Beloved Vic,
You have pleased me no end with your story about a day and more at Chimborazo. I felt as if I were in those rooms with you, being your shadow as you sat at those bedsides. If ever I find myself in mortal danger of losing my life, I, too, would want you at my side. Truth to tell, going up in the balloons for Mr. Pinkerton often makes me feel as if I am in mortal danger. But now, because I have grown somewhat accustomed to these excursions, and I concentrate so deeply on my telegraph duties, the fear loses its bite. Of course I would not want to put you in any danger, but I often think about how much enjoyment there would be if the two of us could share an adventure in the air. I know you, and it would not even occur to you to be afraid!
This evening, I am inspired to write to you about words. Because you are such a well-spoken woman, you often set me to considering the world of language. I am conscious sometimes that your fine talk can cut fools and pretenders to the quick, and I do have some fear about you making enemies. But here I am, wandering off the subject. Of late, when I walk out at night, I think of how meaningless some words can be. You and I, for example, would be branded as criminals, as perhaps we should be. I am a thief and a smuggler; you are a spy.
What have I stolen, you ask? I have stolen something more precious than gold or gems. I have stolen the language of an educated man right out from under my former employer’s nose. And would he mind? I do not know. When I was a boy, he seemed to take pleasure in the fact that I learned to read so easily and eagerly, that I could converse with guests, and that women found me of interest. I’m sure that was simply because I was a two-footed variation on the dogs and horses he put out to stud. “Productivity in the fields, and productivity in the bed,” he used to say.
And smuggling, well, those days seem to be fading, but oh, they were filled with all the emotions known to man: apprehension, excitement, and, when we were successful, a feeling of triumph I cannot explain. Danger must be a love potion, dear Vic, because in the height of my smuggling days, when we had heard from across the River Jordan that another family had reached the north country safely, had stepped onto Canadian soil, I would think of you and long to feel the power of your body, top to toe, against mine. Whenever I hold you, I am grateful right down to my bones for this tall, strong, red-headed woman who is a match for any man. Certainly for this poor smuggler.
Of course, like you, I also have another identity. I am a Pinkerton man, and my comrades on the field and in the air seem grateful for my contributions in transmitting information. I suppose, in some way, that makes you and me comrades as well. While I am not as skilled in the art of espionage as you are, we both trade in information.
But you, Victoria, have a public identity as a nurse, which makes you exalted over all other women, at least in my opinion. You are a true angel of the battlefield, like Miss Nightingale, and well before Miss Dorothea Dix was elevated to her position as chief of nurses, well before she rightly insisted that nurses were to give equal care to boys in blue and boys in gray, you were quietly living that practice. I admire you for that. It is good that I let you know what I admire about your conscience, lest you think that all my admiration is frittered away on your face and form.
So here we are, a spy and a smuggler, a nurse and a telegraph operator who conquered his fears of height. To me, we are a fine pair. To the wider world, well, that is another matter.
CHAPTER 18
MAGGIE
OXFORD
“Phoebe,” I said once we were settled on the back patio, drinks in hand and pre-dinner snacks nearby, “you are one avant-garde cook. I love this cold black-eyed pea relish — I’ve never had anything like it.”
“It’s Mississippi Caviar,” she said. “Isn’t it yummy? The Lamar Lounge makes some version of it, but I like mine better because I stuff it in those little Middle Eastern bread pockets, you know, pita bread? It’s a…a…what do you young people call it? A ‘mash-up,’ that’s it, and it keeps those black-eyed peas un-mushy.”
“Beau,” said Michael, “is it too late? I’d really like to rethink the whole one-true-love thing and ask for your wife’s hand in marriage. Ironed sheets, un-mushy black-eyed peas — does it get better than that?”
Phoebe and I sighed in unison. “So,” I said, “now that we’re fortified with adult beverages, Uncle Beau, can you explain the whole bigamy thing on that arrest record or whatever it was? Was my great-great-great-grandmother truly a spy and a bigamist? Can that be right?”
“You know these old documents, honey,” said Beau. “We don’t know how accurate or authentic any of them might be.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Lots of reasons. Before, during, and after the War Between the States there was a lot of prevaricating and document adjustment. Deserters who obtained forged documents of discharge, men who claimed to have been wounded when they’d simply shot themselves in the foot to escape service. Plantation owners who claimed that black freemen were runaway slaves, and so they essentially imprisoned them. And there were terribly brave and noble people as well who were living lies — women who dressed as men to go to war with their husbands, or simply to get a taste of independence. It was, as the man says in A Tale of Two Cities, ‘the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ And to make getting information even more of a challenge, Southerners don’t like speaking directly, as I would think you know by now.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Prying information out of the cousins is like going into an archaeological dig with a set of measuring spoons — and you can only use the one-eighth teaspoon.”
“You can always ask us,” said Phoebe, helpfully. She held up the bottle of Buffalo bourbon and raised her eyebrows at Michael. “More, honey?”
He shook his head. “Phoebe, you’re trying to get me tipsy.”
“No, I’m not. And,” she added firmly, “I am not like the rest of this ‘silence-is-golden’ family. I am happy to spill the goods, if I know anything. That,” she said with a cat-eating-the-canary smile, “is the privilege of being an in-law.”
“I can trust your discretion, my dear,” said Beau.
“Oh no you can’t,” crowed Phoebe. “All these secrets, secrets, secrets in your hoity-toity family.”
“Oh, goody,” I said. “I love secrets.”
“Now wait just a minute,” protested Beau. “We do have some family honor to uphold, but I don’t believe in prevaricating. How could I be a genealogist without wanting to know the truth?”
Phoebe cocked one eyebrow and gave Beau one of those knowing Southern-wife smiles. “Well, that’s so true, darlin’. But I say it’s time for dinner, don’t you think?”
After dinner, Phoebe and Michael dove back into their books, and Beau and I were drawn right back to the henhouse.
“Please, sir,” I said to Beau. “May I have some more? I want to understand how Victoria ended up in prison. From what little I know, she sounded heroic — taking care of soldiers, Union and Confederate. What reason on earth would someone have to put her in prison?”
“Honey, that’s what’s so intriguing about history. We can’t know for sure, despite all our best efforts — time has passed, and all the players who could tell us some version of the truth are dead and buried. And your great-great-great-grandmother lived in a time of tumult and war. The truth is not always convenient.”
I scrutinized Beau’s kind face. “You’re not telling me something.”
“It’s not that. I just think you’ll understand more if you do some discovery yourself.”
“Okay, I’m in. Where do I start?”
“Start with the letters. Alma knew Victoria. I think they must have been very close, and Alma was Victoria’s most faithful correspondent. And you’ll also find a little journal that Victoria kept. There weren’t many entries in there, but enough to…well, you’ll see.”
“Letters?” I asked. “There were letters? And a journal too?”
Beau nodded. “In the little wooden cabinet that’s locked
up in your bedroom closet.” He pulled his key ring out of his pocket and painstakingly eased an age-darkened key off the ring.
“How come I’ve never seen any of that material before?” I asked. “You’re always sending genealogical news out in your quarterly summary about the Cardworthys. How come.…”
He handed me the key. “Just don’t stay up all night.”
CHAPTER 19
ALMA, 1941
Dearest Granny Vic,
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you for standing up for me with Mama and Grandma Hester. I know they are very upset about my news. At first that made me angry, that they thought I would not be smart enough or brave enough to serve my country. But as I cooled down, remembering that a nurse must stay calm and reasonable no matter what, I began to see that they are simply worried.
Daddy won’t even speak to me, except to try to bully me out of my decision. He keeps asking where I learned to be so cruel, how I could worry my mother so much by going off to war. But I have come to realize that if I want to be considered an independent, adult woman, I must behave like one! You gave me very good advice. You said, “Do not argue. Simply state your case and tell your parents how much you love them and that you hope to make them proud.”
And so that is what I am doing. Thank you also for sending me off on this adventure with your beautiful necklace. Knowing that it was a gift from someone you love makes it very precious. I love the fine silver setting and the beautiful aquamarine, and the fact that it is the birthstone that we share. Most of all I love that you have worn this necklace for so long and now you are entrusting it to me. I will not let you down, Granny Vic, and I will take good care of your necklace. Although as I write this, I hear you saying to me, “The necklace is meant to take good care of you, my Alma.”
But now I must say the most important thank you of all. I am so grateful that you have talked to me about love. This is not a topic we discuss in my house, even though I know my parents love each other very much. When I thought my heart was broken last spring, when that stuck-up prig Teddy Prayhorn told me that he “had to” marry someone from his dim-witted mama’s country-club circle, you did not sympathize. Instead, you said, “He is not worthy to empty your slop jar,” and I started laughing so hard, even as I kept protesting, “Granny, no one has a slop jar anymore. We have toilets!”
“I disagree,” you said. “That young man is a slop jar.”
And then you made me tea and poured a little something “medicinal” in there. So, I did feel better, but a part of me — and I am ashamed to admit this — thought how on earth could you know anything about love? And Granny, it isn’t because you are older, it is because you have always seemed so independent to me. I never knew your husband, my great-grandfather Jules, because he died before I was born. And so I have never seen you with a man you love, romantically, I mean.
But the story you told me today, on our birthdays, shocked and thrilled me. You have loved three men! Great-grandfather Jules and two others. I felt as if you were Scheherazade telling me stories about an enchanted castle, filled with hidden rooms and handsome suitors in each one, all vying for the hand of my beautiful Great-Granny Vic.
Yes, I am being silly, but truly, Granny Vic, the stories sounded like something out of the moving pictures. It was so hard to leave you after our conversation, but I know you were very tired. I am so honored that you talked so frankly with me.
Tomorrow I must go shopping in the morning to finish off the list the US Army Corps has provided me. I will show you the list; I think it must be very different from what you packed when you rode off on Courage so many years ago. But I would love to continue our conversation, so unless you are too worn out, I will stop by after lunch. Neilson’s has a new addition to their candy counter, I hear, and guess what? I think that very strong peppermint is involved. If that is so, I will arrive with a little red-striped bag for you.
With much love and admiration, and in anticipation of more revelations to come,
Alma
CHAPTER 20
VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1862
If war has taught me one terrible lesson already, it is this: Everything changes in one moment. A battle lost. A life lost. A beloved family home burned to the ground. But what I did not understand was that life can change in a moment for the better as well. Instead of sorrow over another loss, another heartbreak, in fact, we human beings can feel transformed by joy. And that joy can enter our lives in such an unexpected time or place.
Today, I experienced exactly that transformation, and I must commit it to paper before I forget one moment of what transpired.
Courage and I were out on an early spring forage again. Fresh vegetables had been particularly hard to come by, so after morning rounds, I saddled up and rode out to the wild fields a few miles from the hospital. I looped the reins over a low branch on a live oak and fed Courage a handful of oats, although I know he longed for an apple or carrot. “I share that longing,” I said to him, “but we eat what’s in front of us, my friend.” I hitched up my skirts and picked my way through the soft, green grass looking for edibles. I had to stop and look up for a moment. Though the world was at war, the ground on which I stood, right then and there, was downright Eden-like. The fresh smell of spring, the damp loam, the tiny crocuses of yellow and deep purple, and not one soul in sight. I felt dizzy with the desire to lie down on that soft green and close my eyes. “Enough!” I said aloud, and continued, my eyes downcast, scanning for nourishment. My pace quickened when I saw what looked like wild mustard just through a copse of young trees. I am a careful forager; after all, one does not wish to bestow healthful greenery on our patients only to see them fall deathly ill from some misidentified wild plant. But mustard! Ah, it is unmistakable. It is tangy, it is nutritious, and it is green! I spread a large piece of muslin on the ground, knelt, and happily began cutting the tangy emerald-and-ruby-colored greens with the hunting knife my brother gave me on my twelfth birthday. The ground was damp, and my skirt was growing soggy and soiled, but I was so delighted to find the mustard greens that I found myself softly singing my favorite minstrel song:
“Nellie Bly has a voice like the turtle dove,
I hear it in the meadow, and I hear it in the grove:
Nellie Bly has a heart warm as a cup of tea,
And bigger than the sweet potato down in Tennessee.”
I sat back on my heels and began tying the four corners of the muslin together to secure the greens for the ride back home. And then I heard Courage whinny, as if someone was near, and then the next chorus of “Nellie Bly” came through the trees. A sweet, pure tenor voice sang, “Heigh Nellie, Nellie Ho, Listen, love to me, I’ll sing for you and play for you a dulcet melody.”
I walked under the oak boughs into the greensward, where I’d left Courage tied. First, I saw the tail end of a carrot disappear into his mouth. And then I saw his gentle benefactor, you, stroking his neck and watching me.
Mr. Edgar Allen Poe came to my mind, and his story, “The Tell-Tale Heart.” I was not frightened at all, although one might expect an unescorted young woman meeting a man alone in the woods to be frightened. But it was not fear that caused my telltale heart to hammer in my chest, it was not fear that took my breath away.
It was you. We looked at each other, and I felt as if those mustard greens I had held so close to my heart were some essential drug, some intoxicant that I had breathed and thereby conjured you right in front of me.
With one hand still on Courage’s neck, you lifted your battered hat to me. And then you sang the chorus of “Nelly Bly” one more time.
You stepped away from Courage, and I said, “You, sir, have a beautiful voice.”
You inclined your head in a bow. Then you said, “And you, madam, have a beautiful face.”
I have no idea what possessed me, but I could not help myself. I whispered, “Oh, no, sir, you have the most beautiful face of all.” I walked a few steps to you, and I held out my han
d. We shook like comrades, my white hand in your black hand. And my heart on display, for anyone to see.
Thus did we begin.
CHAPTER 21
VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1941
What have I done? That was my first thought upon awakening this morning. Why have I opened the first chapter of this messy, complicated book I call my life? And to Alma, my darling, my beloved great-granddaughter? I am a fool. When she knows, if she knows…then I could be ruined.
And then I nearly laughed aloud at my vanity. How can I be “ruined”? I am an old woman just a few steps from the grave. Who will care about my past? And if I tell Alma, she will keep my secret. Or she will not. She is strong-minded, my Alma. She will, perhaps, find my past interesting, even amusing. When I tell, if I tell…I know her. She will make her own decision.
As it happened, Alma preempted me. “Granny Vic,” she called from outside my door just before 10 a.m. “Can you let me in? My hands are full!”
I opened the door and there she was, dressed in her Sunday best, a beautiful navy suit trimmed all around with white piping. Her pocketbook was tucked under her arm, and her arms were full of flowers. “These are lovely,” I said. “But extravagant! You shouldn’t be spending your money on flowers for me.”
“Sorry, Granny Vic. They’re not for you. I want to go to the cemetery with you this morning and put flowers on the graves of the gentlemen you loved before Great-Grandpa Jules.”
I started to protest. And then I realized what a gift Alma was giving me. She would learn my secret at the cemetery without me having to speak a word.
I do not know if this is happenstance or not, but I live very close to the Episcopalian cemetery, and so Alma and I set out on the path from my home, just slightly up the hill. “Now, Granny Vic,” she said, “I am putting you on notice. You may not make that old joke again about what a swift journey you will have to heaven when you die because you live so conveniently close.”
The Spy on the Tennessee Walker Page 8