The Spymistress (9 page)

“I didn’t know that,” said Lizzie shortly. “Nor, I think, should that come as any surprise.”

Mary’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Why, Lizzie, on the contrary, your ignorance on any subject always comes as a great surprise.” Her rapturous smile returned as she resumed her tale. “They say that Mr. Davis’s saddle signifies that whenever he rides to battle, he will always point north toward the enemy.”

“I don’t expect he will ride to battle very often,” John remarked.

Mary frowned thoughtfully. “No, perhaps not. Even so, the thought of it alone rallies the spirits.”

Lizzie blew on her soup to cool it, but the delectable aromas of cream and celery offered no balm to her annoyance. “Perhaps the compass is meant to help him find his way from the Spotswood to the Capitol.”

“Oh, the Davis family will not remain at the Spotswood for long,” Mary said. “That lovely gray stucco residence at Twelfth and Clay is being prepared for them. And Mr. Davis’s office is to be in the Custom House, not the Capitol. But you make me leap ahead. Let me tell it from the beginning.”

Lizzie supposed there would be no dissuading her, so she remained silent.

“Mr. Davis had gone to the train station to welcome his family and escort them the rest of the way,” Mary continued. “Crowds lined the streets, and they cheered and threw flowers in their path. One sweet young girl threw a bouquet that fell short, so the president ordered the carriage to halt, sent a servant for the bouquet, and presented it to his lady. Oh, it was so gallant! The crowd was absolutely enchanted, the ladies especially.”

“What were your impressions of Mrs. Davis?” Mother inquired. “Were you introduced?”

“Oh, yes, of course. The reception was held in the Spotswood’s finest parlor, gloriously decorated in Confederate colors.” Mary paused, thoughtful. “Mrs. Davis is quite a bit younger than her husband, but the difference cannot be any greater than that which separates John and me. She looked to be no more than thirty-five, and I would say in all kindness that she is handsome rather than beautiful. Her eyes are dark and intelligent, her complexion olive, her lips full and curving. She is as soft and round as her husband is thin and angular, but although she has lost her girlish slimness, I think it gives her a more regal bearing.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “It is rumored that she is in a delicate condition, but I detected no such sign.”

“It could be very early yet,” said Mother.

“I suppose. She wore the most beautiful gown of blue silk, with a lovely neckline, a flattering bodice, and an elegant train that draped into a perfect cascade. When I complimented her, Mrs. Davis’s expression grew wistful, and she told me that the gown had been made for her by an extraordinarily gifted dressmaker in Washington City.” Mary put her head to one side, considering. “I do believe she misses her former home very much, for all that it is now overrun with Yankees.”

“Perhaps it’s her dressmaker she misses,” Lizzie remarked.

Mary dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “She’ll have her choice of excellent dressmakers right here in Richmond. Every lady of quality will put forward her favorite in an attempt to win her friendship.”

“Will you do the same?” Mother asked.

“Perhaps I shall,” Mary said, lifting her chin and smiling. “I would consider it a great honor to call Varina Davis my friend, and it can only be to our benefit if our families become acquainted.”

Lizzie managed a nod and a tight smile, although she could imagine great harm coming from knowing the Davises—or rather, from the Davises knowing the Van Lews too well.

Little more than a week later, all thoughts of dressmakers and befriending the Davises fled as the Van Lews were suddenly, sharply reminded why the Confederate president had come to Richmond.

It was well known—and a source of considerable outrage throughout the new Confederate capital—that Union troops from Fort Monroe had crossed the Potomac and were venturing up the Peninsula. On June 10, Union major general Benjamin F. Butler led an attack on a Confederate outpost at Bethel Church in Hampton. In a fierce skirmish, the Richmond Howitzers along with fourteen hundred infantrymen led by Confederate colonel John Magruder threw back the Union incursion, inflicting seventy-nine casualties and seizing victory in the first land battle of the war.

Richmond fairly burst with jubilation. Newspapers published thrilling accounts of the battle, and downtown businesses flaunted captured Union regimental banners in their front windows. Spectators turned out to watch as the first Union prisoners were marched to the Custom House, where they were to be held until room could be found for them in the city’s overcrowded jails. The Confederacy’s first casualty, a private with the First North Carolina Infantry named Henry L. Wyatt, was lauded as a noble martyr to the cause.

The constant deafening clamor of speechmaking and parading and drilling made Lizzie’s head throb and her clenched jaw ache. When word of the battle reached the city, her first thought had been of Cousin Jack, who had fought with the Richmond Howitzers, but once she was assured of his safety, her relief quickly gave way to dismay. Troops returning from the battlefield, flush with the red-hot pride of the newly triumphant, boasted of tossing dead Yankees into pits, as suited creatures too disgusting to touch and undeserving of a proper Christian burial.

How the conflict would end, and when, God alone knew.

Chapter Five

JULY 1861

F
rom the Capitol to the soldiers’ encampments, from lofty Church Hill to downtrodden Penitentiary Bottom, longtime residents and newcomers alike celebrated the Confederate victory at Bethel Church. To Lizzie’s surprise, Mary, the last person she would have expected to minimize the significance of the rout, cautioned restraint. “Some of the most patriotic officers do not believe the popular notion that a single Confederate soldier could whip a dozen Yankees,” she confided one evening in mid-June after returning home from a soiree the Church Hill ladies had hosted for General Beauregard and his officers in Springfield Hall. “President Davis believes that the Yankees will fight with courage, and he predicts a long war, with many a bitter experience.”

“How do you know what Mr. Davis believes?” Lizzie countered mildly, tempering her tone for the sake of little Eliza, who was fussing drowsily on her lap. It was past her bedtime, but she had insisted upon waiting up to kiss her mother good night, and Annie refused to go to bed earlier than her younger sister. Lizzie never would have given in to their pleas had she known Mary would return home an hour late.

“My friend Mrs. Chesnut told me, and Mr. Davis himself told her.”

John’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard you mention a Mrs. Chesnut.”

“Of course I’ve mentioned her. You must not have been listening,” Mary replied crisply. “Her husband is James Chesnut, who once was a senator in the Yankee government but is now a member of our Congress. Her father was a senator too, and a former governor of South Carolina.”

“My goodness,” said Mother, setting aside the book she had been reading to Annie and helping the girl down from her lap. Annie ran to her mother and flung her arms around her waist as if Mary had been gone for days. “Such important gentlemen.”

“Mrs. Chesnut is important in her own right,” said Mary as she absently accepted Annie’s embrace. “She’s already become one of Mrs. Davis’s dearest friends, and mine too. She kindly recommended a tincture that she assures me will bring me some comfort from my headaches.”

Lizzie had long suspected that Mary’s headaches were an excuse to escape her maternal duties for a few hours every other afternoon, and that she nipped from the bottle of whiskey hidden poorly in the top drawer of her bureau to ease herself to sleep. A witty retort came to mind, but she held her tongue. Lizzie would have included Mr. Davis and his officers among the worst offenders in exaggerating the rebel army’s prowess, so it was intriguing to learn that behind closed doors, the men who had seen battle were far more realistic.

As the Fourth of July approached, Lizzie was surprised to discover that the rebellious citizens of Richmond seemed to anticipate the holiday with newly ardent patriotism. The Declaration of Independence represented the views of the secessionist South more than it ever had for the Union, or so the argument went, and the recent capture of a Union steamer and several other vessels on the Chesapeake Bay made a Confederate victory and its recognition as a sovereign nation seem ever more imminent. And so a celebration was planned, one that Lizzie studiously avoided with a day of letter writing, quiet reflection, and prayer.

Her peace was interrupted by the distant sounds of pipes and drums playing spirited martial tunes and the low booming of an eleven-gun salute fired by the Thomas Artillery from its camp at the Baptist college, one round for each of the Confederate states. Shortly before noon, the State Guard fired another eleven-gun salute from Capitol Square, and in between, Lizzie knew, there had been lively parades and fiery speeches.

She was relieved to have avoided the scene. The rebellious speeches would have outraged her, the Confederate flags would have made her mourn anew for her beloved United States, and the guns would have reminded her of the hundreds of soldiers still fighting around Bethel Church, still fighting and still dying.

Each morning came the newspapers. Daily Lizzie was amazed anew at the reporters’ lack of censorship, which amounted to their fighting for both sides. In the first weeks of July, all of Richmond was aware that Union general Irvin McDowell intended to advance deeper into Virginia by midmonth. Alerted to the danger, the Confederate general Beauregard dug in and waited for reinforcements to arrive from the Shenandoah Valley. Word came from the front that General Beauregard’s men had won a skirmish along a creek called Bull Run. Immediately ambulance wagons were dispatched, swiftly carrying doctors, bandages, and medicines to the battlefield.

The next day, July 20, came the long-awaited reconvening of the Confederate Congress in its new home. Legislators entered the historic building Thomas Jefferson had designed, passing Houdon’s magnificent statue of George Washington in the rotunda on their way to the chamber, but the momentous occasion was overshadowed by the victory at Blackburn’s Ford one hundred miles to the north and expectations of more fighting to come. Newspapers later reported that President Davis had left his sickbed that morning intending to hurry to the field, but could not leave because he had been obliged to carry out an important duty of his office—the delivering of the State of the Confederacy address to the newly reconvened Congress. He rushed through his speech, and the next morning, he left his office in the care of General Lee’s son, Captain George Washington Custis Lee, and took the first train north.

In Richmond, churchgoers turned out for Sunday services, slaves went about their thankless toil, and everyone waited anxiously for news. People milled about the streets, gathering in hotel lobbies and outside telegraph offices and in front of newspaper offices’ bulletin boards, but no one knew much of anything except that fierce fighting had begun at Manassas around six o’clock that morning. By midday the first train carrying wounded from the battle arrived at the depot, and their reports of Confederate regiments torn to pieces and the desperate need for more medical supplies sent waves of apprehension and fear rippling through the city. The warm, sunny day wore on, and nerves frayed and rumors spread and the women left behind paced and waited and tended children and tried to reassure one another that no harm would come to their loved ones.

As night fell and the bells in Richmond’s steeples remained silent, Lizzie allowed herself to hope that the Union would triumph. Good news, if the rebels had any, would have been sent with all haste to the capital and trumpeted to the anxious populace and the press. Bad news would be delayed, on the chance that it might improve. “The longer General Beauregard waits to send a messenger,” she told her mother and brother as they lingered in the library after the rest of the household had gone to bed, “the better it goes for the Union. You shall see.”

They nodded, hopeful, and together they waited for word, but the night wore on, and Mother fell asleep in her chair, and John gave in to the temptation to rest his head on the desk and was soon snoring away softly. Lizzie started awake in her armchair shortly after midnight with a crick in her neck, and as she rubbed it away, she took the silence outside as a promising sign. Gently she woke Mother and John and urged them off to bed before retiring herself. Sunrise would bring welcome news, she told herself as she put out the lamp and drew up the sheet. She lay on her side watching the linen curtains stir in the breeze until she drifted off to a sleep unbroken by the tolling of bells.

She woke Monday morning to silence but for the music of songbirds and the steady clip-clop of a horse pulling a carriage sedately down Grace Street. “No alarm,” she murmured, scrambling out of bed, her heart pounding with excitement. Surely the lack of celebration meant a Union victory.

But when she dressed and went downstairs to breakfast, she found John and Mother drawn and grave, and Mary irritatingly cheerful. “What’s the news?” she asked as she seated herself, dreading the reply.

“The rebels won the battle,” said John quietly. “News is still trickling in, but by all accounts, it was a very costly victory.”

“They say Mr. Davis himself led the troops in the field,” said Mary, her eyes bright with awe. “Now,
that
is a proper commander in chief. You won’t see the Illinois ape doing anything half as brave.”

“Don’t speak of Mr. Lincoln in that manner,” said John brusquely. “Show some respect to the office if you cannot think well of the man.”

“He’s not
our
president any longer,” Mary snapped.

“He is mine,” said Lizzie angrily. She should not lose her temper, but news of another Union loss, Mary’s crowing—it was too much at once so early in the morning.

Mary scowled, but she looked more worried than angry. “You’re a fool to say that aloud.”