victoria certainly started in a Confederate hospital.”

  “Chimborazo in Richmond, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So if she did switch to the Union side — for her work in Armory Square and maybe other hospitals and, perhaps, in espionage as well — when did she do that? And why? And wouldn’t she have been a figure of suspicion? And what about Eli Mays? I still don’t know why Victoria married him.”

  “Those are all reasonable questions, Maggie,” said Beau. “And I can suggest ways you might be able to find answers, but this is why genealogical research is so slow. Every question can take you in many directions. It is slow, taxing, meticulous work, honey.”

  I thought of how we’d made fun of Uncle Beau over the years for clipping and keeping all those brittle, pee-colored newspaper articles, and for his room-size wall charts that chronicled the Cardworthy births, deaths, marriages, divorces, and, of course, our favorite, the footnoted scandals.

  “I know how hard you’ve worked on all this, Beau. I’m just a spoiled brat wanting to learn everything right away — but you’ve always been the gentleman with the answers.”

  Beau shook his head. “Well, sometimes I think I was answering questions nobody had asked.”

  “Okay, now I’m asking,” I said. “Project one: Is there some kind of online record about the staff in the Union hospitals?”

  “Better than that. There’s a record, all right, and it is online, so I downloaded it and printed it out for the years we know from the journals that Victoria was working as a battlefield nurse and then a hospital nurse — so from mid-1861 to about 1864.”

  “She stopped before the war ended?”

  “Indeed she did. She went to prison in 1864, though as it turned out, she continued working as a nurse, caring for fellow prisoners. She actually had a fair amount of latitude to move around the Old Capitol Prison.”

  “They treated her like a ‘trusty,’” I said.

  “A trustee? Like a member of the board?” asked Phoebe.

  Beau patted her check. “You are such an innocent, darlin’. T R U S T Y,” he spelled. “That’s what inmates are called if they are considered trustworthy. And they get special privileges and responsibilities.”

  “And,” I pointed out, “you know where the term was first used? Right here in Mississippi in the early 1900s, at Parchman Farm, because the prison was supposed to be self-supporting and even generate some profits. So instead of a full staff, they used inmates they could trust. The most privileged were the ‘trusty shooters,’ equipped with shotguns to keep guard on the other inmates.”

  I was just getting warmed up, but the room had grown silent.

  “Let me answer the question you’re all wondering about,” said Michael. “I have no idea how a woman who cannot understand the most basic geometry of properly loading a dishwasher can learn and retain all this arcane stuff.”

  “Women defenders,” I said. “You know, those gals I worked with during the Limousine Lothario case? They taught me all sorts of interesting…history.”

  “Well done, Maggie,” said Beau. “I like a girl who knows a lot. That’s why I married your Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Yes,” muttered Michael. “But Phoebe can load a dishwasher, too.”

  CHAPTER 27

  MAGGIE

  OXFORD

  It was 10 a.m., Beau and I were well fortified with coffee, and we managed to persuade Phoebe and Michael that we needed all hands on deck. The four of us climbed two flights of stairs in Phoebe and Beau’s house to the attic, which had been converted to a combination girls’ dormitory and playroom. “Five granddaughters,” I said as we opened the door. “I can’t imagine what the giggle factor must be in this room when they’re all in town visiting.”

  “You know, I miss a lot of that,” said Phoebe. She perched on the window sill and straightened a few stray teacups on the kid-size table. “I miss all the tea parties and oh, my, how those girls could talk, talk, talk, and probably tell me things I had no right to know.”

  “Really?” I said. “Those little granddaughters would reveal their secrets to you?”

  “Theirs, and sometimes I’d hear things I probably shouldn’t have heard about their mamas and daddies. But they knew I could keep a secret.” Phoebe made the universal zip-the-lip gesture to seal the deal.

  “Speaking of secrets,” said Michael, “is that what brought us to the inner sanctorum of little-princess-land up here?”

  “You bet,” said Beau. “Where better to hide family secrets than in the attic?”

  Beau sat on the edge of one of the beruffled twin beds and pulled off his shoes. Then he stood on the bed, stretched up, and pulled on a rope. A set of wooden stairs came down, landing neatly right next to the bed.

  “Okay,” said Michael. “Just tell me what I’m looking for, I’ll go up and get it. I’d just as soon not see you climb up that little stairwa
y to heaven.”

  Beau protested, but Michael prevailed.

  “Big red boxes,” said Beau, “the kind that have those little nooks for storing ornaments after Christmas.” Michael docilely accepted Beau’s offer of a head strap equipped with a miner’s light.

  “You look exactly like an extra in How Green Was My Valley,” I volunteered. “Very Welsh miner in the dark.”

  Michael ignored me and disappeared into the dark. We stood underneath the entrance to the attic, looking up as if we were watching for meteor showers — or expecting the roof to fall in. Several thumps and a few expostulations later, he reappeared in the opening.

  “Lots of those red boxes,” he said. “Which ones do you want?”

  “We’re looking for the one that says ‘Hospitals, 1861 to 1865,’” said Beau. “And be careful. Once in a while a critter gets in there and makes a nest. You don’t want to step on something, dead or alive.”

  Michael mumbled something unintelligible. “Couldn’t hear ya!” called Beau. In a few moments, I heard a cheerier sound. Michael thumped his way back to the opening, and slowly his body re-emerged, feet, legs, torso, and arms — holding a dusty red box.

  We had a few minutes of drama while Phoebe spread an old sheet on one of the beds to protect the ruffles from the dust. Then Beau lifted the lid and we all peered inside and saw yellowing folders, stacked in two rows, each holding equally yellowed, brittle papers.

  One row was labeled Confederate Hospitals; the other Union.

  “Here we go,” said Beau, cheerfully. “I knew there was a reason to save all these documents.”

  “And exactly what are they?” asked Michael.

  “What we were talking about — staff lists from the most important hospitals.”

  “Can I look inside the folders?” I asked Beau.

  “Of course, of course, honey — that’s why we got ’em down. We’re going to do a little primary-source research project — well, these are copies of primary documents, but still, they’ve been in the attic long enough to be historic themselves!”