by Karen Abbott
While McClellan let his exhausted troops recuperate, Lee followed up on his victory at Bull Run, sending his ragged, barefoot Confederates into western Maryland, the first invasion of Union territory. Counting on McClellan’s tentativeness, Lee hoped to capture Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; Philadelphia; Baltimore; or even Washington. The Federal capital braced for an attack just as it had after the first debacle at Bull Run. A steam warship was anchored on the Potomac, ready to carry Lincoln and his cabinet members to safety, and government employees were to be armed with muskets to assist in the capital’s defense. All was going according to the Confederates’ plan until two Union soldiers, resting in a field in Frederick, Maryland, found a piece of paper wrapped around three cigars: a copy of Lee’s Special Order No. 191, outlining his strategy. When the news reached McClellan, he turned to his officers and exclaimed, “Here is a paper with which, if I cannot whip Bobby Lee, I will be willing to go home!”
He launched a series of assaults against the outnumbered Confederates along Antietam Creek, southwest of Frederick, in what would be the deadliest single-day engagement in the history of American warfare, with nearly five thousand men killed and twenty thousand wounded. Two days later the Union army’s staff photographer, Alexander Gardner, visited the scene, marking the first time an American battlefield was photographed before the dead were buried. He employed a new technique, stereographing, in which two lenses captured two simultaneous pictures that, when seen through a viewer, created a three-dimensional image. Although Gardner intended to repulse the public with his unflinching depiction of the war—“here are the dreadful details,” he wrote, “let them aid in preventing another such calamity falling upon the nation”—he only summoned them ever closer. Americans, throughout the North and South, decorated their parlors with his grotesque images, featuring such titles as “Federal buried, Confederate unburied” and “Bloody Lane, Confederate Dead, Antietam,” so authentic and visceral when compared with the stylized, patriotic renderings in Harper’s Weekly. Gardner’s success inspired other war photographers, a primitive gaggle of paparazzi who rushed to capture the carnage when it was still raw.
Antietam was a tactical draw; McClellan succeeded in driving the Confederates out of Maryland but allowed them to retreat to Virginia unmolested. Nevertheless he boasted about his “complete” victory and confided to his wife, “I feel some little pride in having with a beaten and demoralized army defeated Lee so utterly & saved the North so completely . . . my military reputation is cleared—I have shown that I can fight battles & win them!” While Lincoln remained concerned about McClellan’s timid performance, he took Antietam as a sign that God had “decided this question in favor of the slaves.” On September 22, five days after the battle, he issued a preliminary emancipation proclamation, warning Confederate states that unless they returned to the Union by January 1, their slaves “shall be then, thenceforward, forever free.” Elizabeth celebrated by arranging for the private purchase of a slave, Louisa Roane, so she could be reunited with her husband, a Van Lew servant and member of the Richmond Underground.
Bloody Lane, Confederate dead, Antietam.
(Courtesy of the Library of Congress)
Emma claimed to have been on the field at Antietam, helping carry the injured and dead from the field. She would remember coming upon one young wounded soldier, a thin rope of dark blood encircling his neck.
“I stooped down,” Emma wrote, “and asked him if there was anything he’d like to have done for him. The soldier turned a pair of beautiful, clear, intelligent eyes upon me for a moment in an earnest gaze, and then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny, said faintly: ‘Yes, yes; there is something to be done, and that quickly, for I am dying.’
“Something in the tone and voice” made Emma look closely at the soldier, studying the lines and dips of the face, the way the bones fitted together. Her suspicion was confirmed. “I administered a little brandy and water to strengthen the wounded boy,” she recalled, “for he evidently wished to tell me something that was on his mind before he died. The little trembling hand beckoned me closer, and I knelt down beside him and bent my head until it touched the golden locks on the pale brow before me.”
“I can trust you,” the soldier said, “and will tell you a secret. I am not what I seem, but am a female. I enlisted from the purest motives, and have remained undiscovered and unsuspected. . . . My trust is in God, and I die in peace. I wish you to bury me with your own hands, that none may know after my death that I am other than my appearance indicates.” Again, Emma said, the soldier looked at her with that same earnest scrutiny, and whispered, “I know I can trust you—you will do as I have requested.”
She claimed to have honored the soldier’s wish, making a grave for her under the shadow of a mulberry tree, apart from all the others. But Emma had not been on the field at Antietam at all; she, along with the rest of the 2nd Michigan, had stayed in Alexandria until shortly after the battle. The story let her believe, in some small way, that people might extend the same kindness to her, keeping her secrets and letting her know that she was not alone.
RICHMOND UNDERGROUND
RICHMOND
Belle had no desire to leave the Old Capitol Prison, as she was still enjoying the company of Lieutenant Clifford McVay, who had taken to writing amorous notes on tissue paper, wrapping them around marbles, and rolling them across the floor. She let the notes disappear beneath her skirts, keeping her eyes on his as she retrieved them, and mouthed each word as she read it. He seemed close to proposing marriage, and she was confident enough that if she refused him twice, as per Southern custom, he would persist for the third and final time. She wished to stay in the capital long enough to assemble her wedding trousseau: a cloak in dark stamped velvet; an underskirt cut in deep scallops and finished with rows of pale beads; a morning dress trimmed in white lace and pink satin ribbons, the sleeves fixed to reveal her brilliant jewel of a scar.
So she was not at all prepared for the September afternoon, about a month into her imprisonment, when Superintendent Wood stood outside her cell and boomed, “All you rebels get ready! You are going to Dixie tomorrow and Miss Belle is going with you!” The Federal and Confederate governments had arranged for a formal exchange of inmates, two hundred Yankees for two hundred rebels, in an attempt to alleviate overcrowding in their respective prisons, and Belle was specifically mentioned in the order: “I forward likewise Miss Belle Boyd,” wrote Brigadier General James Wadsworth, “a young lady arrested on suspicion of having communicated with the enemy. I have agreed that she shall be placed over the lines by the first flag of truce.” She was not to return to the North for the duration of the war.
Belle suspected that officials were eager to be rid of her because she boosted prisoner morale, and was much gratified when many of the men wept at the news of her departure. McVay was the most despondent of all, rolling several messages across the passage that night, sensing that he’d never again watch her lips form his words. He was right—Belle lost all track of him after her release—but at least she got her trousseau; Superintendent Wood, keeping his infuriating promise to grant her every wish, shopped for her and sent each purchase on to Richmond.
The following morning, Belle and the Confederate prisoners lined up in the Old Capitol courtyard and were hustled out into the street, where throngs of secessionists gathered to cheer them, including a young mother who threw kisses to the departing soldiers using her baby’s hand. Belle treated them to her broad smile and queenly wave and let herself be lifted into her carriage. She had two gold saber knots, one for General Joe Johnston and one for Stonewall Jackson, hidden beneath her skirts.
The steamship Juniata cast off toward the mouth of the Potomac, where it dropped anchor and spent the night, the prisoners taunting the Union officers with rebel songs and cheers for Jeff Davis (“Three cheers for the Devil!” came the ready retort). In the morning it steamed up the murky waters of the James, and the passengers spotted the rebel “Stars and Bars” wav
ing from windows as they rounded the river bend. Belle went straight to the Ballard House, where she was serenaded by the city band and held court in the parlor alongside Rose Greenhow. For Belle the encounter was secondary only to meeting Stonewall Jackson, and she went to sleep marveling that she’d become who she wanted to be before even growing up.
Rose Greenhow and Belle Boyd stayed at the Ballard House, Richmond’s finest hotel.
(Courtesy of the Library of Congress)
Elizabeth stepped out into the stifling heat, wagging a palm-leaf fan by her face, taking care to breathe through her mouth. The air so reeked of suffering and death that the city burned barrels of tar, considered an efficient fumigator, in an attempt to clean it. She spotted her next-door neighbor, R. J. White, who was hoping to patent a machine similar to the Union’s “coffee mill” gun, which poured bullets, as from a hopper, at the rate of 120 per minute. He tipped his hat. She nodded in reply, feeling his gaze on her back as she crossed the street to her friend Eliza’s home.
There Mary Jane was waiting with the seamstress, both of them expecting Elizabeth’s visit and aware of the risks involved in her plans. They were among a growing number of servants and slaves working on behalf of the North, passing information to Union engineers, cartographers, generals, and scouts. In rural areas they acted as guides through unfamiliar country, sharing knowledge about water, game, and the habits of the enemy. Escaped slaves, armed with axes, went on expeditions through the woods, hacking at the heavy timber and preparing the way for the advance, leaving the roads strewn with the bodies of bloodhounds sent to track them down. In Port Royal, South Carolina, the great slave rescuer Harriet Tubman organized a band of Negro spies, gaining their confidence through kind words and sacred hymns.
Elizabeth explained that she and Mary Jane needed an intermediary, someone willing to pass information to and from the Confederate White House, someone whose discretion matched her valor. They had come to the right woman; the seamstress even volunteered how it could be done. She held up a gown of purple brocade, the sort Varina Davis wore every day while the poorer classes, suffering from the effects of the blockade, transformed their draperies into dresses.
Cotton dresses were constructed with the skirt attached directly to the bottom of the bodice, but the ones made of finer material, like Mrs. Davis’s, were constructed with the skirt attached to a waistband made from lining or scrap fabric and then attached to the bodice. If Mary Jane had the time and skill, she could partially disassemble the garment to access the inside of the waistband, hide her dispatches inside, stitch it back together, and bring it in for “repair.” But if she was in a rush, she should simply sew the information into a fold in the skirt and package it before dropping it off. Elizabeth would pick it up the following morning and prepare the information for delivery through the lines.
It was settled, but they needed a contingency plan in case the seamstress was unavailable or compromised, or if Mary Jane, for whatever reason, wasn’t able to leave the Confederate White House to drop the dresses off. Elizabeth thought of Thomas McNiven, a Scottish immigrant whom she’d met one recent Sunday at St. John’s Episcopal Church. After the service, a fellow parishioner approached, clutching a young, red-headed man by the arm. The parishioner introduced him as “a friend to be trusted.”
McNiven owned a bakery at 811 North Fifth Street, less than one mile from the Confederate White House, a frequent stop on his route, and Mary Jane could easily arrange to slip him dispatches and drawings during his early morning deliveries. He also had his own burgeoning network of Union sympathizers, people far outside Elizabeth’s usual circles, mostly other Scottish immigrants and prostitutes in the red-light district along Locust Alley. One of his most reliable and prolific sources was “Clara A.,” who always operated alone and catered only to the “carriage trade,” including politicians and both Union and Confederate commanders; “Bull Head” was reportedly a nickname for Confederate colonel Lucius B. Northrop, and “Big Belly” for secretary of state Judah P. Benjamin. She recorded the highlights from some of her sessions in a diary:
General Limpy, the food fop—he must do the undressing. Shoes too.
Big brass, big belly. Since my rule, he brings only Yankee money. Wonder where he gets it. Wonder what old sourface would say if he knew one of his plate-lickers had so much Yankee money.
The Maryland Governor? Do it bending over, bark sometimes.
Four big generals last night came together. Red beard really has red hair all over. They brought two more barrels of wine and twenty blankets. Must sell some of the blankets. Have too many.
Christ! The praying general was brought in today by Preacher H. He is rough and brutal. After I serviced him, he dropped to his knees and asked God to forgive me for my sins!
Elizabeth was pleased that her Richmond Underground was expanding its ranks, although larger numbers carried greater risks—for mistakes, for turncoats, for the lethal consequences of discovery. Her friend Charles Palmer—who, like John Minor Botts, was a wealthy Unionist ex-Whig—had connected with a man named F. W. E. Lohmann, a grocer who himself was the leader of a group of German Unionists in Richmond. Botts recruited William S. Rowley, a New York native who rented a farm on the outskirts of Richmond. He was an odd-looking man, a brunet with a bright red beard that looked like a pinecone made of hair, and he would become Elizabeth’s most valuable spy; she called him “the bravest of the brave, and the truest of the true,” a man of “rare perception and wonderful intuition.” Three new members—ice merchant Burnham Wardwell, carpenter William Fay, and engineer Arnold Holmes—even sent their children on missions to the prisons. Some of the adults created a recognition system, carving favors made from peach pits, little swinging three-leaf clovers in their centers, that dangled from men’s watch chains and ladies’ pendants. When the clover was upside down, it was safe to talk; when it was right side up, it wasn’t.
Elizabeth’s money and family connections gave her entrée into the Confederate Army and Navy departments, where she lured numerous Northern-sympathizing clerks into her confidence. One, a “trusty Union man” in the Adjutant General’s Department, had access to information about the strength of rebel regiments, brigades, divisions, and corps, along with their movements and where they were stationed. There were nameless, faceless members, too, people who were wary of associating with outspoken Unionists but wanted to do their part. They jotted down gossip and observations and snatches of overheard conversation and crept, in the thick of night, to St. John’s, leaving their notes, wrapped around flowers, by certain tombstones in the graveyard.
Mary Jane, meanwhile, played her role inside the Confederate White House, entering each morning through the servants’ door, polishing every inch of mahogany, addressing Mr. and Mrs. Davis as Marse and Mistress, being careful to avert her eyes. She knew which Davis servants were loyal, always looking for another traitor among the staff, and forced herself to join in their condemnation of the Yankees.
She kept the president’s office spotless, taking her time shining his desk, picking up each paper and memorizing it before lowering it back into place. Davis and his top generals employed an encryption system superior to that used by Rose Greenhow. While Rose switched and substituted letters and symbols for only one alphabet, the top-level cipher utilized as many as twenty-six alphabets based on the letters of a key phrase: MANCHESTER BLUFF, COMPLETE VICTORY, or, later in the war, COME RETRIBUTION. Davis wrote drafts of his messages in plain English, and marked sensitive portions “to be placed in cipher,” a task handled by his confidential secretary or a clerk with the Confederate Signal Corps. Leafing through Davis’s papers, Mary Jane saw either the English version of the president’s messages or English written in over the cipher.
There was much for her to report in October. At the end of the month, General McClellan began to cross the Potomac River east of the Blue Ridge, leading the Army of the Potomac southward toward Warrenton, and General Lee felt compelled to act lest he be cut off fro
m Richmond. He ordered Stonewall Jackson to remain in the Valley, in position to confront the right flank of the Union army, while he and General James Longstreet moved eastward into a position to block the Northern advance.
President Davis summoned Lee to Richmond for a conference, during which Mary Jane pressed her ear to the door and heard the general plead for “every support” in the coming conflict. His ranks were depleted by nearly sixty thousand men, one-third of whom had gone absent without leave, “scattered broadcast over the land,” Lee said, engaging in the destruction of private property, feigning illness, and “deceiving the guards and evading the scouts.” Many of them were determined to make it back to distant homes, while others simply remained “aloof” in the vicinity of the army. “Unless something is done,” Lee warned, “the army will melt away.”
At the end of her workday, back in servants’ quarters, Mary Jane transcribed pages of information and maps from memory and sewed them into the fold of a dress. She brought that garment to the seamstress the following morning. If she had crucial information to deliver right away, she hung a red shirt on the laundry line, a signal to Elizabeth to visit the seamstress before the usually scheduled day. The seamstress then unstitched and unfolded those dispatches and prepared them for Elizabeth to pick up, before the final, and most dangerous, phase of the operation.
Her brother John would spread the papers over their dining room table, identifying key points and phrases and numbers. Using a stack of books piled nearby, he carefully pricked the first letters of random words to create precise sentences, just as Elizabeth had shown him, then gathered several blank invoices and purchase orders he used for his small chain of hardware stores.