Her network had taken a beating, but even before the bruises healed, and despite their diminished numbers, Lizzie and the Richmond underground continued their work for the Union with newly inspired vengeance. If legal maneuvers and bribes could not free Mr. Lohmann and the other loyalists from Castle Thunder, the fall of Richmond certainly would.
In early February, the rumors of tentative peace negotiations suddenly became vividly real when Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Lincoln agreed to name commissioners to meet and discuss their options. Mary Jane learned well before most of Mr. Davis’s cabinet did that Mr. Davis had first rejected suggestions that he appoint Vice-President Stephens to lead the Confederate delegation, but had eventually acquiesced because Mr. Stephens and Mr. Lincoln had been friends when they had served in the House of Representatives together.
Even as General Sherman’s army marched from Georgia into South Carolina and ominously closer to Richmond, talk of peace filled the Confederate capital. Mr. Lincoln had sent his secretary of state, William H. Seward, to meet Mr. Stephens’s party at Fort Monroe, but astonishingly, three days later President Lincoln himself joined the parties at Hampton Roads. On February 3, aboard the steamboat River Queen, Union and Confederate representatives began talks that all present hoped would end the long struggle before another drop of blood was shed. Unfortunately, they never broached the finer points of the matter because the Confederates insisted the goal was to achieve peace between two sovereign nations, while Mr. Lincoln emphasized that he sought peace within their one common country. Mr. Lincoln insisted upon the end of slavery, Mr. Stephens was bound to the idea of Southern independence, and neither would yield, and nothing was agreed, and all returned home with little to show for the excursion. When the Richmond press published the delegation’s report and denounced the Union for demanding the total subjugation of the South, talk of hope and peace vanished, superseded by anger and the defiant certainty that Southern independence would be established not at the negotiating table but on the battlefield, once and for all, and soon.
Lizzie wondered how even the most ardent rebel could believe that anymore. The Confederate army was starving. Sickness, death, and desertions had reduced General Lee’s army to some fifty-seven thousand malnourished soldiers, including troops from the Home Guard and reservists, in stunning contrast to General Grant’s force, one hundred twenty-four thousand strong. General Sherman had captured Columbia, Charleston had been evacuated, and Wilmington, the last major port in rebeldom, had also fallen. It was only a matter of time until the Union army overpowered the rebels entirely, Lizzie thought, time that meant more bloodshed and hunger and needless suffering.
Lizzie’s disappointment with the failed peace conference had begun to fade by the time news of a very different sort appeared in the February 10 edition of the Richmond Whig.
GEN. WINDER DEAD
We regret to learn that Brigadier General John H. Winder, who, for a considerable time, it will be remembered, commanded the Department of Henrico, died at Florence, S. C., on the 6th.
Stunned, Lizzie quickly turned to the Enquirer, searching each column of newsprint for his name. Why had they given no cause of death? Had he been shot on the battlefield? Strangled by one of his own prisoners? She had to know. She had been entangled with him too long not to wonder.
Then she found it, another announcement: “He died in an apoplectic fit, and was, up to the moment of his illness, apparently in excellent health.”
She sank back into her chair, staring into space.
Her longtime nemesis was truly gone, struck down without warning as if by a bolt from above. It was impossible not to sense divine judgment in his demise.
On March 4, one hundred miles north of Richmond in Washington City, Abraham Lincoln took his oath of office inside the Capitol. Soon thereafter, he emerged upon the East Portico, the newly completed dome high above him, to deliver his second inaugural address. Lizzie wished with all her heart to be there to hear what was surely a stirring speech, full of noble ideas and simple eloquence, but she settled for a celebratory glass of sherry and a tiny slice of ginger cake with her mother and Eliza and a few other dear Unionist friends, who regarded the day with the same joyful reverence as she. Someday, she vowed, someday when peace again reigned from North to South, she would go to Washington City. She would see Mr. Lincoln—the Great Emancipator, the savior of the Union—see him with her own eyes, and if she had the chance she would introduce herself and perhaps, modestly, tell him all she had done for him. Or perhaps, she thought mirthfully, amused by her own silly pride, perhaps he would have already heard of her. Perhaps his eyes would light up at the mention of her name, and he would shake her hand, and bow, and offer her his thanks.
And then, if she were very lucky, Mr. Lincoln would introduce her to General Grant, whom she admired and greatly desired to meet.
That would indeed be a perfect day. That was a fond wish to keep her heart warm in the midst of a seemingly endless winter.
Confederate troops had been ordered down the Danville road, Lizzie wrote to General Grant one bitter winter day less than a fortnight later. Warehouses of cotton, tobacco, and other valuable goods had been turned over to the provost marshal. Mrs. Davis was packing some household goods, selling others, and giving away still more to trusted, loyal friends, and Mr. Davis had taught her how to fire a pistol. Citizens were ordered to “be organized,” although what that meant in practical terms had not been explained.
Taken together, the curious, unsettling incidents convinced Lizzie that the ephemeral rumors of an impending evacuation that had drifted through the capital since the turning of the year were now apparently coalescing, solidifying into a form yet unknown.
“May God bless and bring you soon to deliver us,” Lizzie concluded the dispatch, her hand shaking from fatigue, her stomach cramping painfully from hunger too long ignored. “We are all in an awful situation here. There is great want of food.”
And then, only a few days later, long after Lizzie had assumed that the events of the war had lost their power to astonish her, the truly unexpected happened.
The Confederate Congress passed a bill authorizing the War Department to raise companies of Negro soldiers, free and slave alike, not to labor but to take up arms in defense of the homes in which they had been born and raised, and in which they had found contentment and happiness—or so the recruitment handbills enjoined them.
Lizzie could hardly believe her ears when she learned the bill had passed, and she could scarcely believe her eyes when, only nine days later, the first three companies of colored soldiers paraded in the streets of the capital. Thousands of citizens packed Capitol Square to watch the new recruits march proudly to the strains of fife and drum, their uniforms spotless and new, their motives unfathomable, their judgment impaired—or so Lizzie concluded. She had joined the throngs of spectators because she had hoped that watching the colored Confederates would help her to understand them better, but the insight she gained from the parade had less to do with those poor, bewildering, misguided men than the politicians who had granted them the right to bear arms for the Confederacy. As she wrote in a dispatch to Colonel Sharpe and General Grant immediately upon returning home from the spectacle, the rebel government must be desperate indeed to do now that which they had vehemently sworn could never be done.
On the first day of April, Lizzie discovered that her suspicions that the beginning of the end was upon them were shared by the most prominent rebel of all.
She had just sat down to a meager breakfast of cornmeal gruel with her mother and nieces when Mary Jane burst into the dining room, breathless and wide-eyed from astonishment, her shawl and bonnet glistening with raindrops.
“Miss Lizzie, Mrs. Van Lew,” she gasped, clutching her side and panting as if she had run all the way from the Gray House. “Mrs. Davis has fled Richmond.”
Chapter Twenty-two
* * *
/> APRIL 1865
M
rs. Davis and the children departed in the small hours of the night,” Mary Jane told them, sinking into a chair at the foot of the table. “When I arrived for work this morning, I found them gone and the household in a state of great distress.”
“And Mr. Davis?” Lizzie prompted eagerly. “Is he soon to follow?”
“He remains in Richmond to direct the affairs of state, but for how much longer is anyone’s guess.”
Across the table from Lizzie, to Mother’s left, Annie and little Eliza watched Mary Jane wide-eyed, their breakfasts forgotten. Suddenly Lizzie realized that at nine and seven years of age, her nieces could not remember a time before the war, and her heart ached for them.
Soon, perhaps, they would discover peace.
“Where did Mrs. Davis go?” Mother asked.
“Mr. Davis’s valet told me that she, the children, and her sister Margaret boarded the train to Charlotte escorted by his private secretary,” Mary Jane replied. “She begged to be allowed to stay—Mrs. Lee has no intention of fleeing—but Mr. Davis insisted.”
“Well, of course. He wants his family out of harm’s way,” said Mother. “Mr. Lee would probably insist that his wife go too, if she were not in such poor health.”
“Mr. Davis told her that if they stayed in Richmond, their presence would only worry and grieve him, and offer him no comfort,” said Mary Jane. “So at last she agreed. He gave her his pistol and all of his Confederate money and gold except for one five-dollar piece, and told her to make her way to the coast of Florida, where she could take a boat abroad if necessary.”
“She would flee not only Richmond but the entire continent?” Lizzie asked, astonished. “Surely this means Mr. Davis believes the Confederacy is finished.”
“Not so,” Mary Jane cautioned. “His valet told me that Mr. Davis intends to go to Texas and continue governing from there. General Lee has given him reason to hope that the fall of Richmond would not necessarily mean the end of the struggle. If his army no longer needs to protect the capital, General Lee would be able to direct his forces as he sees fit for the first time since he took command. He believes he can prolong the war for another two years.”
“God help us, no,” gasped Mother. “We cannot have two more years of this. We cannot endure it!”
Lizzie reached across the table and clasped her hand. “We won’t have to. When Richmond falls, the Confederacy will crumble, and it will happen sooner than Mr. Davis and Mr. Lee think.”
If it happened tomorrow, or even that very day, it would not be too soon.
The previous day, ten thousand rebels under the command of General Pickett had fought off five times that many Union troops at Dinwiddie Court House. Lizzie had expected the fighting to resume in the morning, but when it did not, she sent Peter out into the rain-soaked morning to collect the latest rumors. He soon returned to report that General Pickett, cut off from the rest of the Army of Northern Virginia, had pulled back to Five Forks, a vital crossroads General Lee had exhorted them to hold at all hazards.
At about a quarter past four o’clock in the afternoon, the battle resumed more fiercely than before. The Van Lews soon became so accustomed to the relentless hammering that it was the silence between barrages that caught their attention, bringing their work or play to an abrupt halt as they stood perfectly still wherever they were, straining their ears to listen. The interludes of hushed expectation never lasted, and on that day the cacophony persisted long after Lizzie put her nieces to bed. Somehow the girls slept through the battle, though the ground trembled and flashing guns and exploding shells turned the night into intermittent day.
Lizzie managed to seize a few hours of sleep, but a huge explosion shook her awake at dawn, and after she threw on a dressing gown and raced upstairs to the rooftop, she glimpsed lurid flashes lighting up the morning sky in the direction of Petersburg. Spellbound, she lost track of time as she watched the red shells bursting in the distance, but she returned inside when she heard stirring from within. It was a Sunday, and whatever else might be going on in the outskirts of the city, she had to get the girls up and dressed and fed and ready for church.
It was a beautiful day, warm and gentle and sunny, with daffodils blooming and trees unfurling a fresh, green canopy of leaves overhead. As they crossed the street to Saint John’s church, Lizzie took it all in gratefully, glimpsing God’s benevolence in the natural beauty of her beleaguered city, but as she escorted her mother and nieces into the family pew, her attention was riveted by the hushed, worried murmurs all around her. General Pickett had met a fearful loss near Petersburg, some said. Veteran troops manning Richmond’s defenses had been hurriedly marched away to reinforce divisions elsewhere, and barely trained reserves had taken their places. The battle was still ongoing, but some trick of the wind carried the sounds of warfare away from Richmond so it was impossible to tell whether the armies clashed nearby or far away, whether they were approaching or retreating.
Lizzie tried to forget her earthly cares in the familiar, soothing rhythms of worship. The minister was reading from Zechariah when Lizzie heard footsteps coming up the center aisle behind her. When the footsteps suddenly halted and a flurry of murmurs and shifting began, Lizzie glanced over her shoulder and discovered a messenger standing at the end of a pew five rows back, handing a folded paper to—Lizzie gave a start—to Colonel Trinidad Martinez, whom she had not seen in ages. She had not known he was back in Richmond, but when he read the note, supported himself with a cane as he rose, and followed the messenger from the church, she realized that he must have been recently wounded, and was recovering in one of the many hospitals scattered throughout the city. If she had known, she would have invited him to move into the Van Lew mansion while he recuperated—but, of course, that would have put her clandestine activities in jeopardy, so it was just as well he had not sent word.
The disruption over, the minister resumed his homily, and Lizzie struggled to return her attention to his words of faith and redemption. He had nearly finished when another messenger hurried up the side aisle and bent to whisper in the ear of a gray-bearded man Lizzie recognized as a member of President Davis’s cabinet. The secretary strode from the church, mouth set in a grim line, and the door had scarcely closed behind him when yet another messenger entered, middle-aged and portly and huffing from exertion. The distracted worshipers’ murmurs swelled with curiosity and alarm as he hurried past the pews and halted at the pulpit. There he stood at attention and held out a folded piece of paper to the minister, who stared at him a moment before accepting the note. As the minister read in silence, the furrows in his brow deepened and his shoulders slumped. He bowed his head on the lectern for a long moment, then straightened, looked out upon the congregation gravely, and said, “Brethren, trying times are before us. General Lee has been defeated, but remember that God is with us in the storm as well as in the calm.”
A woman moaned with such unearthly despair that Lizzie felt chills prickle up and down her spine from her neck to the small of her back.
“We may never meet again,” the minister intoned. “Go quietly to your homes, and whatever may be in store for us, let us not forget that we are Christian men and women, and may the protection and blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost be with you all.”
Lizzie seized little Eliza’s hand, Mother took Annie’s, and they joined the flow of worshipers as they swiftly fled the church, some weeping openly, others grimacing in anguish. Outside, songbirds chirped merrily in the sunshine beneath a blue, cloudless sky, but the residents of Church Hill were insensible to their song as they rushed to and fro seeking information, reassurance, the comfort of a friend’s embrace. As Lizzie quickly ushered her little family across the street, she observed men striding off toward Capitol Square and black-clad women gathering up their skirts and fleeing for home. So many women were dressed in mourning, Lizzie
thought as she gazed back upon the scene from the safety of her own front portico. In the grayness of winter, it had been easier not to notice how nearly every woman of her acquaintance was mourning a husband, a son, a brother, a father, but against the pastel hues of springtime, their black attire stood out in contrast as stark as their grief.
While she stood watching, a dowager making her way stiffly down Grace Street waved frantically to a pair of younger women passing on the opposite side. “Oh, Alice, Martha, have you heard the dreadful news?” she called out, her voice shrill with terror. “The city is to be evacuated immediately, and the Yankees will be here before morning! What can it all mean? And what is to become of us poor defenseless women? God only knows!”
“Don’t despair,” the younger of the two ladies called back. “I don’t believe they’re going to evacuate. That has been the false report so often, it can be nothing more than another of the usual Sunday rumors.”
But her voice quavered as she spoke, and after bowing her head in farewell, she linked her arm through her companion’s and they hurried off together at a much brisker pace.
Lizzie followed her family inside, and when she summoned Peter she was relieved when Louisa reported that he had anticipated her request—or had wanted to satisfy his own burning curiosity—and had already gone to Capitol Square for the news. Impatiently she waited, wondering whether her time would be better spent sending General Grant information or asking for it.
She had her answer when Peter came back with observations and rumors in abundance. Apparently a messenger had come to Mr. Davis as he attended services at Saint Paul’s earlier that morning, and his face had gone gray as he read the note. Without a word, he had risen with singular gravity and determination and had quietly left the church, his hat in his hand. Colored folks whose ministers had announced the news from the pulpit had emerged from their African churches beaming and glancing with great anticipation toward the James and down the road to the east as if they expected Yankees to storm the city at any moment. Citizens spotting officials on the street had watched them as if trying to determine from their behavior what they themselves ought to be doing—packing their belongings, hiding their valuables, destroying incriminating wartime journals, or grabbing their loved ones and fleeing for their lives. Increasingly frantic crowds had gathered at the Spotswood Hotel and clustered around the bulletin boards outside the telegraph and newspaper offices, desperate for news from Petersburg and the battlefields. Government clerks loaded boxes of documents and kegs full of gold onto wagons, carts, and any other wheeled conveyance they could lay their hands upon. Peter happened to run into Mr. Ruth, who told him that the quartermaster had been organizing trains to carry officials, documents, and treasure south into exile on the Richmond & Danville Railroad, and Mr. Ruth was doing his very best to keep the RF&P train cars out of his desperate grasp.
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