The Spymistress

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Lizzie fumed at the suggestion that the Union would abandon hope so readily, and even Mary fretted at the newspaper’s boast that “the sentiment of invincibility will take possession of every man of the South,” and its extraordinary prediction that the worst of the war was behind them. “Mrs. Chesnut says that Mr. William Trescot says that these easy, early victories will lull the South into a fool’s paradise of conceit, and in the meantime, the shameful losses will light a fire beneath the men of the North.”

  “Mrs. Chesnut said Mr. Trescot said that?” Mother asked lightly. “Goodness. I’ve never met the gentlemen, but he talks like a Yankee. Did anyone ask where he was born?”

  “South Carolina.” Mary shook her head. “I don’t mean to say that I asked him. Mrs. Chesnut told me. I never would have embarrassed him by making him admit he was not born in Virginia.”

  “Well, we can’t all be,” said Mother, the only one among them who had not been.

  “We’ve discovered another common cause, you and I,” Lizzie told her sister-­in-­law with a levity she did not feel. “We agree that the Confederates may become overconfident, and we’re united in our displeasure with the press.”

  “These are strange times indeed,” Mary replied. Lizzie burst out laughing, but only after Mary shot her a sour glare did she realize that her sister-­in-­law had spoken in all seriousness.

  There was little enough to laugh about in the days following the Battle of Manassas. Soon hundreds of wounded came streaming into Richmond, quickly filling the hospitals and overflowing into schools, hotels, and warehouses that had been hastily turned into makeshift infirmaries. Many citizens welcomed ill and wounded soldiers into their own homes, tending their injuries and nursing them back to health as best they could. Dozens more soldiers were brought back to the city in plain pine boxes, to be buried in Richmond or to be shipped farther South to their grieving families. Across the street from the Van Lew mansion, Saint John’s Church hosted an almost continuous succession of memorial services, and from her window Lizzie observed so many military funerals for slain Confederate officers, with black-­clad bands in procession with marching soldiers and warhorses bearing empty saddles that she could not keep track of their numbers. The scenes of mourning wrenched Lizzie’s heart, not only because she knew many of the deceased and had considered them friends before secession had driven a wedge between their families, but because their deaths were so needless. The cotton states never should have seceded, Virginia never should have cast her lot with the South, and war never should have broken out.

  Soon, into this strange, volatile brew of triumph and mourning spilled nearly a thousand Union prisoners, bedraggled, demoralized, and hungry, many bearing untended wounds. With county jails already full beyond capacity, the captives were marched from Richmond’s Central Depot to Liggon’s Tobacco Factory, mere blocks from the Van Lew residence. When Lizzie read the terse newspaper accounts of hundreds of men being squeezed into a three-­story brick structure that could not possibly accommodate them all, she became almost breathless from dismay. There were no beds, no sanitary facilities, no kitchens in the factory, only tobacco presses and perhaps a few offices. Reports that Brigadier General John H. Winder, the inspector general of military camps for Richmond, intended to commandeer a few other factories and warehouses to convert to military prisons did nothing to alleviate her worries.

  She wasted not a moment worrying what the neighbors might think, nor did she pause to invite her mother or Eliza to accompany her. Instead she left her house alone, nodded to the man with the tobacco-­stained beard sitting on a fence across from Saint John’s—­he nodded sheepishly back—­and strode purposefully downhill toward the river, pausing at Twenty-­Fifth and Main to study the prison and steel her nerves. From the street, the building seemed unchanged except for the uniformed military guards posted at the main entrance and others patrolling the block, rifles in hand.

  Lizzie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and approached the nearest guard. “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly, fixing the plump young fellow with a winning smile. “I’m here to see your commandant.”

  “You mean Lieutenant Todd, Ma’am?” The soldier frowned at her quizzically. “Is he expecting you?”

  She took her watch from her pocket, glanced at the time, and feigned surprise. “My goodness, no. It’s not yet half past one.” Taken separately, both statements were true. “Would you be so kind as to escort me nonetheless?”

  He hesitated, but then he nodded and showed her inside, where the smells of tobacco and sweat mingled unpleasantly above something else, something rotten and fetid that she dared not allow herself to think too much about. Floorboards creaked overhead as if trod upon by hundreds of aching, poorly shod feet, and in the distance she heard a long moan of pain, which cut off abruptly just as her guide halted at a closed door. “Wait here, if you please, Ma’am,” he said, and ducked inside, only to return a moment later looking somewhat shamefaced. “The lieutenant will see you, Ma’am. You can go on in.”

  She thanked him graciously and swept into the small office, which boasted a worn pine desk with a pair of low-­backed wooden chairs arranged before it. Along the walls, bookcases were stuffed with hundreds of papers and files. Behind the desk, a man who looked to be not yet thirty rose and gave her a stiff bow. His dark hair was parted on the right and combed back, and his visage boasted a long, tapered mustache that curved upward and thick, short chin whiskers. “Good afternoon, Madam,” he greeted her, gesturing to one of the low-­backed chairs. “You must forgive me for not offering you a more solicitous welcome, but I was not informed of our appointment, nor did my aide think to introduce us. I am Lieutenant Todd, the commander here.”

  Lizzie’s heart thumped as she seated herself. The prison commandant was none other than David Humphreys Todd, half brother to Mary Todd Lincoln and brother-­in-­law to President Abraham Lincoln. How did a man with such relations end up a rebel? “I am Elizabeth Van Lew, of Church Hill. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said perfunctorily, but as he returned to his chair behind the desk, a glimmer of recognition appeared in his eye. “Van Lew of Church Hill. Are you not the widow of John Van Lew, who made his fortune in hardware?”

  “That would be my mother, Eliza Baker Van Lew,” said Lizzie. “I am their eldest child. My brother, John Newton, runs the store now.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” The lieutenant’s brow furrowed. “And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “I come on a mission of Christian charity,” she said. “I would like to serve as hospital nurse for the Union prisoners.”

  He had taken up a pen, but at her words his hand froze in the air, suspending the nib above the ink. “You are the first and only lady to make any such application.”

  “Why, then, the need is even greater than I anticipated.”

  Lieutenant Todd set down his pen emphatically, steepled his fingers, and rested them upon the desk. “If charity is what compels you, why not offer to nurse our own suffering soldiers?”

  Lizzie smiled knowingly. “The young belles of Richmond nearly ran me over in their haste to volunteer for that noble duty. Since our gallant soldiers have an abundance of nurses, I thought I would be more useful caring for those who might otherwise be neglected.”

  “Our soldiers don’t have an abundance of anything,” said the lieutenant sharply. “And neglect is better than the Yankee scum deserve.”

  “Lieutenant Todd,” said Lizzie, shocked. “Wounded men suffer whether they hail from the South or the North. Where is your com­passion?”

  “I’ll reserve my compassion for the innocent and the just.” He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Altogether I find this a very odd and disquieting request. A prison, even a prison hospital, is no place for a lady. I cannot believe you would volunteer for such work if you knew what
it’s like in here.”

  “I would like to know,” said Lizzie. “May I meet some of the prisoners?”

  “Absolutely not. I would be remiss in my duties to expose you to such filth.”

  “Only the officers, then,” Lizzie quickly countered. “Surely they are gentlemen despite being Yankees, and they would behave as gentlemen ought.”

  “I’m not willing to give them a chance to disappoint you.” He rose and came around the desk to assist her to her feet, and her heart sank as she realized the interview was over. “If you want to serve the Confederacy, then look to our own suffering men. Your good works would be wasted upon these wretches.”

  She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded as he showed her to the door, unable to trust herself to speak. The same guard was waiting in the hallway, and he escorted her outside, where she thanked him graciously, as if the meeting had gone exactly as she had wanted. Then she turned and walked briskly away, her anger smoldering. How dare Lieutenant Todd turn her away! It would cost him nothing in time, money, or inconvenience to let her nurse the poor injured men, and yet he would prefer to let them suffer.

  She would have to go over his head—­but to whom?

  She pondered her options as she walked the mile between the prison and the Custom House on the corner of Tenth and Main, where the Confederate government kept its offices. Gazing up at the five round arches that formed the arcade marking the entrance to the grand Italianate structure, she quickly ran through a mental list of the men who toiled within its granite and limestone walls. To whom could she appeal? She knew no one in the president’s innermost circle; there were no Virginians in the Cabinet, as the Confederate government had formed before Virginia seceded. Who, among these people who did not know her, would listen?

  And then she remembered Mr. Memminger.

  Christopher G. Memminger, the secretary of the treasury, was a native of Germany but had immigrated to the United States with his mother when he was a very young child. He was a South Carolinian to the core—­and also a devout Christian. Although he had no direct authority over the prisons, he had influence with those who did.

  Lizzie gathered up her skirts and climbed the stairs, passing beneath an enormous Confederate flag as she entered the stronghold of the rebel government.

  Perhaps curiosity inspired Secretary Memminger to make time to speak with her, because she waited in his outer office scarcely a quarter of an hour before an aide ushered her inside. The room was about the size of Lieutenant Todd’s, but much tidier and brighter, with a window that looked out upon Bank Street and the pleasant smell of lemon oil and fresh sawdust in the air, the latter a remnant of the partitions hastily constructed to divide a large room into several smaller, private chambers.

  Secretary Memminger rose and bowed when she entered. “Miss Van Lew, welcome,” he greeted her, offering her a comfortable chair by the window, though he remained standing. He was a gentlemen not yet sixty years of age, with fair hair, dark-­blue eyes, and chiseled features. “What request would you make of the Department of the Treasury?”

  “My request is not for your department, Mr. Secretary, but for you.”

  His eyebrows rose, and he clasped his hands behind his back as he regarded her from above. “How may I be of service, Madam?”

  “I realize that you are an exceptionally busy man, and I believe I can express my gratitude best by getting right to the point.” Lizzie paused to take a breath and smile up at him, hopeful. “I would like to nurse the sick and wounded Union prisoners being held in the tobacco factories. They’re only a few blocks away from my own neighborhood, so you can understand why I would feel a special responsibility to extend the hand of charity to them.”

  “Are you a trained nurse?”

  “No, no more than any other woman who has cared for ailing members of her own family.”

  He allowed a rueful smile. “In other words, as qualified as most of the ladies serving as nurses throughout Richmond at this very moment.”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary. We women are well practiced in caring for the sick, and we all want to be useful.”

  Suddenly his smile disappeared. “Your good intentions are woefully misdirected,” he said sternly. “The prisoners are a very different class of men than a lady such as yourself is accustomed to, and they are wholly undeserving of your ministrations.”

  “Deserving or not, they need care, and no one else seems eager to take on the task.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and tried not to show how desperately she wanted him to agree. “I beg you, sir, please consider my offer. I am a woman of independent means, and I assure you I will bear every expense myself.”

  “That does not change the nature of the men you seek to nurse,” he pointed out. “They are a very low, rough, violent sort, not worthy or fit for a lady to visit.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I see.” Lizzie paused, thinking. “But you cannot fault me for wanting to help them. As a lady—­as a Christian lady—­it is my duty to dispense charity to the less fortunate.”

  “I do not fault you at all,” he assured her. “In fact, I commend you.”

  “I knew you would understand.” Lizzie fixed him with an admiring smile. “You are the very model of the Christian gentleman, as I knew you would be. I heard you speak once, in peacetime, at a religious convention, and I must say you spoke beautifully on the subject of Christian duty. I was quite moved.”

  “Thank you, Miss Van Lew,” he said, visibly pleased. “It is a subject that has occupied my thoughts quite a lot during these challenging times.”

  “What was it our Lord said?” Lizzie mused, gazing thoughtfully at the bookshelf to the secretary’s left, where a thick, well-­read, leather-­bound Bible was given pride of place on its own shelf. “‘Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.’ Matthew 25:40, is it not?”

  “I believe it is Matthew 25:36.”

  “Really? Then what is Matthew 25:40?”

  Secretary Memminger appeared somewhat chagrined as he recited, “‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Lizzie earnestly. “Surely these Union prisoners are the least of our brethren. My obligation as a Christian woman is to help them as I would help our Lord Himself.”

  He frowned and shifted his weight uncomfortably, but he did not ask her to be silent.

  “If we want our cause to succeed,” she continued, emboldened, “we must begin with charity to the thankless. We should also be mindful that the Yankees took many prisoners too, and for their sakes as well as the sake of our own souls, we should show by our example how enemy captives ought to be treated.”

  For a long moment, the secretary regarded her in silence, but then he nodded. “Of course you’re right,” he said. “It is not always pleasant to be reminded of our duty, but the Lord Jesus Christ could not have been more clear on this subject. We must care for these prisoners, though they are our sworn enemies, because they are also our brothers.”

  “However much we might wish to disavow them.”

  He let out a short laugh. “Yes. Especially then, I warrant.” He sat down at his desk, took a sheet of paper from a basket, dipped a pen in ink, and began to write. Lizzie watched, holding herself perfectly still and scarcely breathing rather than disturb him, until he set down the pen and looked up. “Take this letter of introduction to General Winder and tell him I trust he will offer you his complete cooperation.” He waited for the ink to dry before folding the page and sealing it. “He keeps an office on Bank Street—­a bit shabby, but it’s only temporary until something better can be found.”

  “Yes, I know the place.” When he held out the letter, she quickly rose and took it before he could change his mind. “Mr. Secreta
ry, I cannot thank you enough.”

  He accepted her thanks graciously and rose to show her to the door. He was a true gentleman, she thought as she left the Custom House by the Bank Street exit, the precious letter in hand. She could not help thinking, as she had of Mr. Lee, that it was a pity such a man was a rebel.

  In no time at all she arrived at General Winder’s shanty office, where she found him seated at a table where two clerks were busily writing. The general—­a stout, stern, silver-­haired man of about sixty years—­received her most politely and kindly, but when his frown deepened as he read Secretary Memminger’s letter, she knew he would require more persuasion.

  As to that, the sunlight had faded from her golden ringlets, her youthful softness had given way to angularity, but she had not forgotten how to charm a gentleman.

  His silvery white hair waved in handsome locks, and as he reached the end of the letter, she suddenly exclaimed, “Dear me, General Winder, my friends told me you were handsome, but their compliments scarcely do you justice. What noble physiognomy! Your hair would better adorn the temple of Janus. It seems out of place in such surroundings.”

  The general glanced up from the letter, surprised. “Thank you, Madam,” he said. “You are very kind.”

  “Oh, not at all.” Lizzie smiled and waved a hand breezily. “I’m sure you’ve heard it before. You must know how much the ladies of Richmond admire you.”

  He smiled, flattered. “From the moment I arrived, the ladies of Richmond have impressed me with their grace and kindness. I’m very pleased to know I’ve made a favorable impression upon them.”