Belle
April 1861
“Belle! Belle Boyd!”
Belle looked up from the book in her hands. She’d been trying to read it for half an hour, but the delightful Baltimore spring day had proved much more interesting than perusing the treatise on femininity she’d been assigned. Her best friend at school, Virginia, was running toward her. Belle smiled, thinking what the author of the tome would say about a young woman running through the mud, skirts hiked up and showing more than a little ankle.
Virginia reached the tree Belle had been using for shade. She bent at the waist in an effort to catch her breath.
“What is it, Ginny?” Belle demanded.
“Shots have been fired.” Virginia gasped, still breathing heavily. “Fort Sumter. War has started.”
Belle waved her fist in a most unladylike manner. “Finally! Maybe now we can get that rail-splitter Lincoln out of office.”
Virginia straightened. “But what will become of us? We are in Northern territory here.” She crumpled a handkerchief in the palm of her hand. “And God hates the Yankees.”
“Yes, why don’t they just leave the South alone? They can let those darned abolitionists have their way and let us keep the traditions laid down by our forefathers.” Belle cast her eyes around the campus of Mount Washington Female College, as if the lush landscaping could belie the official political leanings of the school. Maryland was still a slave state, but its proximity to Washington made its status as Union or Confederate unclear. “I must get home to mother as soon as possible.”
Virginia shook her head. “You know Headmistress Staley is a staunch Unionist. She will not allow you to go home as long as your tuition is paid up.”
“We shall see about that,” Belle said, hiking up her own skirts and heading toward the headmistress’s office.
“Absolutely not.” As predicted, Headmistress Staley refused to let Belle leave the school grounds. “There is a war brewing in our fair Union. It would not be safe to let you leave.”
“But Headmistress—”
“Your parents have entrusted me as your guardian. You are under my care, hence you will obey my command.” Never once in Belle’s tenure at the school did Headmistress Staley ever waver in her principles. Miss Staley ruled the girls under her like a temperate overseer, molding them into submission with threatening words instead of fists while teaching them both the classics as well as how to be a proper lady. As the attendees were from both the North and South, Belle often felt that the mannerisms she was taught contradicted greatly with the feminine ideal of a Southern woman, but that was no matter, since Belle herself was in contradiction to those same ideals.
Realizing she was as likely to change Staley’s mind as she was to take up arms and join the war effort, Belle gave a half-hearted curtsy before exiting the headmistress’s chambers.
Virginia was waiting for her outside. She need not ask for the outcome of Belle’s plea since the disappointment was written on her face. Virginia joined Belle’s quick pace and walked beside her. “What shall we do now?”
Belle stopped and stared helplessly at the sky. She could see the entrance to the grounds, the starred-and-striped flag that graced the hill, flapping in the breeze just beyond the driveway. Belle felt a sudden rush of hatred for that once beloved symbol of a country that no longer felt like hers. A plan began to form in her mind. “Ginny, do you still have that pearl-handled pistol your father gave you?”
Virginia nodded. Her father manufactured such items back home in North Carolina.
“Go and fetch it for me.”
Virginia, used to Belle’s odd demands, did as requested.
“You aren’t going to shoot anyone, are you?” Virginia asked when she returned with the gun.
“No.” Belle walked quickly across the sprawling green lawns of the college. “I won’t be shooting a person.” She paused near the flagpole and peered up at the flag. Squinting against the bright sunlight, she grasped the pistol with both hands and took aim. Belle shot the gun with the expertise of someone well accustomed to a firearm, not even startling at the kickback. Virginia glanced up, noting the bullet hole that was located where one of the Union’s stars should be. Belle repeated the gesture and managed to take out another star. The lawn soon filled with young women chattering at a safe distance from the line of fire. Belle used up the entire round, managing to take out four stars in total.
“Miss Boyd.” The headmistress, who had waited until there were no more bullets left to shoot, appeared next to Belle.
Belle opened the chamber and held the gun handle toward Staley. “I suppose now you will choose to expel me?”
Even after three years of Belle’s antics, Staley was clearly surprised by this newest one. She merely nodded. “I will make the arrangements immediately.
Belle nodded and headed to the dormitory to begin packing.
Chapter 3
Mary Jane
April 1861
“Give me liberty or give me death!” Patrick Henry’s famous words echoed in Mary Jane’s head as she glanced up at the towering spire of the church. The day was gray, but somehow the white paint of the wooden structure was still blinding and Mary Jane had to shield her eyes with her hand, the lace on the sleeve of her finest red dress billowing in the wind.
“It is for your own protection,” Miss Lizzie had appeared beside her, in her usual sly manner. Stealth was as natural to Miss Lizzie as her notions of abolition, borne by her education in Philadelphia.
Mary Jane dropped her arm. “I don’t love him.”
“I am aware. But marriage and love don’t always equate. Look at me… I was in love too, a lifetime ago.” Miss Lizzie had once been beautiful and, according to her, had been a much sought-after Virginian belle. But her fiancé had died of yellow fever in the epidemic of 1841, and now, at forty-three, with her blond hair graying and her face becoming thinner and more pinched by the day, she was an established spinster. “Perhaps love will develop out of affection. Besides, Wilson Bowser will make a perfectly adequate husband.”
“He is a slave.” Mary Jane’s anger was swift and sudden. For most of her young life she had been ruled by Miss Lizzie’s desires—she’d gotten an education up North and then spent some time in Liberia, all at Miss Lizzie’s expense. But her choosing Mary Jane’s life partner was too much to bear.
“A slave who is working to pay for his freedom.” Miss Lizzie turned her hawkish face to look Mary Jane squarely in the eyes. “After what happened last year…” Miss Lizzie’s voice faded out. She disliked talking about Mary Jane’s arrest even more than Mary Jane herself. Miss Lizzie switched to a different tactic. “Let’s not forget you too were born a slave.” Miss Lizzie broke eye contact, as she always did when she mentioned Mary Jane’s status.
They both turned as a carriage pulled up a safe distance away from the women so as not to muddy their dresses.
“Miss Richards!” A black man several years older than Mary Jane climbed down from his post next to the driver.
“Mr. Bowser,” Mary Jane acknowledged. “Seeing as we are about to get married, you might as well call me by my Christian name.” She had not a little pride that she had been baptized at the very same church they were about to enter. Mary Jane knew that was another source of gossip for the Richmond society: St. John’s Church was a white people’s church and it was highly unusual for black marriages to take place there. But Miss Lizzie was not one to heed anyone else’s desires but her own, and so it came to be that she’d scheduled Mary Jane’s wedding to be held there, in the same spot where Patrick Henry had given his instrumental speech 86 years prior. A strange coincidence, considering that just a few days ago, Virginia had voted to secede from the United States.
“Mary Jane, then.” Bowser—Wilson—replied. He led the way into the church, which was sparsely adorned. Unlike her fellow Richmonders, including her sister-in-law, Miss Lizzie had no desire to be ostentatious, either in dress or decoration. She had invited many
of her most influential neighbors, but most refused to attend a Negro wedding. A few servants filled the family pew along with Miss Lizzie and her brother John. Their mother, Mrs. Van Lew had sent her best wishes that morning, but she was suffering from another one of her headaches and could not leave her bedroom.
Mary Jane replayed the Patrick Henry speech in her head during the ceremony. She’d memorized it in its entirety long ago, much to Miss Lizzie’s delight since he had stood in what had eventually become the Van Lew family pew as he called such prominent Virginia colonials as Thomas Jefferson and George Washington to arms. Mary Jane wanted to concentrate on anything besides the commitment she was making, another mistake possibly, just like going to Liberia had been. Miss Lizzie had convinced her that Liberia would have been Mary Jane’s ticket to freedom, once and for all. But Mary Jane’s roots had always been in Virginia; it was where her mother had lived and died, and, if Mary Jane couldn’t be with her, at least she could be near her burial site. In her letters, Miss Lizzie had included accounts of the unrest the nation was feeling, especially in regard to the question of that peculiar institution of slavery. Mary Jane realized they were on the brink of another revolution: this time for the rights of blacks instead of American men and begged for Miss Lizzie to pay for her return. She had finally relented, and after Mary Jane had been arrested, arranged for her to marry Wilson Bowser.
The white minister united them in matrimony within the Episcopalian tradition: there would be no jumping over broomsticks in St. John’s. He asked that the couple turn as he presented the rings. Wilson stared at the ground as the minister spoke and Mary Jane used that time to study him. He was a good twenty years older than herself, with a sturdy figure. His skin was blacker than hers, darkened by many days spent toiling on the Van Lew farm outside of Richmond. But his eyes, which were walnut, like the cabinet work in Miss Lizzie’s parlor, were kind. He was dressed in the livery uniform of the Van Lew household: dark blue with yellow accents, complete with a white cravat. He had been a relatively new addition to the family’s slaves—or, “servants” as Miss Lizzie preferred them to be called. Her father, Old Man Van Lew, though a Northerner by birth, had accumulated a healthy supply of fifteen slaves, including Mary Jane and her mother, and put a stipulation in his will that they remain his property upon his death. Senile as he was at the end of his life, he must have had some inclination of his wife and daughter’s abolitionist proclivities. But Miss Lizzie defied her father in death as she never would have done in life and began freeing his slaves by way of hiring them out to employers and letting them keep a small portion of their earnings in order to ultimately buy their own freedom. She then used some of her father’s estate to purchase more slaves in order to set them free. Wilson Bowser was part of the latter group of purchases; even with the prospect of war, their mistress wanted to give them what she could.
An admirable act, as was most of Miss Lizzie’s work, especially given the Southern ways that dictated normal Richmond life. But, as always, Mary Jane suspected that Miss Lizzie’s actions included an alternative clause and there was something she wasn’t telling her.
After the ceremony, and the resulting congratulations by the few attendees, Wilson gently took Mary Jane’s hand and led her out of the church to the awaiting carriage. He nodded to the driver, a man whom Mary Jane recognized as an occasional attendant of Miss Lizzie. “I thought we could take a ride to view the sights of Richmond before we arrive back at the Van Lew Mansion,” Wilson stated.
Mary Jane hesitated. She knew that most of the white population of Richmond would view her marriage as a farce—so much of a farce that many refused to honor the commitment and would sell a slave wife away from a husband faster than a whip’s crack, at the right price. At any rate, she didn’t feel like parading around now. Normally spring in Richmond was glorious with magnolia blooms and luscious greenery but there was a pall over the city for any abolitionist or Union sympathizer. There had been large parades of people carrying Southern flags after both the news of the surrender at Fort Sumter had reached the city and then again after the Ordinance of Secession had been passed by the Virginia Convention. The massive Union flag that had waved from the corner of Franklin and Governor Streets had been recently taken down to great fanfare, and been replaced by Virginia’s state flag with its emblem: Death to Tyranny. And there was much of Richmond that Mary Jane purposely avoided at all costs: namely the auction blocks at Lumpkin’s Alley and the Negro jail at Shockoe Bottom where she had recently spent time.
“Or we could just head straight for the farm,” Wilson added. He must have sensed that Mary Jane was uncomfortable.
“No, Miss Lizzie would be mad if we didn’t return to the mansion. She’s had the cook in the kitchen all day, brewing up a mighty feast.”
“Miss Lizzie is awfully kind in that way,” Wilson offered. He seemed disappointed when Mary Jane’s only reply was a slight nod.
A crowd had gathered at the Church Hill mansion when the newlyweds arrived. Mary Jane’s heart began to thud upon spying some of the Van Lew’s more secesh neighbors. She steeled her spine as she exited the carriage, the large hoop skirt that she had borrowed for her wedding making the process all the more difficult. She prepared herself to accept the insults about her marriage that were sure to ensue, but the Southerners had their sights set on the Union flag that flew in front of the main house. That flag—much larger than the standard—had always been Miss Lizzie’s pride and joy. The last time she’d taken it down was when Kansas had become a state. Then she’d sewn another star on it, rejoicing in the fact that another free state had joined the Union. Mary Jane led Wilson into the big house through the back door. Miss Lizzie had never insisted upon her servants using a different door, but Mary Jane thought it would be better than walking through the angry crowd.
Miss Lizzie’s voice was equally angry as she shouted, “I won’t do it, John.”
John Van Lew, Miss Lizzie’s younger brother stood with his hand on the knob of the ornate front door. “We both know which side we support, but to continue to back the Union outright will be a danger for us all.”
“I won’t—” Miss Lizzie started to argue, but John was already out the door. The three of them—Wilson, Mary Jane, and Miss Lizzie—stood in silence until John returned, the flag reverently folded. He handed it to Margaret, another servant, who had come in from the parlor. Without a word she took it and brought it upstairs.
Miss Lizzie stood with her arms crossed, muttering to herself. “I may not be able to display my Union loyalty in this Confederate town, but there must be other ways to help the Cause.”
Mary Jane heard John reply in a whisper as he passed by, “Your mouth may need to remain shut, but you can keep your eyes and ears open.” All three pairs of eyes then focused on Wilson Bowser, who had taken a sudden interest in a hallway vase.
The next day, Wilson brought Mary Jane to his cabin on the family farm. But Mary Jane panicked. All she could think about were her mother’s stories of her grandfather’s time as a cotton picker—a field hand—on a New Orleans plantation. Her mother had always revered her status as a “house slave.” As such, it had always been a threat that a misbehaving house slave would be sent to work in the fields, where the workload was heavier, the food was worse, and there was less freedom to come and go as one pleased. It seemed that the Southerners weren’t the only ones whose prejudices endured.
Wilson dismounted and pointed toward the horizon. “Massa John says that this little patch of earth will be mine one day. We can work our own land.”
Mary Jane, remaining on her horse, held up both palms. “These hands were not meant for farming.” She said nothing of her mind, which had always been her greatest asset. Miss Lizzie had taught her to read at a very young age. She saw this instruction as part of her Christian duty, never fearing that it was illegal in Richmond, but she never came across anyone who learned as fast as Mary Jane.
On Sundays, her mother, Mrs. Van Lew, would read the Bible t
o her slaves and teach them how to pray the white-people way. Many fellow Richmonders opposed this education of slaves, fearing that they would then demand equality and endanger a practice that had defined the South, and without which cotton could never have been King. Old Man Van Lew was one such advocate of the practice, and Mrs. Van Lew would change her sermons according to her husband’s presence. “Slaves, obey your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling in the sincerity of your heart, as you would Christ.” Old Man Van Lew would nod his head in agreement as Mary Jane’s juvenile sense of defiance would rise up. She hated the old man as she hated anyone who was pro-slavery. Her mother had established from an early age that blacks were just as good as whites, though whenever Old Man Van Lew was around, Mama was sure to curb her tongue. But alone, she would tell Mary Jane that the drudgery of slavery on Earth would be more than made up for in Heaven.
After Mary Jane’s mother had died, Miss Lizzie sent her North to be educated. Her teachers had declared her intelligence as “on par or better” with a white person. Mary Jane could not explain to her peers how she had come to memorize anything she read, including the Declaration of Independence or Thomas Paine’s pamphlets on the American identity. And she definitely could not explain the same to her new husband.
Wilson took her soft hands into his rough ones. “Mary Jane, I’m working for us. For our family, as it is now, and as it will be in the future.”
Mary Jane’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. She knew the meanings of thousands of words, but sometimes could not use them to express what she felt. She did not love Wilson Bowser, but she did not hate him. She’d long ago become numb to the strong feelings that most people experienced—it was easier to endure life that way. After what had happened last year, Miss Lizzie thought that marriage would be a safeguard, an extra layer of protection. So far Wilson had only treated her with kindness, but Mary Jane knew that she needed to be in Richmond, the now declared Capital of the Confederacy, if she were to accomplish any of her goals. She cleared her throat and thought about how best to appeal to her new husband. “I may be free, and you might be soon, but what of our brothers and sisters of color? They might never be free unless the Union wins this war.”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 31