However, I do question his judgment in incorporating a very large likeness of General McClellan’s face on the Intrepid. If I was a Confederate soldier and saw that visage, floating God-like over the earth, I would be insulted and angry, and would think that my resolve to fight and my hatred of the Union troops would be increased many times over. I once hazarded that thought to Professor Lowe, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “You can say anything you like to me, Gabriel, but you must take care how you speak to others. No one likes being questioned in war. It is life or death, and we must choose boldly and decisively what we will do. The Intrepid is my finest gift to the Union, and I believe General McClellan is proud to know his likeness soars high above.”
I wiped my face clean of expression and nodded in apparent agreement. “It is a marvel you have created, Professor. And I am deeply honored to be part of your team.”
Once I would have attempted to further engage Professor Lowe in this conversation, debating back and forth on what risks are worth taking. But I have learned that even the friendliest of my battlefield comrades does not feel first loyalty to me, no matter what services I provide. I am a fine telegrapher, swift with the key and accurate in the transmission, and really, that is all there is to know. At moments like that, I miss Victoria more than ever. She loves a good argument and fiercely stands her ground, and expects me to stand my own as we do friendly battle. In my loneliest hours, when not even my horn provides consolation, I think of Victoria as my tether; not holding me fast to the ground, not trapped, but held with the silken threads of love. She would scoff at that image, but I do not care. I breathe deeply and imagine I can catch her very essence: fresh peach, a little lilac, and underneath it all, the heat generated by the flint-on-steel of her character. Sometimes I think of that heat and I must steady myself; just imagining the touch of Victoria when I am far away is enough to make me light-headed.
My horn and my women, I say, those are my pleasures. But the reality is this: There is only one woman now, Victoria. She is a ripe and blushing peach to me, and she is forbidden fruit.
CHAPTER 15
MAGGIE
OXFORD
Ole Miss won the party, but not the game. And so Phoebe was recovering from the disappointment with a little lie-down, while Michael was working his way slowly through the treasures of Square Books and I was back in the henhouse with Uncle Beau, asking questions about things I didn’t understand. I had identified two puzzles already and I was only halfway through the museum. Beau had given me permission to take things off the wall to look more closely, so I had a little pile perched on a carved mahogany table, and I was ready to pepper him with questions.
“Fire away, honey,” he said.
I picked up an elaborately framed photograph of a pensive woman dressed all in black, her arm encircling the waist of a little girl who looked almost as determined as the woman. “Who are they? And why are they both dressed so elegantly when it looks as if the woman is sitting in an abandoned courtyard?” Her ruched skirts billowed directly into dirt and stones.
“That is the infamous Rose Greenhow, the queen of the Confederate spies,” said Beau. “And that is Little Rose, her daughter.”
“And where are they?”
“They are in the Old Capitol Prison in Washington, DC.”
“Wait, what? Her daughter went to prison with her?”
“Yes, indeed. And Little Rose was, if I understand correctly, almost as strong-minded as her mother.”
“And why do you have this photograph?”
“It was in one of your grandmother Alma’s hatboxes. And you’re wondering why she had it?”
“Exactly. I keep thinking about clearing out Alma and Morris’s house after she died and Papa Morris went to the assisted living place near us. She had file cabinets of thank-you notes and recipes and dress patterns and tons and tons of photographs of our family, but I don’t remember seeing anything like this.” Something flitted across my mind and I struggled to grasp it.
“Except…” I said and stopped. “Except for that steamer trunk in the laundry room; it had a bunch of old photos and documents from her days as a nurse in World War II.”
“That’s fifty-five years after Rose Greenhow’s time,” said Beau.
“I know, but I just have a feeling I need to go back and look at that stuff. I just wish Papa Morris’s memory hadn’t gone missing.”
“We can’t do anything about that, honey.”
I put the framed photo back on the little table so that Rose and Little Rose stared out at us.
“So what did Rose Greenhow have to do with our family?”
“We don’t exactly know. It’s mostly family lore and fanciful stories,” said Beau. “But Rose was very famous, hobnobbed with Dolley Madison and John C. Calhoun, and was very instrumental in some early Confederate victories. The Battle at Bull Run, for example. Rose’s network of contacts let her know that the Union was gathering forces at Manassas. She got the news to Beauregard, so the Rebs were prepared and took the day.”
“I think I must have a very outdated picture of what women spies look like — I keep picturing Mata Hari and Josephine Baker. Rose Greenhow looks like an ordinary, but well-off, lady of leisure.”
“Ah, this is where knowing a little more about history is quite useful. The Civil War was an historic moment for women spies — Belle Boyd, Rose Greenhow, Harriet Tubman, they’re the famous names, but there were hundreds of women spies on both sides, Confederate and Union.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “You called her Mrs. Greenhow, right?”
“Yes, she was married to a distinguished man, Dr. Robert Greenhow. She was a beauty, and he was a catch — he had degrees in medicine and law and had worked for President Buchanan. Marrying Dr. Greenhow was a stroke of brilliance for Rose. She was already known for her beauty and her charms, and becoming the wife of a prominent man immediately catapulted her into Washington’s high society.” Beau placed the photo back on the table. “Rose should have run for public office — she had great people instincts, and according to what I’ve read, really could charm the birds right out of the trees. But she was born about 150 years too early.”
“I should say so. Women didn’t even have the right to vote in Rose’s day. Did her husband approve of her spying career?”
“Ah, well, that’s still another story. Dr. Greenhow died after a fall in San Francisco, while Rose was away visiting their older children. They had been married almost twenty years, but Rose was a fairly young widow, and still very beautiful, and she was a Southerner through and through. So, after a few years as a merry widow, she was looking for something more substantive to do. That ‘something’ was an offer she couldn’t refuse: to discover and share information about the battle plans of the Union armies in various theaters of war. She became the link to critical information — everything from troop movements to who was recruitable, so she could broaden her network. Eventually she had dozens of spies and countless informants — witting and unwitting — in her control.”
“This is way better than anything I ever learned about the Civil War,” I said.
“I always thought you might be the one who got interested in all this,” said Beau. “Since your grandmother Alma had a career as a wartime nurse, not to mention Victoria herself.”
Phoebe stuck her head in the door. “I am restored, and we shall live to fight another day. Come have some iced tea or a lovely cocktail, you two, and Beau, don’t be talking that poor girl’s ears off.”
“I’m the one who’s being a pest, Phoebe,” I protested. “I think we’re just getting to the good stuff. I need to know what happened to Rose and to Little Rose, and just how she pried that info out of people.”
“Oh, the ways of women are complex and nefarious,” said Beau. “More after dinner.”
“Phoebe, we’ll be right there,” I said. “Can I just ask Beau about one piece of paper?”
“Be quick,” she said. “Michael’s back, and I know he’s ready
for an adult beverage.”
I picked up a document in a plastic sleeve. It was the color of jasmine tea, and the creases in the sheet made it hard to read. “This is about Victoria, isn’t it?” I asked. “I see her name there, but I don’t quite know what it means — she was remanded to Old Capitol Prison herself, is that right? Why?”
Beau sighed. “I wish I knew exactly, but from the document, if you look at it with a loupe, you’ll get some idea.”
He pulled a loupe out of his pocket and handed it over. “Put it right down on the paper and look. See, right there?”
“Victoria Alma Cardworthy,” I read, “is remanded to Old Capitol Prison for…espionage and…” I looked up. “Bigamy? Does that say bigamy?”
CHAPTER 16
LETTER FROM VICTORIA TO GABRIEL, 1862
“I had been away long enough to become demoralized. It had been snowing for some days, and the snow was melting, which made every thing damp and comfortless. A hospital is the most cheerless place in the world, and the last place I would remain in from choice. If it were not for the sake of the wounded and sick men, I do not think I could possibly stand it.”
— Kate Cumming, from
Kate: The Journal of a Confederate Nurse
My dearest G,
I wake thinking of you, I fall asleep thinking of you: your dear face, your kind hands, the place between shoulder and chest where I feel as if I have come home. You know, we women of tall stature do not find that place to nestle so readily. Perhaps my feelings for you are just an accident of height!
You have asked me to tell you a simple story about how I spend a day at Chimborazo Hospital, and I shall comply. But you must know, first off, that one never spends just a day. It is often a day and then an evening, and then we welcome the dawn and must sometimes start all over again.
There are relatively few women in service at Chimborazo: some nurses and matrons and a few like me, roaming spirits who go where they are most needed. I will mention more about that later, because it is part of the news I have to share. Most of the nurses at Chimborazo are still men, many of whom had been wounded and are near recovery now, some simply assigned to the tasks that need most attention. And then we have a group of slaves who have been loaned-on-hire to the hospital by their masters. In some ways, of course, the slaves are best fitted to this work. Many had worked in households, taking care of master, mistress, and children, so they know how to create comfort where there is pain, how to cook and sew and clean, how to wrest some organization out of chaos.
Of course, the chaos here at Chimborazo is relatively minor. Most of the injured who come to us have been moved from the battlefield hospitals, and frankly, it is only the strongest who survive that transport.
It is such an odd word, “Chimborazo,” is it not? I have learned of its origins and you, who always have a dozen whys to pose in any conversation, will be interested, I feel sure. The hospital is named for Chimborazo Hill, which lays at the eastern edge of the fine city of Richmond. And it is not a word that falls easily from anyone’s tongue in the beginning. That is likely because it is named for Mount Chimborazo, which is a volcano in Ecuador! This world is already far too explosive for my taste these days. Wherever I go, either I hear the terrible sound of cannons and muskets or I imagine I do, so I am not enjoying even the idea of our hospital as a place waiting to erupt.
But I have gone far afield from answering your request, and so I will try again. We begin most days the same way, with the most important medicines in hand: soap, water, and decent food. Somehow, no matter how much pain a man is in, it is restorative to do nothing more than wash his hands and face and then, even though it can be so painful and tender, to wash his wounds as well. Then we deliver breakfast: some bread or biscuit, with butter if we are fortunate enough to find some, meat for strength, and for those in the most fragile state, an egg, just coddled. Oh, that is sometimes the most wrenching part of our duties, though. More than once I have delivered breakfast to a young soldier, and returned to collect his dish and found that while I was about my work, he had drawn his last breath.
I do not shrink from the hardest work of nursing, cleaning up after the endless surgeries for amputation, cleaning up when the dread dysentery strikes. However, the sight of a young man who had been, just minutes before looking at a simple coddled egg and biscuit and thinking about gaining strength, and suddenly the world shifts for him. Each time that happens I feel that we have failed, and I feel a renewed sense of rage at war itself. The globe keeps spinning as the scientists tell us, but one beautiful life, still fresh-in-the-making, has simply slipped off the planet. I do not understand the rhyme or reason of this. And then it is often my duty to assist in writing letters home to a family about this death. There is no sadder, more heartbreaking work. But I take a deep breath and remember that my grief is nothing compared to that of the family that has lost a son or brother, and that it will not provide one iota of comfort to see bitter words on the page.
The rest of my day is often a blur. I meet with the matron, who is chief of the nurses, and I supervise the linens, making sure we have enough, that they are clean and mended. I bring morphine to those most in pain, and at the end of the day, after supper, I sit with those who are too weak to ask for help. “What do you need?” I ask each wounded or ill soldier, sitting at the bedside and leaning close so I can be heard. One young man, an apprentice blacksmith from Mobile, gave me the best answer I ever heard. “I don’t need anything,” he said, “but a kind word.” I remembered that, long after he left the hospital and returned to his regiment.
And those are my days, dear G, probably not as dangerous or exciting as yours, but in a way we are both at work taking care of our fellow human beings. Oh, one other note of interest. I have struck up an acquaintanceship with a quite remarkable doctor from Richmond, Dr. James B. McCaw. He is young to be so accomplished, and he is very, very much the head of Chimborazo, ambitious to run the best hospital possible. He has, in fact, organized all these wooden buildings we occupy as a small city. He is a demon for planning and is relentless in his pursuit of resources to take care of our patients. For whatever reason, we have come to like and respect each other, and he occasionally honors me by asking my opinion about some matter, perhaps about food or about restoring the use of an injured limb. He knows I have cared for Union soldiers as well, and I believe he suspects I may have acquired useful information about medical matters from the “other side.”
Dr. McCaw is also eager to supplement what foodstuffs the Confederacy provides, and so he is very happy when I take a few hours to ride Courage outside of town and go on a foraging expedition. I settle canvas bags on either side of my horse so that I can bring back something, anything that is fresh. Sometimes I find windfall apples, bruised but perfect for making an apple pudding, or I find wild nettles, and can trim them down to their tender hearts to boil gently for a fresh vegetable. I look also for herbs that have healing properties, chamomile to soothe a sleepless night, yarrow to heal cuts, feverfew for headaches. You would laugh, G, to see me ride in with all kinds of greens and wispy blooms bulging out of my saddlebags, and generally out of my sleeves and hair as well; one must duck under trees and slip between hedges to be a successful forager. I am sure I look like the Madwoman of the Garden Gate when I return. Oh, I must be very tired and addled this evening! How could I have forgotten that you, of all people, know precisely how I look when I have been on a foraging adventure? How could I lose track of our first meeting?
Although I still forage with a serious purpose, hoping to find treasures to bring back to the kitchen, I must confess that I also ride because it restores me to be away from all the grief and suffering at Chimborazo. Courage asks nothing of me but oats and exercise. We are silent together, which is also welcome, and we work as a team, anticipating each other’s next move. I try to return to Chimborazo by dark, but a few evenings ago, I had to wait out a thunderstorm before I headed back. By then the twilight had faded, and the sky was as dark
as that beautiful blue velvet dress your sister stitched for me. The stars were out, unaffected by the sorrow and blood of the war, just twinkling away on all of us, those who wear blue and those who wear gray. It was so beautiful, I couldn’t help but think of that fateful December day in 1860 when South Carolina seceded from the Union and became an independent entity. Charlestonians celebrated as if it was a party instead of a war being announced. There were fireworks overhead, church bells rang, and cannons sundered the air. Do you remember how fast it all happened after that? In six short weeks, South Carolina was joined in revolt by Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Louisiana, and Texas, and by June, the count was eleven. Thinking about those early days, days of fireworks and parties and balls honoring the Confederate States of America, makes me dizzy with nausea. What earthly reason did anyone have to celebrate?
Dear G, I have strayed far from your request, and I know that your feelings about this distressing war run even deeper than mine. Here is the only thing I can say. It was blood that brought us together, and that blood was occasioned by war. I care nothing for those fireworks in the sky; they are inconsequential to the fireworks you have stirred in my heart and in my soul. Some day we will say and do everything that matters.
Until then, until we are together,
Your Victoria
CHAPTER 17
LETTER FROM GABRIEL TO VICTORIA, 1862
The Spy on the Tennessee Walker Page 7