As the senior prisoner, the energetic Congressman Ely did what he could to boost morale. Not long after Manassas, he and the other officers formed the Richmond Prison Association “for mutual improvement and amusement.” Mr. Ely was elected president, and the association’s first order of business after choosing a vice-president, secretary, and treasurer and toasting themselves with tepid water from a wooden pail was to design an official seal—a swarm of lice arranged in a circle with the motto, “Bite or Be Damned.” Their meetings featured recitations, debates, card games, or music, with “Home Sweet Home” a particularly favorite song.
Neither the entertainments offered by the Richmond Prison Association nor the comforts provided by Lizzie, Eliza, and an increasing number of colored servants—their own, or those employed by other anonymous Unionists, or acquaintances of Mary Jane who came of their own accord—could make the prison tolerable, and occasionally prisoners would attempt to escape. On September 5, Colonel de Villiers, a surgeon with the Eleventh Ohio Regiment, stole a Confederate officer’s coat and hat, hid behind the prison gate until he heard the guards offer the challenge and countersign, and used the password to make his exit through the front gates. The following night, two enlisted men stole out a first-floor window and fled all the way to the foot of Libby Hill before they were shot by members of the Louisiana Battalion stationed nearby. Ten days later, four men escaped from the prison depot but were pursued by guards to Rocketts Wharf, where one of the fugitives was shot and killed, a second was mortally wounded, and the two others were compelled to surrender. Three nights later, six more prisoners, undeterred by the deaths and recaptures of their comrades, fled the prison and disappeared into the city, eluding their frustrated pursuers, who eventually gave up after a vigorous but fruitless search.
“We have heard it alleged,” the Richmond Whig opined tartly, “in explanation of the escape of so many federal prisoners from the factories in this city, that the sentinels are more vigilant in keeping outsiders out, than in preventing the egress of insiders. There is some plausibility in this allegation, as it is a fact that if a citizen projects his big toe half an inch over the ‘line,’ on the sidewalk in front of either factory, he will be requested to make a retrograde movement of the offending foot; whilst those who are passed in are suffered to depart, without much, if any, questioning. The officers in command should reform this practice, if it be still continued, as it is far more important to keep strangers in than to prevent them from entering.”
Lizzie knew Captain Gibbs had read the report, for she overheard him in the yard the next day, berating the guards for their inattention and negligence. They must have taken the criticism to heart, for not quite a week later, she learned from the Enquirer that it was no longer necessary for a prisoner to lean out a window to be shot by guards patrolling outside:
A YANKEE PRISONER KILLED BY A SENTINEL.
—A Yankee prisoner, named N. C. Buck, a member of the 79th New York Regiment, confined in the lower prison, near Rockett’s, was shot and instantly killed, about 1 o’clock Saturday morning, by one of the sentinels who kept watch over the building.—The latter observing the Yankee to approach the window in a suspicious manner, as if contemplating an escape, ordered him away several times. To these repeated commands the prisoner returned an insolent and defiant refusal, and the sentinel finally leveled his musket and fired. The ball struck the luckless Lincolnite in the stomach, inflicting a terrible wound, which terminated his life in a very few moments. The sentinel has not only been exonerated from all blame in the matter, but has received the applause of the proper military authorities for his prompt and decisive conduct in carrying out his instructions. The unfortunate Yankee was buried during the evening, in the burial ground at the foot of Third street, set apart for the interment of the Federals who may shuffle off their mortal coils in this locality.
It came as a dizzying shock to learn about such a terrible event from the newspaper considering that Lizzie spent so much time at the prison, but it happened that she had not visited the prison in several days. She had reluctantly sent servants instead, because for most of the week the man with the tobacco-stained beard had planted himself directly across the street, as bold as brass, and had taken to following her at a distance just beyond arm’s reach. His interest in shadowing her seemed to wax and wane, but with no predictable pattern. She might find him observing her for several days on end but then see him not at all for several more. The unsettling thought occurred to her that perhaps even on the days she thought herself rid of him, he might still be watching her from someplace unseen. Sometimes she eluded him by taking the carriage in the opposite direction, but other times she would lead him on a dull, lengthy, aimless walking tour of Church Hill or Capitol Square or the markets, hoping to bore him into leaving her alone.
By late September, Mr. Huson’s condition had drastically deteriorated. Desperately worried for his friend, Mr. Ely arranged for him to be moved to the infirmary, where despite Lizzie and Eliza’s ministrations, fever continued to wrack his body and steadily drain his vitality. Dr. Edward Higginbotham, the medical director and surgeon in charge of prison hospitals, who had seen Mr. Huson a few weeks before during one of his routine calls on the prison, gave him a more thorough examination and determined that he was suffering from typhoid fever.
“I will take him in,” said Lizzie. “This place is too foul, too wretched. He will never get better here.”
“Lizzie,” Eliza whispered, turning her head away from Mr. Huson, though he was in too wretched a state to overhear. “It’s too dangerous. Everyone will hear of this. All that you’ve done to dispel suspicions will be undone in an instant.”
“I cannot leave him here to die,” Lizzie protested. “He wasn’t even engaged in battle when they captured him. He was a spectator. He should have been freed long ago, or sentenced to house arrest somewhere in the city. If Mrs. Greenhow was entitled to such comforts, Mr. Huson certainly should have been.”
On October 9, with General Winder’s reluctant consent, Mr. Huson was wrapped in blankets and brought on a litter borne by several of his fellow prisoners to the Van Lew mansion, where he was soon settled into a bright, warm, airy room Mother and Judy, Mother’s maid, had prepared for him. To Lizzie his countenance seemed brighter, and he weakly spoke of feeling, on average, a little better, but his tongue remained very much swollen and white with deep ridges. Later that day, Francis Clark, a private who had tended Mr. Huson in the prison hospital, was paroled and sent to the Van Lew residence with instructions to assist them however he could.
“I would give one hundred dollars if Mr. Huson’s family could see for one moment how comfortably situated he is here,” prison commissary Captain Jackson Warner confided to Lizzie when he paid an unannounced visit to the sickroom the next morning. “They would be deeply touched and relieved if they knew what tender care you and your mother offer him.”
“Perhaps when he is recovered enough to travel, you could appeal to your superiors,” Lizzie suggested. “He will surely recuperate much faster in his own home, looked after by his own devoted wife.” To her relief, Captain Warner agreed.
The following day, Mr. Huson, though still feverish and pale, professed to feel much improved, and spoke hopefully of returning home. Lizzie sat by his bedside as he told her, in a thin, quavering voice, of his loving wife and energetic young children; of Rochester, New York, his dear old hometown; of his pride at being appointed by President Lincoln to be the United States’ commissioner to Costa Rica; and of his regret at being prevented from undertaking his duties. “When you are well, you surely will,” Lizzie encouraged him, smiling. His recovery seemed a hundredfold more likely than when he had been brought to Church Hill.
Yet on the morning of October 12, Lizzie met Captain Warner at the door gravely, wringing her hands, and as she led him to the sickroom, she explained that Mr. Huson had relapsed overnight. Dr. Higginbotham had administered me
dicines, shaken his head, and said that it was perhaps time to notify his wife.
“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 he
r 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.”
The Spymistress Page 13
