by Karen Abbott
In a letter to the War Department, Benjamin Butler praised Elizabeth for furnishing “valuable information during the whole campaign” and requested that John Van Lew be allowed to come home from Philadelphia. She had joyous reunions with her brother and numerous members of the Richmond Underground who had fled in the final months and weeks of the war. Mary Jane Bowser returned too, taking a job teaching two hundred black children at a newly established school in the Ebenezer Baptist Church; she would go on to teach in Florida and Georgia. In November, General Ulysses S. Grant, accompanied by his wife, Julia, visited Richmond during a brief tour through the South. He barely stopped to shake hands with local officials but spent an afternoon drinking tea with Elizabeth on her veranda, in full view of the neighbors, who would never forgive her for what she had done. “She had no moral right to speak of the people of the South as ‘our people’ and as ‘we,’” wrote one. “She had separated herself from us. And, the women of the South being so loyal, so self-sacrificing, so devoted, she made herself not only notorious but offensive. She was vain enough to imagine that she was called upon to make herself a vicarious sacrifice.”
Thirteen days after being inaugurated as president, Grant nominated Elizabeth as postmaster of Richmond, one of the highest federal offices a woman could hold in the nineteenth century. It was also one of the most lucrative, paying up to $4,000 per year, and she desperately needed the money. She had depleted a large portion of her estate during the war, spending thousands on food and supplies for Union soldiers and bribes for Confederate officials, and hinted to her Northern contacts that compensation would be welcome. The head of the Bureau of Military Intelligence, George Sharpe, campaigned on her behalf, writing a letter to Congress in which he declared that “for a long, long time, she represented all that was left of the power of the US government in the city of Richmond.” Nevertheless Elizabeth received only $5,000, one third of what she wanted. Her brother’s hardware business was in such dire straits that she wrote to Grant begging him to employ John, as well: “I earnestly entreat you will give him a position which will enable him to make his living, something which our community has refused to permit him to do—He is an earnest & faithful Republican.” And unlike Rose, Emma, and Belle, she refused to write a memoir, believing that to do so would be in “coarse taste.”
Southern newspapers vehemently opposed Elizabeth’s appointment—one opined that Grant had chosen a “dried up maid” who planned to start a “gossiping, tea-drinking quilting party of her own sex”—but she began her work unfazed, moving into the Custom House building downtown, where Jefferson Davis once kept an office on the third floor. Post offices had long been bastions of male privilege (“respectable ladies” were encouraged to avoid them altogether and send servants to pick up the mail) and she set about changing the culture, slowly and methodically, in her own way and time. She requested that Virginia newspapers refer to her as “postmaster” instead of “postmistress” and hired numerous female postal clerks, including her friend Eliza Carrington, whose seamstress had been an integral part of the Richmond Underground. She also employed black postal workers, among them her family’s former slaves—a practice that, in the tumultuous atmosphere of Reconstruction, made her unpopular even among some Unionists.
President Grant remained loyal and retained her during his second term. As she had during the war Elizabeth refused to wilt under the increased scrutiny, and flung her behavior in the faces of her critics. She spoke publicly about “the thirst for knowledge among our colored citizens” and sponsored a library for them. Before the presidential election of 1876 she sent an impassioned plea to Northern Democrats, printed in both Washington and Richmond newspapers, urging them to repudiate their counterparts in the former Confederacy. She spoke of votes rigged against Republicans, of Southern whites who still wielded whips, of the “gross personal insults” she constantly endured. She signed off with a lament about her own disenfranchisement. “As a woman,” she wrote, “I have no power but through your vote.” When her beloved mother, Eliza, died, she couldn’t find enough pallbearers to carry the casket. Neighbors ridiculed her service, calling it the “nigger funeral.”
After the election of Rutherford B. Hayes, a moderate Republican who promised to end Radical Reconstructionism—the idea that blacks were entitled to the same rights and opportunities as whites—Elizabeth had to fight to keep her job. Her opponents called her erratic, eccentric, mentally unstable, and masculine; any vigorous attempts to defend herself only seemed to prove them right. In May 1877, Hayes replaced her with the moderate William W. Forbes, who at least kept many of her black and female hires.
Elizabeth mourned the loss of not only her position and influence but also her income. Her efforts to sell off various family properties proved fruitless. No one in Richmond would even give her a fair mortgage on the mansion. She put it up for sale, thinking she would never again sit by the fireplace that hid her dispatches or peer into the secret room, but each offer was too insulting to accept. She sought out her old friend Ulysses S. Grant. “I tell you truly and solemnly I have suffered,” she wrote. “I have not one cent in the world. . . . I am a woman and what is there open for a woman to do?” She asked Grant if he might persuade current president James Garfield to make her postmaster again. Grant agreed, but his efforts were in vain.
At last Elizabeth retreated, withdrawing entirely from public life. She had no target for her ferocious will. Her one political act was to attach a note of “solemn protest” to her annual tax payment, declaring it unjust to tax someone who was denied the vote. In 1890 she watched as her city erected a sixty-one-foot-tall statue of Robert E. Lee on horseback before a roaring crowd of 100,000. She felt there was no place and no one left for her. Her brother John had moved and was living with his second wife and their children on a farm in Louisa County. He died in 1895 at age seventy-five. His older daughter—her niece Annie—lived with her husband in Massachusetts. Eliza, the younger niece, was all she had, and a strange distance had come between them—the sort of fraught, crackling distance that can come only from being too close. Eliza had never married and still lived with her in the mansion. The same neighbors who had shunned Elizabeth, who had warned their children away from the parched, wizened old lady with the sharp blue eyes and curled, clawlike hands, also grew wary of her niece. The daily rejection and isolation wore at Eliza; they were no longer welcome even at St. John’s Church, since Elizabeth had made a habit of barging in late and disrupting the service. The pastor had taken to locking the doors once all of his regulars were inside. She told her aunt that if she had a child and it became a Republican she would kill it rather than watch it suffer her same fate. She cleaned the mansion with a grim, manic energy, flitting like a hummingbird among its fourteen rooms. If Elizabeth tried to stop her Eliza turned on her in fury, ordering her to leave.
Elizabeth Van Lew (bottom left) in the garden of her mansion, circa 1895.
(Valentine Richmond History Center)
Terrified, Elizabeth obeyed, spending hours wandering the city, aware of every person who crossed the street to avoid catching her eye. She began gathering relics of her life, piece by piece, and donated them to the poor: the exquisite china and fine silverware, the antique furniture, the family photos in gilded frames. The famous backyard gardens grew tangled and overgrown, years of planning and care undone. Eliza cleaned and cleaned. Elizabeth asked for one favor: that she leave up the decorations from their last Christmas together, in 1899. In the spring of the following year Eliza became unexpectedly and severely ill, and died on the tenth of May. Elizabeth had hovered by her bedside, weeping, “Save her! Save her! I love her better than anything in the world.”
Richmond waited for Elizabeth to follow. In August she read her own obituary, complete with pictures of herself and Ulysses S. Grant and tales of her espionage during the war. “They say I am dead?” she asked a reporter. “Well, I am not, but I am very feeble and sick. My heart is heavy and I am sad. My hours are lonely and l
ong.” She died on September 25, 1900, at age eighty-two, and was buried in Shockhoe Cemetery, across from the graves of her parents. Because the family plot had insufficient space, her casket was positioned vertically in the ground. A group of abolitionist admirers in Boston, including Colonel Paul Revere—the grandson and namesake of the Revolutionary War patriot—raised money for a memorial stone:
SHE RISKED EVERYTHING THAT IS DEAR TO MAN—FRIENDS—FORTUNE—COMFORT—HEALTH—LIFE ITSELF—ALL FOR THE ONE ABSORBING DESIRE OF HER HEART—THAT SLAVERY MIGHT BE ABOLISHED AND THE UNION PRESERVED.
Soon after her death, the people of Richmond—adults and children alike—began reporting sightings of the ghost of “Crazy Bet.” She haunted her own home, now owned by a civic organization, casting the outline of her figure against the basement walls, scaring the servants to death: “I done hear Miss Lizzie walkin’ ’bout,” one said. “I knowed all ’long she was here.” The city condemned the mansion in 1911 and had it torn down the following year, but Elizabeth’s ghost still stalked the streets. Parents warned their children, “Crazy Bet will get you” if they misbehaved.
The sightings continued as late as World War II. In 1943, one Richmond woman, out for a walk with her young son, felt a cat brush against her leg. Suddenly the cats were everywhere—Elizabeth was rumored to have dozens—and then the woman heard the soft rustle of taffeta. When she turned she saw her: Elizabeth, in a black Victorian dress, a beribboned hat perched upon her head, her face like dried fruit beneath its brim. The ghost waved her hands and spoke in crisp, urgent tones. “We must get these flowers through the lines at once,” she said, “for General Grant’s breakfast table in the morning,” and with the push of the wind she was gone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I hadn’t given much thought to the Civil War until one summer day in 2002 when I found myself stuck in traffic on Route 400 outside Atlanta, idling for hours behind a pickup truck emblazoned with a bumper sticker: DON’T BLAME ME—I VOTED FOR JEFF DAVIS. As a native Philadelphian newly transplanted to the Deep South, I was struck by the idea that Civil War personalities and politics lived on, in ways both frivolous and sincere, nearly a century and a half after the last body was buried and the final sacrifice made.
During the long process of researching and writing this book I depended on the assistance, generosity, and kindness of numerous people. First and foremost, I am deeply grateful to Bart Hall, the great-grandson of Elizabeth Van Lew’s niece, who graciously shared family lore and insights about Elizabeth’s extraordinary life. The next white clam pie (or two) at Pepe’s is on me.
Cathy Wright, the curator at the American Civil War Museum (formerly the Museum of the Confederacy) gave me a personal tour of the museum, read an early draft, and shared numerous anecdotes that made this a much richer book. David Gaddy, a former CIA code breaker, answered dozens of questions and vetted the manuscript with patience, humor, and grace. Karen Needles, intrepid director of the Lincoln Archives Digital Project, tracked down countless documents and helped me navigate the National Archives. Matthew Boylan, of the ASK NYPL division of the New York Public Library, lent his formidable research skills and wise counsel. Keith Hammersla of the Martinsburg Public Library helped me understand, and bring to life, the strange and indomitable Belle Boyd. Ray Swick, historian with the Blennerhassett Museum, located archives that hadn’t been seen in decades. Dorothy King cheerfully tackled several queries about all four spies.
Special thanks to my former editor Julia Cheiffetz, whose passion for this story (and for strong female characters in general) inspired me from the very beginning, and to my former editor Susanna Porter, for her friendship and ongoing support.
My editor, David Hirshey, enthusiastically took the reins on this book and guided it expertly to completion. I am eternally grateful for his skills, friendship, humor, and penchant for happy hours. Ditto for Michael Morrison, who has gone above and beyond the call of duty to support me and this book, and who made HarperCollins feel like home. Barry Harbaugh’s sage comments were invaluable during the rewrites. The indefatigable Sydney Pierce is a godsend and a saint.
I owe my deepest gratitude to the entire HarperCollins team: Jonathan Burnham (who offered his spirited support from the beginning); the brilliant and tireless publicity/marketing team of Jane Beirn, Katie O’Callaghan, Tina Andreadis, and Rebecca Welbourn; production editors Emily Walters and David Koral; designer Michael Correy; digital media producer Marisa Benedetto; and all of the reps who worked to get this book into readers’ hands.
I am incredibly lucky to have Simon Lipskar as my longtime agent and friend, even though he is the worst sore winner in history. Just wait till next time, babe. Thanks, also, to Joseph Volpe, for keeping all the wheels turning.
Early versions of my manuscript were turned over to a number of trusted friends who were generous enough to offer valuable advice and encouragement. Joshilyn Jackson and Sara Gruen cheered me on from the beginning and talked me off the ledge at regular intervals; I am thankful every day for their friendship. Emma Garman offered her sharp, critical eye and unflinching support in all things. Gilbert King, who knows a thing or two about telling a good story, made savvy suggestions that improved this book immeasurably. Anna Schachner is a brilliant line editor and a devil with a red pen. Meredith Hindley and Holly Tucker lent their vast historical knowledge and well-honed narrative instincts, and Matthew Goodman his astute judgment and big-picture sensibilities. Lydia Netzer talked me through each character and asked exactly the right questions. Alexandra Shelley’s structural suggestions and margin notes proved indispensable. The Writers Room provided me with a peaceful place to write and ample storage for my books and files.
Thanks also to the numerous friends who dragged me out for cocktails, spurred me on, or otherwise helped out along the way: Kathy Abbott, Mary Agnew Turley, Nick Barose, Brooke Berry, Jason Buck and Scott Sjue, Patti Callahan Henry, the Coven (aka Bess Lovejoy, Michelle Legro, and Angela Serratore), Katie Decker, Laura Dittmar Kutina, Jennifer Fales, Chip and Susan Fisher, Tom Frail, Brian Wolly, Beth France and Susan Ciccarone, Jess Graves Bianco, Ramona Huegel, Sandy Kahler, Denise Kiernan, Susan Keyock, Rick Kogan, Erik Larson, Alison Law, Elisa Ludwig, Meenoo Mishra, Melisa Monastero Steinberg, Laura Neilson, Gesha-Marie Bland-Sebrien, Maud Newton, Jack Perry, Renee Rosen, Anne Scarborough, Rachel Shteir, Martin Starger, Neal Thompson, Steven Wallace, the “Warriors” (Vanessa Beasley, Christine Jones, Eric Laursen, Miranda Nessler, Lynn Ramey), Philip Weiss, and Chuck Wilson. An extra huzzah to the marvelous, big-mouthed booksellers who have hawked my wares over the years, and Book Club Queen Kathy Murphy.
And finally to Chuck Kahler: You’re the best and I’m the luckiest, and that is the last word.
NOTES
Splendid and Silent Suns
“Extry—a Herald!”: Linden, Voices from the Gathering Storm, 197.
“hates the Yankees”: Chesnut, Diary from Dixie, 48.
“domestic insurrection”: Jones, Rebel War Clerk’s Diary, 12.
“Down with the Old Flag!”: Brock Putnam, Richmond During the War, 18.
“many a bitter experience”: Sandburg, Lincoln: The War Years, 3:253.
backing up orders with violence: Harper, Women During the Civil War, 341.
“It merely looks unbecoming”: Heidler, Heidler, and Coles, Encyclopedia of the American Civil War, 2143.
“Wear these, or volunteer”: Ibid.
The Fastest Girl in Virginia (or Anywhere Else for That Matter)
“the fastest girl in Virginia”: Sperry Papers, 72.
fifteen thousand of them: There were 14,344 men in the Department of Pennsylvania, but only 3,500 made it across the river to fight at Falling Waters before the Confederates withdrew. US War Department, The War of the Rebellion: Official Records (hereafter cited as OR): ser. 1, 2:187; Gary Gimbel, “The End of Innocence: The Battle of Falling Waters,” Blue & Gray, Fall 2005.
a few as young as thirteen: Wiley, Life of Billy Yank, 299.
“ro
mantic spot”: Boyd, In Camp and Prison, 63.
four cannon and 380 boys of his own: Harper’s Weekly, July 20, 1861; OR, ser. 1, 2:187. Colonel Thomas Jackson (he was not yet a general nor nicknamed “Stonewall”) reported that 380 men engaged at the battle. In most instances, for the sake of simplicity, I use “General” regardless of a character’s specific rank at the time.
twenty-one wounded and three Yankee dead: Gary Gimbel, president of the Falling Waters Battlefield Association, e-mail to author, October 2011. These numbers differ from both the Union and the Confederate official reports. “The object of North and South,” Gimbel explains, “was to both raise the morale at home by exaggerating the damage to the enemy and by overstating the size of the opposing forces to hopefully receive more support in men and material.”
enlisted as a private in Company D: Muster roll record for Benjamin Reed Boyd, 2nd Regiment Virginia Infantry, May 11, 1861.
a general sadness and depression: Boyd, In Camp and Prison, 59.
voted three to one against secession: Phillips, “Transfer,” 16–17; Keith Hammersla, director of information services at Martinsburg Public Library, e-mail to author, November 2011.
five for the Confederacy and two for the Union: West Virginia Public Affairs Reporter (Bureau for Government Research, West Virginia University) 19, no. 4, Fall 2002, 7.
