The Spymistress

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Lizzie knew at once who the frantic runner was. “Lieutenant Ross,” she breathed, and whirled about, and scrambled back in through the window. By the time she reached the foyer, William had let him in, and he stood with his back to the door bent over and gasping, his hands on his knees.

  “Miss Van Lew,” he said in a strangled voice. “I beg you to hide me. The prisoners—­they’re free, and they all want my head. They don’t understand.” He coughed, fighting for breath. “I’m a dead man.”

  “No, indeed you’re not,” she vowed, hurrying to his side. “You’re safe with us. You’ll live to hear their thanks once they know all you’ve done.”

  His fear of reprisals was so great that she led him upstairs to the secret attic chamber rather than to the back room, where the other men still lay abed. There he told her what he knew of the chaos outside. The explosion that had woken her before daybreak was the CSS Virginia, the Confederate flagship, destroyed along with the rest of the ironclads while their crews escaped upstream in wooden gunboats. The fire had begun at dawn when the provost marshal, reluctantly obeying orders, set the torch to Shockoe and Van Gronin’s warehouses, and then to the railroad bridges. No one had thought that the wind might rise, or that the liquor the Confederate government had ordered dumped into the gutters would fuel the flames. The looting had gone on all night, ignited when the officials opened the commissary warehouses rather than leave the provisions to the Yankees. When the starving citizens pushed their way in and discovered how much flour and bacon had been locked away, their fury erupted, and after plundering the commissary the crowd turned upon private shops, snatching up shoes, clothes, hats, candy, whatever they could lay hands upon.

  Lieutenant Ross asked for paper, pen, and ink so he could write letters to his family, and after fetching them for him, Lizzie returned downstairs to find her nieces chatting happily with Mr. Lohmann and his companions in the back room. Miss Pitt had walked thirty-­two miles the previous day, first in the forced march from Castle Thunder and then as she followed a circuitous route to her sanctuary, so Lizzie did not wake her for breakfast but set a tray outside her chamber door instead. The rest of the household she called to the table, but they had just sat down when they heard a familiar tune piping merrily outside.

  “‘Yankee Doodle,’” Annie cried, bounding out of her chair and racing to the window. She glanced outside but, dissatisfied with the view, she ran from the room, little Eliza on her heels. Lizzie and her mother rose to follow them outside, and when they caught up with the girls at the bottom of the garden, in the distance below they saw soldiers in Union blue marching up Main Street.

  Overjoyed, they cried out and embraced one another, and tears of happiness filled Lizzie’s eyes, and the children danced and twirled and cheered. Then Lizzie realized that the streets of Church Hill were empty, and that the smell of smoke hung thickly in the air from fires burning out of control not far away, and that any neighbors observing them from their windows were likely seething with anger and hatred. Richmond had fallen, but the war was not over.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said, taking Mother’s arm and herding the girls back to the piazza.

  They returned to the dining room to share the good news with their guests. Lizzie ate quickly, finishing well before the others, and then she begged their pardon and excused herself. Her work was not yet finished.

  The presence of Union soldiers in the city streets reassured her that it was safe to go out, probably, so she tied on a bonnet, snatched up a basket, and set off on foot toward the War Department. Most Confederate offices had packed up their important files before the evacuation, but in their haste, they couldn’t have taken everything of value. Lizzie was determined to gather whatever useful information or evidence she could from what had been left behind before fire or frantic Confederate clerks destroyed the documents.

  Lizzie strode as quickly as she could, a handkerchief to her nose and mouth to ward off the thick, drifting smoke. The streets were quiet and empty compared to the frantic, frightened mayhem of the night before, but as she drew closer to the Capitol, she saw more riders in Union blue. She wanted to clap her hands and cheer, and run to them and thank them and offer them bouquets of daffodils from her garden, but she had no time.

  Then she came upon Capitol Square and stopped short in amazement: Union soldiers were marching on Governor Street, cheered on by throngs of joyful, cheering, elated civilians, most of them people of color, who waved handkerchiefs and sang and offered the soldiers fruit and flowers as they passed, celebrating as if the day of Jubilee had come. Lizzie nearly sobbed with relief and happiness when she looked up and beheld the Stars and Stripes flying in the smoky air above the Capitol once more. As she made her way through the crowded streets and sidewalks, she observed Union officers organizing every able-­bodied man regardless of color to go and fight the fire. Then, through a break in the milling crowd, Lizzie spotted hundreds of people—­men, women, and children, rich and poor—­huddled on the fresh spring grass of the Capitol Square, some with nothing but the clothes on their backs, others with hastily packed bundles on the ground beside them, their soot-­streaked faces turned dully toward the marching Yankees or deliberately turned away. With a pang of sympathy, Lizzie hurried on.

  When she reached the War Department, she expected to encounter resistance, but there were no guards, no scrambling clerks, no Union soldiers seeking stray Confederate officials to arrest. The offices were in a state of disarray that spoke of fear and haste—­lamps broken, desk drawers open, papers scattered, chairs overturned as if their last occupants had fled in alarm. Ankle deep in documents, Lizzie gathered her skirts in one hand and began sorting through the pages, discarding most but placing a few pieces of particular interest into her basket.

  She had been rummaging through the detritus of the fallen government for nearly an hour when she heard the quick strike of boot heels in the hall outside, the sound of several men approaching at a quick, deliberate pace. Her heart jumped, but she kept at her work, not even glancing up when the footsteps fell silent just outside the open doorway.

  “Pardon me, Miss?” a baritone voice spoke.

  She looked up and discovered a Union major with a blond Vandyke and flowing mustaches watching her expectantly, flanked by two lieutenants. “Yes?” she replied, straightening.

  “Are you Miss Elizabeth Van Lew?”

  “Why, yes,” she replied, surprised. “I am Miss Van Lew.”

  The major smiled. “General Grant sends his compliments and his sincere thanks.”

  The military guard had looked for her at home first, but Mother had told them where she had gone, and after leaving two of their party to guard the residence, they had hurried off to find her. Although General Grant had not entered the city, he had been so concerned for her safety that he had sent an aide with a guard detachment to protect her, her family, and her property. They were under strict orders to make certain that she wanted for nothing.

  When Lizzie finished searching the abandoned files in the War Department, the officers escorted her home, where she found an armed guard posted around the mansion. By two o’clock, the valiant Union soldiers and civilian volunteers had subdued the fire, although the ruins still smoldered and patrols remained alert for new outbreaks.

  The destruction was staggering—­more than fifty-­five blocks of homes and businesses. Gone were all the banks; the Columbian and the American hotels; the offices of the Dispatch, the Enquirer, and the Examiner; the Henrico County Court House, the General Court of Virginia, and the irreplaceable records they had contained; the arsenal and the laboratory; the Gallego and Shockoe mills, once the largest flour mills in the world and the pride of Richmond; bridges and depots; pharmacies and groceries; shops and warehouses and countless saloons. More than nine hundred in all had burned, and the count rose while the rubble smoked and flames flared up amid the stark brick shells of what once had been. Wreckage clogg
ed the streets, and when she toured the scorched downtown later, Lizzie became disoriented, unable to distinguish one block from another without familiar landmarks to guide her. But the fire had destroyed something else, something intangible and far more precious to the Confederacy—­the goodwill of the people. Everywhere Lizzie heard dark mutterings and curses for Mr. Davis and his government, who had fled and left his loyal citizens to the mercy of the Yankee invaders and had nearly brought down the entire city upon them. General Lee was as admired, respected, and fervently prayed for as ever, but not so for the fugitive president.

  The acrid, smoky stench of the conflagration still hung heavily in the air the next morning when Lizzie woke to discover new guards at their posts around her home. Lizzie asked Caroline to send out breakfast to them, and although their larder was nearly empty, they set out the best of what remained for their guests, four erstwhile prisoners and one nervous prison guard. Miss Pitt and Lieutenant Ross had emerged from their chambers, and everyone was in good spirits, recovering their strength and making eager plans for their first days of liberty.

  All that morning and into the afternoon, prominent Union officers called at the Church Hill mansion to thank Lizzie for her loyalty and service. She had toiled so long under suspicion and animosity that it was strange to hear her labors praised, and unsettling to discover that her name was known to important men unknown to herself. “Will General Grant enter the city soon?” she inquired of each visitor, but all replied that they did not know but thought it unlikely. The war had ended for Richmond, but General Grant was still pursuing General Lee, and it was General Godfrey Weitzel who commanded the occupying forces. Several of the officers gallantly offered to introduce her to General Weitzel, but she politely demurred, making the excuse that she wouldn’t dream of imposing upon him when he was busy subduing the rebels. In truth, she wanted to meet General Grant, and nothing and no one else would do.

  Her conviction lasted until early afternoon, when William came to her in the foyer where she was graciously bidding farewell to a captain. As soon as the door closed behind the departing visitor, William blurted, “The president is in Richmond.”

  “He came back?” Lizzie exclaimed. “Is he mad? He’d better be careful. Mr. Davis is not so popular with the people as he once was, and General Weitzel has turned his home into his headquarters.”

  “Not Mr. Davis,” said William excitedly, his usual reserve falling away. “President Lincoln.”

  For a moment Lizzie could only stare at him. “President Lincoln is in Richmond?”

  William nodded eagerly. “Peter saw him step off a barge at Rocketts Wharf.”

  “It cannot be true,” she said, but nevertheless, she snatched up her shawl and pulled open the door. “Mother, I’m going to see the president,” she shouted over her shoulder in a very unladylike fashion. As she stepped out onto the portico, she turned back to William. “Well? Aren’t you coming?”

  He nodded and begged a moment to fetch his brother and whoever else might want to accompany them. A few moments later, Lizzie, William, Peter, Louisa, and Caroline were hurrying off toward the Capitol, where they were certain Mr. Lincoln would go. The sounds of cheering drew them toward Cary Street, where they managed to intercept the president’s procession at Twenty-­Third Street. The tall, gaunt man in the stovepipe hat could not be mistaken for anyone but President Abraham Lincoln, not only because he stood head and shoulders above his escorts, but because the humility, kindness, and wisdom in a face marked by hard toil and care set him apart from other men. At his side was a proud boy of about twelve years of age who surely was his young son, Tad.

  All around them, elated men and women of color, and a good number of whites too, cheered and wept for joy and flung their hats in the air. As she and her companions hurried closer, Lizzie heard shouts of “Thank you, Jesus,” and “God bless you, Mr. President!” from the rapidly swelling throng. Suddenly she felt a surge of uneasiness as she glimpsed a few white faces in the crowd that were glaring and twisted and ugly with hatred, but her fear was forgotten a moment later when an elderly colored man standing quietly on the sidewalk doffed his hat to the president and solemnly bowed. Mr. Lincoln paused and silently returned the gesture—­and the crowd roared its approval. As the impromptu procession moved on, a young girl, her hair in two black braids, darted from the crowd, kissed his hand and said, “God bless you, only friend of the South!” Looking quite overcome, the president smiled and thanked her kindly, and watched after her as she hurried back to her mother, beaming.

  He strode onward, surrounded by his anxious and wary escort of Union sailors who tried to prevent the jubilant people from crowding too close. They had almost reached Fifteenth Street when a group of colored workmen digging with spades in the wreckage shouted, “Glory, hallelujah!” at his approach and fell to their knees to kiss his feet.

  “Please don’t kneel to me,” President Lincoln urged them, looking pained and embarrassed, and his face seemed to bear all the grief of the nation. “You must kneel only to God and thank Him for your freedom.”

  The crowd cheered and pressed forward, but at that moment, a cavalry squad galloped up, encircled the president and his entourage, and escorted them the rest of the way to the Executive Mansion.

  Following along behind, Lizzie and her companions joined their voices to the rest of the crowd, cheering and singing and laughing for joy. She glimpsed some pale faces glaring sullenly down upon the scene from their windows, and other pale hands yanking curtains shut rather than glimpse a single joyful former slave welcoming the Great Emancipator to Richmond. Even so, Lizzie was certain that other rebels whose ardor had cooled after the Confederates had set fire to the city were observing Mr. Lincoln, hearing his words of benevolence and reconciliation, and thinking that this man could not possibly be the Yankee villain who had been represented to them as a monster for so many years.

  When the slow procession reached the former residence of the Confederate president, tears flowed freely down Lizzie’s cheeks as she watched President Lincoln remove his hat, bow respectfully to the people as if to acknowledge his debt to the loyal Unionists of Richmond, and disappear within the Gray House.

  She should have preferred to see the president of the United States entering the subjugated capital of rebeldom with an escort and fanfare more befitting his high station—­but no, for that was the way of a conqueror who had come to exult over a brave but fallen enemy. It was far better that he had come instead as a peacemaker, his hand extended in kindness and brotherhood to all who desired to take it.

  Chapter Twenty-­three

  * * *

  APRIL 1875

  TEN YEARS have passed since the evacuation of Richmond, and in that decade what mighty changes have taken place in this city! Look around you, citizens of Richmond, and contemplate the results of your own energy and industry, and then consider what your city will be, if you continue to push it ahead at the same rapid rate, in ten years more. If you will reflect upon it, this brief text is as good as a sermon.

  “How typically self-­congratulatory and unhelpful,” said Lizzie, sighing as she folded the Enquirer and slid it across the breakfast table to her nineteen-­year-­old niece, Annie. “Not a word of honest reflection about the problems confronting this city—­this entire nation, for that matter—­and the vast amount of work remaining until true justice is achieved for all men and women of all races.”

  “Talking to the newspaper again, dear?” Mother inquired, sipping her coffee.

  Lizzie smiled, but she felt a pang of worry and a sense of impending loss. Mother’s health and vigor had declined precipitously in recent months, but thankfully, her sense of humor was as deft as ever. “No, indeed. I was addressing you and Annie and little Eliza. The newspaper never replies.”

  “I’ll always be ‘little Eliza’ at home,” lamented the seventeen-­year-­old.

  “Probably,” agreed Mother, “unless some
day you have a daughter of your own and name her Eliza.”

  “They mention the fall of Richmond here too,” said Annie, touching a page of the newspaper. “In the ‘Briefs’ section. ‘Yesterday was the anniversary of the evacuation of Richmond by the Confederate troops.’”

  “Aptly named,” remarked Mother. “That was brief indeed. I wonder, do two short mentions of the occasion equal one lengthy, thoughtful discussion?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Lizzie. “The papers do us all a disservice. Tell me, Eliza, what do you remember of that day?”

  Eliza smiled. “I remember watching the flames from the rooftop until you scolded us and sent us inside, and I remember that Annie and I begged you to take us out to meet the Yankees, and that you refused.”

  “The city was on fire and we were still at war,” protested Lizzie. “What responsible auntie would have dragged two young children out into the streets in such circumstances? Anyway, you met plenty of Union soldiers in the days that followed.”

  Laughing, Eliza agreed that she had, that indeed, they all had.

  The passing of the years had not faded Lizzie’s vivid recollections of that tumultuous era. The burning of Richmond, the arrival of Union troops, the astonishing visit by Mr. Lincoln while the ruins yet smoldered—­and then, not five days later, General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and his quiet, weary, subdued return to his residence at 707 East Franklin Street. The stunned and demoralized populace had welcomed him respectfully, as did many men in Union blue who counted themselves among his admirers although they had been mortal enemies only days before.

  The surrender at Appomattox had fallen on Palm Sunday. On Good Friday, John Wilkes Booth, once a favorite performer on the Richmond stage, had crept into the State Box at Ford’s Theatre in Washington City, where President Abraham Lincoln was enjoying a performance of Our American Cousin with his wife and a younger couple, and shot him in the head behind his left ear. While Mrs. Lincoln screamed, Mr. Booth leapt over the railing of the box to the stage below, raised the bloody knife above his head, and shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis!” Thus always to tyrants—­the motto of the Commonwealth of Virginia.