The Spy on the Tennessee Walker

by Linda Lee Peterson

  But my dalliance with Eli was simply that, nothing more. Although, of course, as we grew older, I knew that he had feelings for me. And while our experimentation was enjoyable, and while Eli knew a great deal for a very young man, that experience paled next to my feelings for Gabriel.

  Oh, feelings! They were everything to me. I was drunk with love, craving Gabriel’s hands and lips and those arms that could sweep me off Courage and into a lover’s embrace. I began to understand the irresistible draw of a drug. As my patients grew dependent and frantic about morphia, so I found myself craving Gabriel. In the woods, in his sister’s house when she was away, in a hidden bend in the river…I grew to understand how desperation leads to foolish risks.

  One summer day we had gone to our favorite secret swimming hole. We were floating in the river, Gabriel on his back, enfolding me, as we both looked up into the cloudless sky, when we heard the snap of a branch breaking. In an instant, we were out of the water. Gabriel stood in front of me. A man emerged from the thicket, his rifle cradled in his arms.

  “Let me see who you’re hiding, boy,” he said.

  Gabriel stepped forward, “I was taking advantage of this woman. And I am heartily ashamed.”

  “She does not look as if she is trying to get away from you.” He gestured to me. “Come here.”

  “No,” said Gabriel, detaining me. “This is between you and me, sir. This woman is blameless.”

  “Let me go,” I said to Gabriel, as coldly as I could.

  I walked directly to the man. “How can I thank you, sir?”

  He looked me over, puzzled but intrigued. My undergarments were completely soaked and pasted like sheer wallpaper to my body. I tentatively reached out a hand to him. Behind me I heard Gabriel’s breath, quickening.

  He took my hand. “I am sorry to be so…in disarray and so wet,” I said. “But I would count it a favor if I could offer a chaste kiss in gratitude for your kindness.”

  “Right after I tie up this nigger.”

  “Oh,” I protested, as I slipped my arms around his waist. “I am so cold, right to the bone. Will you warm me for a moment first? Then I will help you with the tying up.” I looked over my shoulder. “He’s not going anywhere,” I said, with contempt.

  His free arm encircled me, my mouth found his, as un-chastely as possible. I could feel his body stirring. And then, in an instant, I snatched the rifle from his loosening grasp. His face flushed red with rage.

  “Stand down, sir,” I said. “I will shoot you.”

  He looked at me, he looked at Gabriel, and he started toward me. I kept my word.

  In a matter of moments, we had dressed and I was astride Courage. We were both weeping; we were both trembling; but we did what we had to do. And we never returned to the swimming hole again.

  I am a murderer. But when Gabriel was in danger, I fought with what I had. I do not expect to be forgiven for what I did in this life or the next one. But I am at peace.

  CHAPTER 31

  VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1863

  Eli visited to regard my disguise and to weigh in on the sight of me in a Confederate cavalry uniform, somewhat grander and more colorful than the infantry garb. Our wedding rings gave him privileges to come and go as he pleased at Mrs. Marshall’s boarding house. “Now, Virgil,” said Eli, waving his hand in a circle like an impresario. “Take a turn around and let me look at all aspects of you.”

  I turned slowly to accommodate his scrutiny.

  “Not bad,” he said. “You look quite…unremarkable.” He came close to me and put his hands flat on my chest. I refused to flinch. He smiled, and took a step back. “And how have you made your womanly shape disappear?”

  “I’m a nurse,” I said brusquely. “Strong, strapping bandages are useful even when one is not injured.”

  “Nicely done.”

  I regarded myself in the glass, and the two rows of shiny buttons glinted back at me. “You men talk about women’s vanity,” I said, “and I give you this silly, furbelowed cavalry uniform as exhibit one that men are true peacocks at heart.” I found the whole ensemble a little silly: bright yellow trim on pants and coats, with officers adding a yellow sash. “Eli?” I said, when he didn’t answer. But he was all business now and had more orders to issue. “You have to do something about your complexion, Vic. You are too fair, and your skin is too delicate.”

  His mandate to me was to ride Courage every day, hatless and gloveless, and sure enough, within a few weeks, the skin on my face had darkened and lost its smoothness, and I had calluses on my hands. Of course I could not conjure a beard, but as Eli pointed out, “Soldiers are rarely a clean lot, and if you are not so scrupulous in your toilette, the dust and dirt will hide the fact that there are no whiskers sprouting.” Together, we had decided that if I gave my age as sixteen, no one would look too closely at the face of a tall young cavalry volunteer, not yet in his full manhood and hence not yet whiskery and coarse.

  Courage was my trump card. The Confederate cavalry ranks were diminishing, and since I was joining up as a mounted soldier, I brought not only myself but a fine, healthy horse to this adventure. I knew he would draw more attention than I would, and that suited me down to my high boots.

  April 10, 1863, was the date we settled upon for my debut as a Confederate soldier. Through Eli’s always useful connections, I was accepted into the First Brigade of the North Carolina Cavalry as a volunteer enlistee, wearing gray and yellow but working for blue. Eli’s sources predicted a series of fierce battles coming, as the Union’s promising Fighting Joe Hooker rallied his exhausted forces and began to plan an assault against General Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. The day I made my way to the front was April 29, Jeremiah’s twenty-third birthday, and with Gabriel’s help and willingness to send contraband telegrams on my behalf from time to time, I was able to get my good wishes to Jeremiah on his actual birthday. “May be out of touch dear brother. Traveling to new post soon. Worry not, will be near old friends, the Chancellors. Yours V.” Meanwhile, Lee was now welcoming all recruits, dismissing details of birthplace, experience, or history. I had been welcomed into my cavalry brigade, a volunteer unit, led by Brigadier General Wade Hampton. The Confederates were sixty-two thousand strong, but Hooker’s largesse (he brought onions and potatoes for all, we heard) and his energy had revived the crushed spirits of his troops, and their numbers were growing daily.

  On April 30, I saddled up with my fellow cavalrymen, and we began our progress toward the Chancellorsville Wilderness. We passed George Chancellor’s handsome redbrick house, and I fastened my gaze on the upstairs windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girls who had been my playmates as children and friendly competitors at dances for the most handsome partners as we made our debuts as young ladies within months of each other. But all was dark and quiet at the home that had once seemed so familiar to me, and I turned face forward as the sky darkened, marching with my fellows into the bracket and bramble of the Chancellorsville wilderness. Rumors were that Hooker’s men were crossing the Rappahanock that very evening, and I thought again how silly this all seemed: Johnny Reb and Billy Yank marching blindly into darkness.

  CHAPTER 32

  MAGGIE

  UP IN THE AIR

  “The Red Badge of Courage,” I said to Michael. He ignored me. He was in his classic airplane mode. We’d boarded in Memphis and settled in our favorite configuration — Michael on the aisle, me in the window, no one in the middle seat. He’d eaten his peanuts and mine and was savoring some dark, malty brew and working his way through a complex gift agreement on his laptop. When I first heard that expression — “gift agreement” — I pictured Santa, surrounded by warring factions of children and elves, wisely adjudicating the issues that resulted in better contents for everyone’s stockings. Of course, it’s not nearly that interesting. Just a lot of legal back and forth so donors are recognized appropriately without hog-tying the beneficiary into naming a building after a horse or something, in perpetuity. “Planet Earth t
o Legalandia.”

  Michael sighed and looked up from his laptop “We’re not on planet Earth, we are up in the air, that’s number one, and number two, I’m really busy, figuring out how to demonstrate the many beauties of an irrevocable trust.”

  “Sounds dreadful. I’ve been reading about the Battle of Chancellorsville, which was the first time Victoria/Virgil was in combat — and General Lee’s greatest triumph.”

  “That blowhard Hooker led the Union troops, right?” Here’s what I love about my husband. I knew he’d rather get right back into charitable-foundation machinations, but he’s such a geek about learning stuff, I can usually seduce him away from his legal minutiae for at least a few minutes.

  “Right. Hooker thought it was going to be a walk in the park — his men were better fed, and he commanded almost double Lee’s forces. But Hooker was a disaster — reorganizing, putting in new and mostly incompetent commanders, and then investing all his poor troops with an unfortunate sense that this was theirs to win. Wait, there’s a perfect quote from him….” I flipped to the page I’d marked in the book Beau had lent me. “Here it is. Hooker says, ‘My plans are perfect, and when I start to carry them out, may God have mercy on General Lee, for I will have none.’”

  “It didn’t turn out that way,” said Michael.

  “Nope. In the end, Hooker had to retreat back across the Rappahannock, and Lee’s army was triumphant. Though there were heavy losses on both sides, and the Confederacy lost Stonewall Jackson, which was devastating to their cause.”

  “Can’t remember. Was Jackson killed in battle?”

  “No, that’s the irony. He was shot by accident by his own men, when they ran directly into some Union troops at night and everyone just started firing in the dark — probably not the best strategy. Jackson’s arm was amputated, and he was expected to live, but then he got pneumonia and died just a week or so later.”

  “Now I remember,” said Michael. “And didn’t they end up burying his arm in one location and the rest of him somewhere else? Or is that a myth?”

  “Not at all. NPR did a story on it a few years ago. When Jackson’s arm was amputated, it was on its way to being discarded on top of a pile of other severed limbs right outside the surgery tent.”

  Michael shuddered. “Yeah, I remember that awful scene in the Lincoln movie.”

  “Exactly. But everyone knew who Jackson was, and so the military chaplain decided to rescue his arm and give it a decent burial.”

  “Where?”

  “At Ellwood Manor, not far from the hospital where Jackson had been treated. Big backstory on Ellwood Manor: William Jones built it around 1790 and grew grains and corn, kept slaves to get the work done, of course. Anyway, years go by, Jones’s wife dies, and Jones grieves for five years. Then, he finds a way out of his sorrow. Now seventy-eight, but apparently still frisky, Jones marries Lucinda, his late wife’s grandniece, age sixteen. In his will, the old dude leaves both the houses — Ellwood Manor and their fancier place, Chatham Manor — to Lucinda, the young wife, on the condition that she doesn’t remarry.”

  “Old guys! Such manipulative beasts,” said Michael. “I can’t wait till I’m old enough be one of those fine fellows.”

  “Good luck with that. I can’t find even one manor in our real estate portfolio, never mind two. So anyway, the shameless old man and the lovely Lucinda did have one daughter, and when Lucinda finally decided she was going to defy Jones’s wishes and remarry, that daughter inherited the houses. And when she fell in love, she married a schoolteacher named James Horace Lacy.”

  “How did we wander away from Stonewall Jackson’s arm to Lucinda Lacy? I’m assuming she did take his name?”

  “Indeed she did. But here’s how we circle back to the beginning of the story. James Horace Lacy had a brother named Beverly Lacy. Jackson had recruited him to launch the chaplain corps in northern Virginia, and —”

  “He’s the guy who rescued Jackson’s arm and had it buried,” said Michael. “See I can still connect a few dots.” He took a sip of his beer. “So where’s the rest of Jackson?”

  “Lexington, Virginia, in a place now known as the Stonewall Jackson Memorial Cemetery.”

  “And Virgil/Victoria was in the fray?”

  “Appears so, though I couldn’t find any details. But we know she wasn’t listed as a casualty — and they were awful in number, more than thirty thousand. Here’s a weird, terrible thing: Chancellorsville was considered the bloodiest battle ever fought in America — until a few weeks later, when Gettysburg’s casualty toll was upward of forty thousand.”

  We both fell silent. The flight attendant came by. “Can I get you two another beverage?” In unison, we said yes. Beer for Michael, red wine for me. Michael looked at me. “I’m wondering.…”

  “What?”

  “How soon can we register the boys as conscientious objectors?”

  I shook my head. “I think that’s a do-it-yourself job — the boys would have to register themselves. You know, I always start out on these pursuits thinking it will be interesting, I’ll be solving some puzzle or problem.”

  “Is that what we’re calling your ‘unannounced sideline’ — ‘pursuits’? I’m more comfortable with something like, let’s say, UMOs.”

  “I’ll bite. I have no idea what a UMO is.”

  “Unauthorized Meddling Opportunity.”

  “Hey,” I bridled, “sometimes people ask me to get involved.”

  “Cara, you invited yourself — and me — on this adventure.”

  “This is different! This is my family. Don’t you want to know the family secrets?”

  Michael sighed. “I’m going to go back to something safe like my gift agreement in a few minutes, but I think you need to consider what happens when secrets become public. Perhaps you’ve forgotten what it was like being in an unwelcome spotlight after our piddly little scandal went public.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that. What’s the rest of your mantra?”

  “I’m an idiot, I’m sorry, and I’ll never be unfaithful again.”

  Michael nodded. “Excellent to hear you say it. Maybe half a dozen times a day would be instructive.”

  “I’ll make a note of that. Anyway, secrets are mostly lousy, I think. They divide people into those who know and those who don’t. It’s like a bad riff on class warfare. Information warfare.”

  Michael laughed. “You may have coined a phrase right there, little Miss-Let’s-Reveal-All. And I know that all this information about Victoria is interesting. It’s shocking, too. But I think you might ruminate about what Victoria might have wanted.”

  “I have. And you know what else? I think Beau had been ruminating about what Victoria would have wanted. Unconsciously, I think that’s why he had Phoebe send me that photo, the one that makes me look like a long-lost twin of Victoria’s. He wanted to start something, and he needed some help.”

  “And you were going to be his trusted Gal Friday in this discovery process?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But Beau takes this genealogy stuff very seriously. He’s a scholar at heart, I think, and he wanted to share what he’d learned.”

  “He’s a scholar, he’s a gentleman, but he’s also a Southerner, and I’m not sure how the rest of Victoria’s descendants might welcome all these revelations.”

  “Why? Victoria was a hero!”

  “Yes, we think she’s a hero. But let’s consider the facts of her life. She was a spy. She killed a man, admittedly to save Gabriel from certain death. She was a cross-dresser. She was married three times, once to a black man, defying miscegenation laws. And she quite likely endangered the lives of two of her three husbands.”

  “Eli, Gabriel, and then finally Great-Great-Great-Grandpa Jules. My grandmother Alma knew him, but he died long before Victoria did.”

  “And Victoria didn’t marry again? Third time was the end of the charm?”

  “Guess so.” I saw Michael’s gaze creeping b
ack to the laptop. “Go on,” I said. “I didn’t mean to take you away from philanthropic wheeling and dealing.”

  “Okay. But why were you talking about The Red Badge of Courage when you first interrupted me?”

  “Oh, yes, Stephen Crane’s novel. It was supposedly based on the Battle of Chancellorsville, even though Crane was born after the Civil War. I’d read it, but I’d forgotten what the red badge of courage was supposed to be.”

  “Blood, I’d guess,” said Michael.

  “Exactly right. So awful to think that’s what young soldiers thought they needed to be a man.”

  I reached into the seat back pocket and fished out a tatty-looking copy of The Red Badge of Courage. “I’m reading it again. Used copy at Square Books — it called out to me, for two bucks.”

  And we both read our way home.

  CHAPTER 33

  VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, MAY 8, 1863

  TWO DAYS AFTER CHANCELLORSVILLE

  Despite the unexpected Confederate victory, so many of my fellow cavalrymen had been wounded or killed in Chancellorsville that those of us who were unmarked, and still had healthy mounts, were pressed into immediate service.

  I volunteered to ride to Chimborazo and transport essential medicines back to the Wilderness Tavern–turned–hospital. Midway through my eleven-mile ride, I took cover in a heavily forested glen, stepped out of the clothes that had disguised me as Virgil, and unstrapped the bandages wound round my breasts, and in a twinkling, I was Victoria once again, complete with a bonnet to hide my shorn locks. Fear and hope motivated my surreptitious metamorphosis. Fear that my fellow nurses at Chimborazo would not be fooled by my masquerade, hope that coming as an old familiar friend would yield more information. At first, Courage didn’t seem to notice the change at all. But as he felt the swirl of my skirts when I swung my leg across the saddle, he turned his head back to look at me, as if puzzling over what had happened.