The Spymistress

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “That’s all fine and good,” Hannah said, letting her exasperation show, “but in the end it’s the same. I’m a slave, and if I go with Miss Mary, she’ll treat me like a slave.”

  “Yes,” said Mother. “She probably will, more so than she does here. I truly regret that.”

  “I’ll miss my sons too.”

  “Peter and William can visit you,” Lizzie quickly promised, “and you’re welcome here whenever you like.”

  “Whenever Miss Mary let me go, you mean, and that ain’t likely to be often.” Hannah turned a level look on both of them in turn. “If she ever raise a hand to me, I am done there, and you’ll bring me home.”

  “Of course,” Mother assured her. “John would not permit her to strike you, but if she does, you need not stay an hour longer.”

  Hannah promised to think it over, and before long her affection for the girls and her concern for their well-­being won out. Only after she agreed did they propose the plan to John and Mary. John thought it was an excellent idea, but Mary resisted. “One mammy is the same as any other,” she said. “We could easily find someone younger, more biddable. I don’t care for the way Hannah scowls at me.”

  “Our daughters have a particular attachment to Hannah,” John pointed out. “They’ve known her all their lives.”

  “Finding and training a new nurse is a difficult and expensive undertaking,” Lizzie remarked. “I admire you, Mary, for taking on such an arduous task. I certainly wouldn’t have enough hours in my day for it.”

  Mary frowned slightly, and said she would think it over, and in the end she decided that it would be to everyone’s advantage if Hannah continued on as the girls’ nurse.

  A day later, John, Mary, Annie, and little Eliza moved out of the Church Hill mansion. Mother accompanied them in the carriage, while William and Nelson followed, driving the wagon full of their belongings. Lizzie was invited to go along too, but she couldn’t bear it, so instead she spent the day on the piazza with Eliza Carrington, knitting socks for the prisoners.

  “We need more help,” Lizzie said to Eliza as they packed up their workbaskets for the day. “The load is heavy, and more hands will bear it more easily.”

  “I cannot think of anyone I would feel safe inviting to join us,” said Eliza. “Most ladies of my acquaintance, and yours, don’t want to help the Union prisoners, and those few that do are too afraid.”

  “We must find braver friends,” Lizzie said, escorting Eliza to the garden gate. “Trustworthy friends who won’t be frightened off by a few scornful paragraphs in the newspaper. Friends who can keep secrets, and who will be discreet.”

  Eliza uttered a helpless laugh. “I don’t know of anyone but you and your mother who fit that description.”

  “I know of one other,” said Lizzie thoughtfully. “Someone who should have a particular interest in helping us help the Union.”

  The next morning, Lizzie packed a basket full of preserves and fresh bread and had Peter drive her to the charming row house on Leigh Street where newlyweds Mary Jane and Wilson resided. She rapped upon the door and waited, but although she thought she heard stirring within, no one answered. Puzzled, she knocked again, louder, but again there was no response. Disappointed, she had just made up her mind to return to the carriage when the door swung open, quickly, but only wide enough to reveal Mary Jane, and nothing of the room behind her.

  “Miss Lizzie,” she exclaimed, breathless. She was clad in a dark-­blue dress with thin, vertical stripes of tan and white and a collar of fine white lace trimming the round neckline. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “My dear Mrs. Bowser,” Lizzie cried, planting a kiss on Mary Jane’s cheek. “I’m so glad to find you at home. I hope I didn’t choose an inopportune time to call.”

  “Well, as it happens—­” Mary Jane glanced over her shoulder. “I’m delighted to see you, but the—­my parlor isn’t tidy enough for visitors, and I have nothing to offer you for refreshment—­”

  “Nonsense! You’ve always kept a neat room, and even if you didn’t, we know each other too well to deny ourselves the pleasure of a visit over such a small thing. As for refreshments—­” Smiling, she drew back the cloth covering the basket. “I have come prepared.”

  “Miss Lizzie...” Mary Jane hesitated, glanced over her shoulder again, then sighed and held open the door wider. “You may come in, but please, say nothing of what you see here.”

  Taken aback, Lizzie nodded and followed Mary Jane across the threshold. Inside, the curtains were drawn against the lovely morning sunshine and the lamps were lit, but even as Lizzie puzzled over this oddity, her eyes adjusted to the light and she discovered the reason for it. Eight mismatched desks were arranged in four neat rows in Mary Jane’s front room, and at them sat ten small Negro children, books and slates before them, their wide eyes fixed solemnly on the unexpected visitor.

  “Mary Jane,” she said in wonder. “You’ve set up a school.”

  “One needs something to do besides sweep and cook all day.” Mary Jane clapped her hands for attention. “Pupils, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Miss Elizabeth Van Lew.”

  “Good morning, Miss Van Lew,” the children chorused.

  “Good morning to you,” replied Lizzie, thoroughly charmed. “You are all very fortunate children indeed to have such a good teacher. I trust you work diligently for her.”

  They nodded, some vigorously, others shyly.

  “Continue with your readers,” Mary Jane instructed. “When I come back, we’ll begin recitations.” She took Lizzie’s arm and led her through a doorway into a small dining room outfitted with a square table and four chairs, a modest china closet with a few pieces proudly displayed behind glass doors, and an old sideboard that had been polished to a high sheen. The room smelled pleasantly of peaches and fried chicken, and at the far end, Lizzie glimpsed a doorway, which she presumed led to a coal shed or the kitchen.

  “A school, Mary Jane,” Lizzie exclaimed, setting the basket on the sideboard. “What a marvelous idea.”

  “But also very dangerous,” Mary Jane reminded her, interlacing her fingers and twisting them, an old nervous habit. “The Black Code prohibits gatherings of five or more Negroes except at church.”

  “I can’t imagine that law was written with little children in mind.”

  “Perhaps not, but I have no doubt that an unscrupulous person would use it against me if they wanted to shut down my school.” Mary spread her hands, then let them fall to her sides. “Now you understand why I haven’t invited you to call.”

  “I assumed you and Wilson were too preoccupied with newlywed bliss to entertain guests,” said Lizzie dryly. “Also, Wilson doesn’t like me.”

  “He does too like you.”

  “Oh, indeed?”

  “He doesn’t dislike you,” Mary Jane amended, “and he respects you.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Lizzie, amused. “I wish you had invited me sooner nonetheless. I could have helped tutor your pupils.”

  Mary Jane gave her a knowing look. “From what I hear, you’ve found other ways to keep busy. ‘Two ladies, mother and daughter, living on Church Hill,’ defying local custom and propriety by tending to Union prisoners—­who else could they mean?”

  Lizzie pulled out a chair and waved a hand airily as she sat down at the table. “Oh, don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “I don’t. I know better.” Mary Jane regarded her skeptically. “Are you saying that you and Mrs. Van Lew aren’t the Church Hill ladies in question?”

  “I’m not saying that at all. That’s one part of the story they got right.” Lizzie smiled and patted the table to encourage Mary Jane to sit. “That’s actually why I called today. I hope to enlist you for our cause.”

  Warily Mary Jane sat down. “How could I help? I’m busy with my students almost every da
y. Although my heart goes out to those poor prisoners, I can’t cancel school to visit them. These children’s education is too important.”

  Lizzie could hardly disagree. “If you cannot visit the prisons yourself, perhaps you would introduce me to friends who could.”

  “You mean colored friends.”

  “Yes, I do mean your colored friends, Mary Jane.” Lizzie sighed. “I am going to speak plainly, and please know, before I do, that I mean no offense.”

  “I am duly forewarned,” said Mary Jane, looking amused. “Please proceed.”

  “I need men and women who will be ignored, passed over, taken for granted.” Lizzie folded her hands and rested them on the table. “An eccentric Church Hill spinster and her sweet elderly mother carrying baskets to and from the prisons day after day draw too many curious eyes. We need to spread the work among more people to dilute the scrutiny, and colored servants, whether free or slave, can go about their masters’ business unquestioned.”

  “As long as the servant has an unexpired pass,” Mary Jane said. “And does not break curfew, and does not block a sidewalk, and does not speak insolently to a white person—­”

  “I have lived in Richmond since before you were born,” Lizzie reminded her. “I know the Black Code very well.”

  “Not as well as we do.”

  “No, I imagine not, you whose lives depend upon obeying it.” Lizzie sighed and sat back in her chair. “Mary Jane, dear, surely you want the Union to triumph. If the North wins this war, slavery will be finished. If the South wins, everything will go on as it always has. You can’t want that.”

  “No, of course I don’t want that, but not every Northerner is an abolitionist. I learned that well during my time in Philadelphia. A Union victory does not necessarily mean the end of slavery.”

  “But it’s far more likely, and slavery will never end under Confederate rule.” Once Lizzie had believed that emancipation would come to Virginia gradually, as time and reflection and a greater understanding of slavery’s horrors brought about enlightenment, but the outbreak of war had sharpened her perspective.

  “On that point, we agree.” At a sudden sound of a chair scraping against the floor, Mary Jane glanced toward the front room. “I should get back to my students.”

  “Do consider who among your most trustworthy friends would be willing to help us,” Lizzie urged. “We need people to take money for bribes and food and other goods to the prisoners, but we also need friends among the workers already in place. Many people of color are employed as janitors, laborers, laundresses, and cooks at the prisons, the Capitol, the Custom House—­everywhere. White people pay little attention to them as they go about their work. They are perfectly situated to assist the prisoners and to gather information that will help speed the end of the war.”

  “You want them to be spies,” said Mary Jane.

  “I don’t think spy is an appropriate word,” protested Lizzie. “The word spy conjures up visions of nefarious characters who work in the shadows and sneak into forbidden places to steal secrets from a legitimate government. That is not the case here. The Confederacy is an occupying force, not a sovereign state. Your friends and mine would simply observe the activities and conversations all around them as they go about their duties precisely where they are expected to be. It’s not their fault if a careless clerk leaves important papers on his desk where anyone could see them, or if a general discusses secret military plans in front of his colored valet, forgetting that his valet is a man, with ears and brains and a conscience.”

  A high, shrill laugh came from the front room, and Mary Jane sighed and gazed heavenward. “I must get back to the children before all bedlam breaks loose.” When Lizzie began to speak, Mary Jane held up a palm. “I have friends who may be interested in helping you. I’ll inquire, and I’ll send you a note.”

  “Or call on us at Church Hill,” Lizzie implored, rising. “Mother would love to see you, and with John and the children gone, we could use a pleasant diversion.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mary, sympathetic. “I heard about that.” Lizzie didn’t need to ask how. Servants talked, and although Mary was no longer a servant, she was still included in their broad social circle and knew what they knew. “I have no doubt you would gladly suffer Miss Mary at her worst if it meant keeping those precious girls near.”

  Lizzie felt tears gathering. “You understand perfectly.” She drew in a breath and forced a smile. “You’ve just provided an excellent demonstration of the value of the grapevine telegraph. Now you see why I’m so eager for your help.”

  “And here I thought you just missed me.” Mary Jane smiled and led her to the door. “I promise to do what I can.”

  Lizzie thanked her and left, greatly heartened. She knew Mary Jane’s capabilities well, and if she did all she could, that would be considerable.

  “You have an abundance of sympathy for these Yankees,” General Winder remarked, studying Lizzie on the late summer day she had come on behalf of Congressman Ely, Colonel Michael Corcoran of the Sixty-­Ninth New York, and another civilian prisoner, a lawyer named Calvin Huson Jr., to the general’s Bank Street office to lodge the prisoners’ substantial list of grievances with Lieutenant Todd. “It’s a pity you cannot do as much for our own poor soldiers languishing in Northern prisons.”

  Lizzie’s heart thumped, but she smiled brightly and kept her voice steady. “Oh, General Winder, I knew you would be wise enough to discern my true motives—­the true sentiments of my heart—­even when all about me unkind people grumble and make the most horrid accusations.”

  “Thank you, Madam.” His expression did not change. “Every man likes to think himself wise.”

  “Yes, but far too many do so without cause. Unlike you.” Lizzie fixed him with an admiring gaze. “I’m sure few among them understand what you figured out so quickly—­that what I do, I do not only out of Christian duty, but also out of concern for our own poor, brave Confederate prisoners.”

  “And if they inquired, these unkind people—­how would you explain yourself to them?”

  “I would tell them that when we commit atrocities upon the Yankees under our control, we give those Northern commandants license to inflict the same or worse upon the Southern men they hold.” Quickly Lizzie told him of Lieutenant Todd’s insistence on entering the prison with his sword drawn, and for using the flat of the blade to strike captives who did not fall in for roll call quickly enough. Guards were instructed to shoot—­and kill—­prisoners who leaned out of the windows for a breath of fresh air. “As the morally superior party in this dreadful conflict, we must show by our example how prisoners must be treated. What do you suppose those Yankee prison guards would do to our brave, suffering men if they knew Lieutenant Todd believes the punishment for glancing out a window is death?”

  The general thought silently for a moment, but eventually he agreed to investigate. “The Yankees have a formidable advocate in you,” he said as he rose and showed her to the door.

  “They may think they do, but they do not,” Lizzie replied lightly. “You and I both know that the spirit of Christian charity and concern for our own prisoners are all that compel me.”

  True to his word, General Winder reviewed the formal protest and made inquiries, but ultimately accepted Lieutenant Todd’s explanation that the prisoners had been shot attempting to escape. “Even the Yankee wardens would agree that shooting a prisoner in the midst of an escape attempt is perfectly justified,” he told Lizzie.

  “Yes, I’m quite sure they would,” said Lizzie, knowing that she was beaten. It was a rare defeat in her ongoing battle of wits with General Winder.

  On the first day of August, President Davis and his family moved into the refurbished gray stucco mansion at Twelfth and Clay Streets. Even before they settled in, some proud citizens began calling the residence the White House of the Confederacy, but others rejected the homage
to President Lincoln’s mansion in Washington City. The Gray House was a popular alternative, although most residents referred to it simply as the President’s House or the Executive Mansion.

  By any name, it was an impressive home, three and a half stories tall, with a small stoop in the front as befitting the elevation facing the busy, unattractive street, and a glorious columned portico to the rear, which offered sweeping vistas of Shockoe Valley beyond a steep, terraced garden and orchard. Lizzie heard others tell of the airy, elaborately decorated rooms and halls, with their high ceilings and beautifully adorned fireplaces and winding staircases, but of course she did not see them herself, because she had not been invited to any of Mrs. Davis’s receptions. John and Mary, however, were invited to a dinner by virtue of John’s considerable status in the business community. When Lizzie and her mother visited John, Mary, and the girls at their new home the following Sunday afternoon, Mary described in rapturous detail the twin statues of the goddesses of comedy and tragedy bearing gas lamps in the entrance hall, the heavy green-­and-­gold brocatelle draperies in the dining room, the elegant crimson flocked wallpaper in the parlor and drawing room, and the many fine pieces of rosewood furniture and china. As Mary chattered on about the ladies’ dresses, their fascinating conversations, and her friend Mrs. Chesnut’s witty observations of it all, John’s expression became so gloomy that Lizzie realized that he was miserably reliving an evening he had suffered through unwillingly the first time. She could not resist teasing him a little, and so whenever Mary paused to take a breath, she feigned innocence and asked her brother for his impressions of the evening. All that John would allow was that the food was delicious, the president treated everyone courteously but looked as if he found formal social gatherings akin to torture, his wife seemed very clever, and the Davis children were undisciplined little terrors.

  “Oh, John.” Mary laughed. “It was nothing like that. I could almost believe we had not attended the same party.”

  Lizzie thought that John looked as if he wished they had not.