The Spymistress (28 page)

“What practical good does it do to declare slaves free in regions where the people don’t recognize Mr. Lincoln’s authority?” William asked one afternoon after bringing Lizzie and her mother the afternoon papers.

“It does seem that Mr. Lincoln has emancipated slaves where the Union cannot free them,” Mother acknowledged, “but has kept them enslaved in places where the Union does enjoy the power to give them liberty.”

“Most slaves out on the plantations will probably never even know they’ve been freed,” William said, frowning. “Come January first, I don’t expect planters and overseers to gather their slaves together and read them the official proclamation, then unlock their chains and let them walk away.”

“I have trouble imagining that too,” Lizzie admitted. “It’s true that Mr. Lincoln’s plan is not without its flaws, but think of what else it does, in addition to freeing the slaves—”

“It won’t really free all that many slaves,” William broke in pointedly.

Lizzie held up her hands in appeasement. “Think of what else it will accomplish. From the earliest days of secession, the South has hoped and prayed for and expected Great Britain to recognize them as a sovereign nation and side with them in the conflict. But Great Britain abhors slavery. They’ll
never
establish diplomatic relations with the Confederacy now, and they certainly won’t intervene in the war on their behalf, not even if it meant they could fill every English mill from cellar to chimney top with Confederate cotton.”

As far as Lizzie was concerned, despite its weaknesses, the proclamation was worth celebrating as proof that the nation was moving toward greater freedom and liberty for all. The old Union was gone forever. When the nation was restored, it would be a new United States.

But she knew the only way Mr. Lincoln could enforce his Emancipation Proclamation where it was needed most was to win the war.

. . .

The Confederacy was determined to deny Mr. Lincoln that victory.

To that end, they needed more accoutrements of war—food, arms, horses, and especially men. On September 27, the Confederate Congress voted to amend the conscription act to raise the age limit from thirty-five to forty-five.

With the stroke of a pen, John had become eligible for the draft.

“I cannot take up arms against my country,” John said, “nor can I in good conscience hire a substitute to do so on my behalf.” He sat in the library with his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands. It was late in the evening, the girls had been sent off to bed, and soon he would have to return to the lonely home he shared with his estranged wife. To Lizzie he seemed as exhausted and strained as it was possible to be without collapsing utterly.

“You should go to the North,” said Mother, distressed. “You can stay with Anna until the war is over.”

“That could be years, Mother,” said John, lifting his head wearily. “I cannot leave the children for so long, nor Mary for any time at all, with her nerves in such a delicate state. I can’t leave the store either, not if I want to keep a roof over their heads.”

“You forget they have my roof over their heads now,” said Mother, “and I would happily share it with you again too.”

“With all four of you,” Lizzie quickly added, in case anyone thought she might object.

He shook his head. “I won’t leave Richmond.”

“But you’ll be thrown into Castle Thunder for desertion,” said Mother, her voice breaking.

“Not so.” He managed a wan smile. “I can’t desert until I’m drafted, and that hasn’t happened yet.”

“And might not happen,” Lizzie said firmly, hiding her own dismay for her mother’s sake. She was afraid for John, but she understood why he could not flee. They all could have chosen to go North when war broke out. With the housing shortage, they easily could have sold the Church Hill mansion to a newly appointed general or member of the Confederate Congress, fled North, and settled in a pleasant residence in Philadelphia near Anna’s family, but they were Virginians born and bred, and Richmond was their home. It had changed dramatically, but it was still their home, and they could not relinquish it to the madness of secession and war, not while any hope remained that they could save it.

By early October, with the threat of invasion by the Union army diminished, Jefferson Davis’s family returned to Richmond and Mrs. Davis resumed her public duties. She paid calls on important dowagers to bolster support for her husband’s administration and hosted dinners for officers and other dignitaries, where she charmed some guests with her intelligence and wit but offended others with her irreverence. In other circumstances, Lizzie mused after reading a description of one such event in the
Enquirer
, she and Varina Davis might have become very good friends.

Varina Davis’s return to Richmond meant more official receptions and dinners, which led to a corresponding increase in orders from McNiven’s Bakery. One afternoon Lizzie returned home from her customary walk past Libby Prison to discover the bakery’s delivery wagon behind the house, and after hurrying inside, she found Mr. McNiven in the kitchen, ostensibly delivering a dozen buttery scones.

“I am so glad you always feel obliged to deliver something to keep up appearances,” Lizzie teased.

“Aye, lass,” he said. “If a curious neighbor calls and you have nothing from my bakery to serve, they’ll wonder why I was here.” He settled himself into a chair at the kitchen table, glanced warily at Caroline as if considering whether to ask her to leave the room, and then shrugged and turned back to Lizzie, apparently concluding that the cook could be trusted. “They know me fairly well in the kitchens of the Gray House now. They’re looking for an able colored lass to wait at table and help with the cleaning. I said I knew such a lass, even though I don’t, because I thought you might.”

For a moment Lizzie couldn’t draw a breath from excitement, and she grasped the edge of the table to steady herself. If she could place a trusted servant in Jefferson Davis’s own household, the secrets she could obtain could be invaluable. “I know of one young woman who would be perfectly suited for the position.”

“Is she trustworthy?” asked Mr. McNiven. “Literate?”

“Yes to both, and she also has a prodigious memory.” Lizzie inhaled deeply, thinking. “But she is no slave and might not wish to impersonate one, not even to help the Union.”

“We must find a worthy lass and quickly, before they hire someone else.”

Lizzie nodded. “Yes, of course.” They might never have another opportunity to get so close to the Confederate president, and she could not let it slip through her fingers.

As soon as Mr. McNiven departed, Lizzie took the carriage to the Bowser residence. She found Mary Jane bidding her pupils good-bye for the day, sending them out through the doors alone or in pairs to avoid drawing the unwanted attention a single crowd would bring. As soon as they were alone—quickly, eager to finish before Wilson came home from work and interrupted them—Lizzie told Mary Jane what she wanted her to do.

Mary Jane listened to Lizzie’s proposal without a word and remained silent for a long time afterward. “I would have to close my school.”

“Yes, I feared as much.”

“But perhaps that would be a small loss now for a great gain later. If I can learn anything from Mr. Davis that will bring about a Union victory and a swift end to this war, is it not better for my students if I do so?”

Lizzie gave a small, helpless laugh. “Of course I think so, but I’m hardly a disinterested observer.”

Mary Jane fixed her with a resolute look. “I must be allowed to live out,” she said. “I will not spend my nights in the Gray House, away from my husband.”

“That can be arranged, I’m sure.”

“And I will keep the wages I earn.”

“Of course,” said Lizzie, surprised. “You’re the one doing the work. Why shouldn’t you?”

“Then I suppose I’ll do it, but—”

“Oh, Mary Jane, that’s—”

“For one month,” Mary Jane finished, raising her voice to drown out Lizzie’s. “I’ll close my school and serve at Jeff Davis’s table and dust his office and do whatever else they ask for one month. If I don’t discover anything important by then, we’ll consider the experiment a failure and I’ll leave. If my work there proves more fruitful, I’ll stay.”

“Thank you, Mary Jane.” Lizzie embraced her. “If President Lincoln were here, I’m sure he would shake your hand and thank you himself.”

“If President Lincoln were here, that would mean the war was over. Oh.” Mary Jane gave a little start. “I suppose I should have talked it over with Wilson before giving you my answer.”

“No need,” said Lizzie cheerfully, quickly getting to her feet. “You’ve already said yes, and you can’t back out now. I need you. The United States needs you.”

“My
people
need me,” said Mary Jane emphatically. “That’s why I’ll pretend to be a slave and risk being thrown into Castle Thunder or worse if I’m caught spying in the president’s own home. Slavery will never end until Mr. Lincoln conquers the South. There is no other way. That’s why I take this risk. Do you understand?”

Lizzie did.

Over the next few days, she introduced Mary Jane to Mr. McNiven and he instructed her in her role—what to look for as she tidied the president’s office, which visitors she should be sure to eavesdrop upon, how to get information to him undetected. Mr. McNiven became nearly giddy from delight when Mary Jane demonstrated her prodigious memory by reading a letter he happened to have in his pocket and reciting it back to him verbatim ten minutes later. As for her husband, Wilson was not pleased that his wife had chosen to put herself in danger, but he could not talk her out of it, nor did he make more than a halfhearted attempt to do so, because he too understood the need.

Within a week of joining the Davis household, Mary Jane learned that the Confederate government faced a significant labor shortage and that the state intended to enact laws to allow for free Negroes to be impressed for months at a time to make up the difference. She discovered factions within Jefferson Davis’s cabinet and knew of Secretary of War Randolph’s intent to resign days before the president did, as well as the reasons for it—Randolph’s frustration with Jefferson Davis’s indecisiveness, his inability to discern what was important and what was not, and his refusal to take advice. In December, after the Confederates turned back a Union offensive at Fredericksburg, Mary Jane learned that President Davis wanted to join General Lee at the Rappahannock, where General McClellan was rebuilding his forces and another major battle was expected to begin, but he was instead obliged to travel to Chattanooga on an urgent mission to boost enlistments in the West, to soothe jealous tempers among his generals, and to reassure the citizens and soldiers made anxious by the squabbling.

All of these secrets Mary Jane collected and passed on to Mr. McNiven, who delivered them to Mr. Rowley or to Lizzie. Somewhere in the North, Lizzie trusted that their information was being put to good use.

Mary Jane must have thought so, for one month in the Davis household became six weeks, and then eight, and still she stayed on.

On Christmas Eve, one hundred and eighty Union prisoners arrived in Richmond and were lodged in Libby Prison. They had been captured by General Hampton near Dumfries a few days before while guarding two large wagon trains of supplies that the general’s men eagerly confiscated. Lizzie sent the prisoners ginger cakes and spiced cider to mark the holiday, and later, Lieutenant Ross assured her that her gifts had been delivered and gratefully enjoyed. Lizzie was sorely disappointed that she could not give the captives a proper Christmas feast, but General Winder remained impossibly stingy with his passes and often would not agree to see her when she called on him at his office, although he never failed to send thank-you notes for the delicacies she left for him.

A few days after Christmas, Lizzie found herself overcome by indignation so intense tears filled her eyes when she read in the paper of a “handsome and bountiful Christmas feast” provided by the generous ladies of Richmond to patients at Camp Winder, an expansive hospital complex at the western terminus of Cary Street, named in honor of the general. “I beg to see you, to tell all about our Christmas dinner,” the matron, Mrs. Mason, happily addressed the gift givers through the pages of the
Enquirer
. “It went off famously—everybody delighted. Think of fifteen turkeys; 130 chickens and ducks, a barrel of corned beef, 240 pies, and a barrel of cider, for the convalescents; rice custard, pudding, oysters, and egg-nogg for the sick!”

Lizzie did not begrudge the wounded Confederates their feast, but she wished she could have provided even half as much to the poor suffering men in Libby Prison. She would have done so if she had been permitted and if it would not have exposed her too much, though the expense would have been considerable and her fortune was dwindling at an alarming rate, gone to bribes, food, cots, blankets, medical supplies, charity to Unionists of the lower classes, payoffs to clerks in the adjutant general’s office and the War Department and the Treasury—

She would give every penny to her name if it would speed the Union victory.

The Van Lews celebrated Christmas simply, with church services in the morning, a delicious meal of duck and oysters afterward, gifts and candy for the girls, and the customary raises for the servants. John joined them, but Mary stayed home, although she had enough presence of mind to send gifts for her daughters with him, warm knitted jackets and pretty china dolls.

Mary was getting better, Lizzie thought, her relief interwoven with worry. How much longer until she demanded that Annie and Eliza be returned to her?

On the last day of the year, Lizzie learned from Lieutenant Ross that of the two hundred wounded prisoners brought from Fredericksburg and placed in the hospital of Libby Prison, at least twenty-five had died. If not for Lizzie’s bribe money and Lieutenant Ross’s clandestine influence, the number would have been much higher, but she took little comfort from that.