The Spymistress (37 page)

She called for the children to follow her outside to help bring in the food and other supplies they had obtained for John’s hosts—a peck of rice and another of cornmeal, dried apples, a ham, and a few other delicacies, including silver dollars and good Union greenbacks, which were becoming more valuable day by day as the overprinting of Confederate bills weakened the local currency. In all the bustle of the children jumping up and down and racing into the house with the packages and Charlotte’s tearful joy and Jeb’s astonished, stammered thanks, Lizzie did not at first notice that Peter had said very little since his arrival, but as the Hawkins family returned inside, the clamor died down and she became aware of his strange reserve.

“Why don’t you come inside and warm yourself?” she suggested. “I have to say good-bye to my brother, and then we can depart.” She studied his face. “Something’s wrong, I can see it. Is Mother ill, or the girls?”

“No, Miss Lizzie.” Peter lowered his voice, glanced over his shoulder, and drew nearer. She was struck suddenly by the familiarity of his movements, a wary dance they all performed before confiding secrets. “The mass escape from Libby Prison you and Missus been expecting—it was last night.”

Lizzie’s heart thumped, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. “Last night?” she echoed. “What—how many? What’s happening now?” She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her heart to steady it, dismayed to think that when she could have been most useful to the prisoners, she had been miles away. “I imagine search parties are scouring every corner of the city.”

“Yes, miss, they are.” Peter hesitated. “I don’t know how many men made it out all told, but it was a lot.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would know precisely. They were instructed to disperse among numerous safe houses, so they wouldn’t all have come to us.” Light-headed, she groped for the wagon and leaned back against its sturdy side. “How many are there at home? Did we have cots enough? Food?”

“Well, Miss Lizzie...” Peter grimaced, took a deep breath, and quickly plunged ahead. “There aren’t any prisoners staying with us.”

Lizzie stared at him, uncomprehending. “Why on earth not?”

“You see, Miss Lizzie, there were some who came to the house, and knocked on the door, but William—well, all of us, not just him—we’d heard about the escape, and we feared that your enemies might see this as a good chance to catch you in the act of helping Yankees, and so they might send their own people to you pretending to be runaway prisoners....”

“Do you mean to say,” Lizzie said distinctly, disbelieving, “that last night, desperate prisoners came to our house, and knocked upon our front door, and were turned away?”

Bleakly, Peter nodded, but then he quickly shook his head. “They didn’t knock upon the front door. They knocked on the door to the servants’ quarters and asked for Colonel Streight.”

“I know of him,” said Lizzie. Colonel Abel Streight and nearly one hundred of his officers had been captured in May of 1863 during an extended raid through Georgia and Alabama. The rebels feared and reviled him more than any other inmate, for he had been accused of intimidating Confederate civilians and destroying their property. The guards at Libby hated him for his impudence and frank defiance of their threats, but those same qualities had earned him the admiration of every other officer in the prison.

“Colonel Streight escaped through the tunnel too, and I guess they thought he would come to you. They begged us to let them in, but William spotted other men across the street by Saint John’s Church watching us from the shadows. It was too suspicious, Miss Lizzie. We had to send them away.”

Distressed, Lizzie pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I should have been there.” Of all the nights for her to go away, of all the nights for the prisoners to make a mass escape— “I should have been there to help.” But she had not been, and lamenting and moaning would not change that. She pushed herself away from the wagon, straightened, and looked steadily up at Peter. “You and your brother made the prudent choice. I’m grateful that you thought first of protecting the family. Those men very well could have been rebel agents sent to entrap us. They’ve tried before.”

“Yes, Miss Lizzie. My brother and I were mindful of that.”

“Now we must get back to see what assistance we can yet offer. I’ll say good-bye to John, and then we’ll go.” She spun around to hurry back into the cottage, but suddenly she stopped short, her heart plummeting. In the wake of the escape, pickets would be doubled at every bridge and crossroads. Patrols would be out in full force, searching the city and countryside for miles around for the escaped prisoners—or anyone else trying to elude the Confederacy.

Lizzie steeled herself and went inside to tell John.

His expression turned grave as she explained what had transpired in Richmond the night before. “Vigilance will be heightened a hundredfold,” he said, dropping heavily into a chair. “They’ll double or triple the patrols. I cannot hope to cross to Union lines now.”

“No,” said Lizzie. “No. It would be far too dangerous. It would be impossible.”

Charlotte clutched her husband’s arm and they exchanged a look of anxious resolve. “We’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again,” said Jeb stoutly. “You can stay here as long as you need. Till the end of the war if need be.”

“I think you would grow weary of my company long before that.” John stroked his beard absently, and for the first time Lizzie noticed that the black hairs were finely threaded with silver. “Perhaps I should report for duty after all, and resolve to be a very poor soldier.”

“No,” said Lizzie firmly. “I commend you for your refusal to fire upon Union soldiers, but I assure you, they won’t repay the compliment. They’ll see only the color of your uniform and turn their guns upon you. And if you don’t first get shot by a Yankee, sooner or later your comrades will notice your reluctance to attack. They’ll accuse you of cowardice or worse, and you’ll end up being executed for treason or desertion.”

“I’d prefer to avoid that if I can,” said John, sighing.

“We’ll think of something else. I will not have you marching off to war against the Union.” Lizzie turned to Jeb and Charlotte. “Please accept my apologies, but my brother will need to impose upon your hospitality a little while longer.”

Desperate situations sometimes required despicable remedies, so after bidding her brother and the Hawkins family good-bye, Lizzie had Peter drive her straight to General Winder’s office without pausing at home to tell her mother how John’s escape plans had been thwarted. She wrapped the heavy shawl around herself to ward off the cold as they raced back to Richmond, the wagon bouncing and jostling until her head ached. Along the way they passed Confederate soldiers on horseback and on foot, determinedly searching for the fugitives in even greater numbers than she had feared. When they reached the pickets, Lizzie queried them about the prison break, but the soldiers knew only that more than one hundred Yankees had escaped and about a dozen had already been recaptured. As they continued on their way, Lizzie could not help but wonder whether that count would be lower had she been home to receive the fugitives who had sought refuge there.

When she arrived at General Winder’s office, she found his clerks bustling frantically as they dealt with the bureaucratic nightmare of the aftermath of a massive security failure. Although the outer office was full of officers, civilians, and newspapermen demanding an audience with the general, Lizzie was waved right through, perhaps because his secretary realized that of all his visitors, she was the least likely to rail at him.

General Winder received her kindly, but his face was haggard, and he looked as if he had not slept in days. “Well, Miss Van Lew,” he said wearily, dropping heavily into his chair after courteously rising when she entered and waiting for her to sit. “Have you come to confess your role in this great humiliation?”

“No, General, certainly not,” said Lizzie with genuine shock. “Surely you don’t think I had any hand in this. You sound like my dreadful neighbors.”

“No, no, of course not.” He rested his elbows on the desk, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.

“General Winder—” She paused, steeled herself, and continued. “The truth is I was not even in Richmond last night.”

“No?” he replied vaguely, his eyes still closed.

“No, but I have returned to throw myself upon the mercy of your office.”

For a heartbeat he froze, and then he lowered his hands and peered at her, bemused. “What have you done, Miss Van Lew?”

“It is not I but my brother who has made a mistake.” She inhaled shakily. “A few years ago, he suffered a broken collarbone, which failed to heal properly because of all the lifting of boxes and equipment he is obliged to do every day at our hardware store. He cannot raise his left arm above his shoulder without pain, and for this reason he was entitled to a medical deferment from the draft.”

“I see,” said the general, expressionless.

“Not long ago, although his condition is in no way improved, his deferment was revoked. He was drafted and ordered to report to duty, but since he knew that to march to battle in his condition, unable to defend himself, would amount to suicide—” Lizzie dropped her gaze and waved a hand helplessly. “He deserted. I know that was wrong of him—”

“Yes, very wrong.”

“And he realized that the moment he ran off, but he didn’t know what to do. If he turned up at Camp Lee with no explanation for his delay, he could be thrown into Castle Thunder or shot or worse.”

“And so your brother sends you, his emissary, to plead his case.”

“Yes—well, no. This was entirely my idea.” Lizzie clasped her hands in her lap, her fingers like ice. “He doesn’t know that I’m here.”

“He’s fortunate to have such a devoted sister.”

Lizzie managed a wan smile. “He didn’t think so when we were very young, but through the years I think he has come to appreciate me better.”

General Winder sat back in his chair, studying her. “Tell me one thing, Miss Van Lew,” he said. “When your brother told you he intended to run off, did you discourage him?”

For a moment Lizzie wavered, but she was too exhausted and worried to invent a plausible lie. “I did not,” she admitted. “I was frightened and thought only of his safety.”

A grim, satisfied smile appeared on the general’s face. “I suspected as much, but since you were brave enough to tell me the truth, I will help you.”

Lizzie gasped and clasped her hands to her heart. “Oh, sir, would you?”

“Your brother should not have deserted,” General Winder reminded her, tapping his desk with a forefinger for emphasis, “but bring him to me tomorrow morning, and I will do what I can for him.”

Lizzie thanked him profusely and hastily departed before he could entertain second thoughts. From there she went immediately to McNiven’s Bakery, where she arranged for Mr. McNiven to smuggle John back into the city in the delivery wagon. When John arrived home after nightfall, his daughters greeted him with great delight, smothering him in hugs and kisses while his mother and sister looked on, smiling but apprehensive for what the next day might bring.

In the morning, Lizzie and John reported to General Winder’s office, where the general examined him and, thanks to John’s convincing performance, concluded that he was indeed unfit for service. “I will see the examining physician personally and do all I can to secure you an exemption,” he promised.

“I am in your debt, sir,” said John, shaking his hand vigorously.

They arranged to call on the general again in two days’ time, and remained hopeful in the interim, certain that General Winder’s recommendation would be obeyed. But when the appointed hour arrived, the general told them that the examining physician had flatly denied the request and had demanded that John report for duty immediately.

“Is there anything more we could try?” asked Lizzie, distressed.

“There is something.” The general turned to John. “Mr. Van Lew, you must join a company. The Eighteenth Virginia Regiment is mine, and if you choose it, I can protect you.” He quickly wrote a letter to Colonel Peyton at Camp Lee, which he sealed and handed to John. “Deliver this to the colonel when you report. I’ve asked that he grant you a three-day furlough and allow you to select your regiment. I regret that this is all I can do for you.”

John and Lizzie thanked him profusely and assured him that he had done a great deal for them and they would not forget it.

When John presented himself at Camp Lee, Colonel Peyton fumed and cursed, but he complied with General Winder’s request, although out of spite he reduced the furlough from three days to two. John was issued a Confederate uniform, he reported for duty, and thanks to the liberal dispensation of gifts of whiskey to his fellow soldiers, he soon won the friendly feeling of the company. Because of General Winder’s intervention, for the immediate future he would be permitted to reside at home and go about his usual business except in case of emergency, when he would be obliged to shoulder his rifle in defense of the city.

Whether that meant John was safe for months, weeks, or merely days, they did not know.

Chapter Nineteen

FEBRUARY-APRIL 1864

I
n the aftermath of the great Libby Prison break, all of Richmond hung on the astonishing details as they emerged, and thanks to Lieutenant Ross and Mr. Ford, the Van Lews soon knew more about the escape than anyone.

Libby Prison took up an entire city block, with Cary Street and the city to the north and the James River to the south. The basement was exposed on the riverside, and whitewashed so that any prisoners passing in front of it would stand out in stark relief. The eastern section of the basement contained an abandoned kitchen that had once been used by the prisoners, but had been closed off long ago due to persistent flooding and an infestation of rats. The stairway to this area, appropriately dubbed “Rat Hell,” had been boarded up, but a group of prisoners led by Colonel Thomas E. Rose had contrived to move a stove and dig their way into an adjoining chimney to gain admittance to the eastern basement. From there they dug a tunnel three feet in diameter and roughly sixty feet long with no tools save a stolen chisel and a few wooden cuspidors, toiling day and night, nearly suffocated by the powerful, fetid stench of the nearby sewers as rats scurried over them and suspicious guards prowled about overhead.